Minute Man: I had other plans.
I drop the phone, my hands rising in the air like I’m asking for Jesus Christ to save me. This guy never changes. Picking up the phone off my coffee table, my thumbs press hard on my screen.
Me: Of course you do. Name it hotshot.
A knock hits my door and I look around like there’s someone else who will share my bewildered expression.
Oh no.
That son of a bitch.
I stomp to the door, rising on my tiptoes to look through the peephole. Already hearing me, he lifts a box of donuts, a gallon of chocolate milk, and a bag of McDonald’s.
“Breakfast,” he says casually as if I should expect my ex-husband at my door when I never gave him my address.
“Why are you here?”
“You agreed to breakfast.”
“Dean.” I shake my head, my body wanting to disobey my brain’s strict instructions.
“Come on Chels. You’re awake, I’m awake, let’s talk face-to-face.”
“I told you tomorrow at eight.”
I hear a noise, so I glance out the peephole again, and all I can see are his long legs. His feet tucked into a pair of slider sandals. Same Dean.
“What are you doing?”
“Just getting comfy. The floor could have more cushion, but I’ll manage. I wouldn’t object to a pillow though.”
I fall back down to the heels of my feet. My hand on the doorknob, my teeth biting my lip.
“Do you really think I should let you in?”
He chuckles. “In my opinion, yes, but I get your hesitation. I’ll be here at eight.”
I slide down the opposite side of the door and I’d swear the smell of him permeates through the small sliver of space at the bottom. Like he’s freshly showered.
“Dean?”
“Yeah.” His voice is nearer than I expected, as though he’s right next to me.
“Is this all a coincidence?”
“What?” There’s shuffling on the other side of the door.
“You being the tax attorney for RISE?”
Silence grows between us and as if that wasn’t already my answer, he eventually talks.
“Chels,” he sighs.
“I take that as a no.”
“Just listen.”
“Why?” My voice is curt. How could he purposely seek me out just to hurt me all over again?
“Just relax.”
“Explain, Dean,” I bark out.
“Stop talking and I will.”
I thump the back of my head lightly against the door. “You sure are taking your sweet time.”
“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
There’s silence between us again and it takes me a minute to gather my thoughts after that declaration.
“If I was, you wouldn’t have done what you did,” I say.
“I was a dick.” His playful tone has disappeared.
“Yeah, you were.”
“Let me apologize face-to-face.” His large hand lands on the door and it jiggles against the lock.
“I’m not sure I can handle that,” I say honestly.
He chuckles. “Just some donuts and a conversation. That’s all I want.”
I pull my knees up to my chest, my mind a jumbled mess. Like a word search puzzle and I’m struggling to find the right words on a sheet full of letters.
“Fifteen minutes,” I finally say.
There’s movement on the other side and I expect he’s on his feet.
“Do I get brownie points if I’m under?”
I inhale the deepest breath I have since the moment I stared at him on our wedded bed five years prior. My shaking hands slide the lock and I open the door to a smiling Dean.
Bad idea.
Such a fucking bad idea, Chels.
You’d expect someone begging for forgiveness to walk into my apartment, dragging his feet and with his head down. Not Dean. His back is straight, and a smile plays on his lips.
“Nice place.” His eyes scour my apartment.
“You mean your search didn’t come with pictures?” I shut the door and flick the lock. I live in a safe apartment complex, but I don’t want any drunken guys or girls getting confused about where they live.
“Just an address.”
“And a phone number.”
His smirk grows wider and he shrugs. “Yeah, and a phone number.”
“Great to know that anyone can find out anything about me.”
“If only we could figure out how to report feelings and moods with an internet search. We’d be filthy rich.” He smiles, signaling to the couch.
I nod.
His large frame sits, placing the donuts, milk, and McDonald’s on the coffee table in front of him. He doesn’t lean back into the sofa but sits on the edge, his hands clasped together between his muscular thighs hidden under a pair of gray sweatpants. I’d forgotten how good he looks when he’s dressed comfortably like this.
“Do you want me to fall to my knees?” he asks.
“If you’re going to continue making jokes, you can walk back out the door.” I sit down in the chair, pulling my legs to my chest. I need a barrier between him and my heart.
“Donut?” He opens the box and holds it out as an offering.
I roll my eyes at the same time my heart drums. All chocolate Bavarian cream. My favorite. I should have expected nothing less.
“What did you do order them special?”
“I make friends easily.” He sets the open box in front of me. “Mind if I grab some cups?”
Not waiting for an answer, he rises to his feet. I’m not used to having anyone over and he eats up the minimal space.
“You’re not even going to wait for an answer?”
“I figure you want the chocolate milk?” He leans over the edge of the chair. “Am I wrong?”
I scoff. I can’t go letting him think he can read minds or something. Needing him away from me, I nudge him in the shoulder with my foot.
He backs up and disappears into my galley style kitchen.
“Cabinet next to the fridge.”
“I figured.”
He acts like we were married for twenty years or something. How does he know I didn’t have them above the stove, or on the other side next to the pantry? Damn know-it-all.
The clanking of glasses alerts me that he’s returning. I straighten in the chair, crossing my legs. The smell of the donuts is driving me crazy with want.
He sits back down, except this time he takes the opposite side of the couch. The one closest to me. Setting the cups down he smiles like this is an everyday occurrence. Him in my apartment, eating donuts and drinking chocolate milk. Live in fantasy land much, Dean?
I try to ignore the pull toward him as the muscles in his forearm flex when he picks up the gallon of milk. I let it roll off me how neatly manicured his nails are, wondering where the boy with dirt under his fingernails from hours on a ballfield went.
“Here.” He hands me the cup and I almost spill it so that our fingers don’t brush. “Got it?” he asks.
“Thank you.” I sip it, placing it on the end table.
He leans back on the couch, his long legs parted as he drinks out of his own glass, smiling at me after he swallows.