“You think I’m making the right choice?”
I look up in surprise. “By agreeing to divorce the woman you left seventeen years ago? Yes. Absolutely.”
“I can’t undo what I did.”
“I know.”
“That kid you had working for you, he said I could probably get some money from her if I was so inclined.”
I arch a brow, unimpressed. “Are you?”
“Should I be?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t deserve it,” I say flatly. “You’ve both moved on, let it go.”
“She’s the one who’s been vandalizing me!” he protests. “She should at least have to pay for the damages.”
I sigh. “You hurt her feelings, Reginald.”
“I—”
“Seventeen years ago you left her broke and pregnant. She thought she’d built a life with you, and you pulled out the rug from under her. If she’s holding a grudge, just apologize.”
“I tried!”
“Then give her the divorce, don’t ask for things you’re not entitled to and let her move on.”
“Even after all the shit she pulled?”
“You own a boxing gym, Reginald. You haven’t been hit before?”
“Of course I have.”
“Then take your lumps and move on.”
“Just let her get away with it?”
“Yes.”
“You heard yourself, right? I own a boxing gym. I train fighters. You think that’s the advice I give them? Let ’em hit you, and don’t hit back?”
I do my best not to think of Dean, but as has been the case all week, the slightest thought of him conjures up feelings that threaten to overwhelm me. I feel it like a weight on my shoulders, his burden transferred to me. “Sometimes it’s your turn to take the blame,” I say, talking to us both.
Reginald runs a hand over his face. “I guess you’re right.”
I clear my throat. “So you’ll sign?”
“Yeah,” he answers reluctantly. “I’ll let her get in her punches, then take off. And that’s it. I never want to see that lunatic again.”
I swallow against the hot lump in my throat. “That’s how it works.”
Reginald signs swiftly, sharp jerks of the pen that mark the start of his penance for seventeen years of abandonment. Of unanswered questions and irreparably hurt feelings. Ruthie built a better life for herself without Reginald; she’d followed her dreams and carved out a successful future. Maybe there was some part of her that was grateful he’d left; that knew it was for the best. Would Dean ever believe that? Would I?
When he’s finished I collect the papers and slide them back into the envelope. “I’ll take care of this for you,” I say, standing.
“Hang on,” Reginald orders, holding up a finger in command. “I’ve got one signature left.”
“Oh,” I try, when he pulls out a checkbook. “You don’t have to—”
He fills out the faded green paper carefully, double-checking the spelling of my last name and confirming the day’s date. I have no idea how much time Adrian actually spent on this case, but I’m pretty sure Reginald’s payment wouldn’t cover a fraction of it. Still. “That’s too much,” I protest.
“Nonsense.” He folds the check in half and presses it into my palm. “Can’t put a price on something like this.”
I’d like to point out that lots of people make a living doing just that, but all I say is, “Take care, Reginald.”
“You know, you could call me Oreo if you wanted.”
It’s silly, but I’m flattered. “Goodbye, Oreo.”
“Goodbye, Rachel. Come back if you ever want to learn how to fight properly.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I exit the gym and stop, wincing against the afternoon light. The sky is hazy, the sun muted but warm. I dig around in my purse for my phone and glance up just in time to see Dean bend down to speak into the open window of the shiny red car he’d just climbed out of. They’re about fifteen yards away, but I still recognize Jailbait’s high-pitched laugh when it rings out.
My heart shrivels, my stomach flips and I think I’m going to be sick. And bawl my head off. I’d rather die than have Dean see me. I forget the phone and whirl around, running around the far end of the building, careful to stay on the balls of my feet so my heels don’t click. It’s absolute agony on my toes, but at least it distracts me from the lightning-hot pain in my chest. I thought it hurt when I broke my own heart ten years ago, but this—this is something else. Something more.
He’s with her.
The back lot is empty, and so is the space between the building and the Dumpsters where Dean and I squared off a week earlier. My feet and my heart hurt too much to go any farther, so I slump back against the wall, pull a fistful of tissues from my purse and press them to my mouth as I cry.
Unlike the tears on Saturday, this spell is as sudden and exhausting as a flash storm. The tears pour out, heavy and unyielding. My shoulders shake, my mouth is pulled into a grimace and I’m bent at the middle as though that will somehow help me keep the sorrow in. Or get it out.
And then, after a couple of minutes, it’s done. Gone. Drained away. It hurts like hell, no question, but the self-preserving Rachel who has recently taken an ill-timed leave of absence rears her head, wipes the tears and tells me to get my ass in gear. Get out of Camden once and for all. I’d given Reginald the same advice about Ruthie that I’d given myself about Dean: let him get in his hits, and then walk away.
Seeing him with Jailbait was one last sucker punch I hadn’t seen coming. And the last one I’d take. I’ve paid my dues. We’re even.
“What are you doing back here?”
I swallow a shriek and jump a mile in the air. My ankle twists when I land and I catch myself on the wall, biting my tongue before I curse like a madwoman. Dean’s propped up against the brick at the end of the alley, blocking the exit. He’s wearing the predictable uniform of hoodie and sweats, and has his hands tucked in his pockets. He’s watching me knowingly.
“How long have you been standing there?” I demand.
“Long enough.”
I pull in a shuddering breath and straighten. “I was helping Reginald with his paperwork. For his divorce.”
“I see.”
I raise my chin a notch, as though that will convince him I was crying for some other, less embarrassing reason than having seen him with another woman. “Well, excuse me.” I try to stride past but he shifts, preventing me. I stop and back up, putting a small space between us. “What are you doing?”
Dean lifts a hand and I flinch. He freezes, then very gently traces one of the tear tracks that line my cheek. “I’m not seeing her.”
I can’t meet his eye. “It’s none of my business.”
“I was walking over here and she drove past, wanting to show me her new car. So I got in. She nearly killed us.”
“Reginald said you weren’t coming to the gym anymore.” That lying prick.
“I took the week off.”
Oops. Sorry, Reginald.
“And then he called me twenty minutes ago, and said you were here.”
That meddling fucker.
“So you came?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Why?”
Dean shrugs. Now he’s the one looking away, jaw tight.
“I’m sorry,” I say in a small voice. “Again. For Saturday.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
I can’t tell if the statement is meant to absolve me or blame me, but I already know I’m guilty. Our eyes meet. “I didn’t thank you for standing up for me when no one else would.”
“You mean embarrassing you in front of everyone that matters to you? Making an ass out of myself? Letting that blonde psychopath get under my skin?”
“You were the only one brave enough to say what everyone was thinking.”
“I shoulda held my tongue.”
<
br /> “I know I made you think I was embarrassed to be with you, but I wasn’t. I promise.”
Dean lets out a harsh breath. “I know.”
“No, really. You said you didn’t want to be one of those suits and you were right. And you said I lived in a fantasyland and you were right about that too. Nothing in my life has any substance. I thought I had everything I wanted, and I was too preoccupied with getting more to appreciate what I had. And now I’ve lost it.”
“Aw, Rach.” Dean pushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “It was just a fight.”
“It wasn’t. You know it wasn’t.”
“I haven’t been able to think about anything else all week,” he says. “Just replayed that day, thinking of all the things I’d do different to make it end better. For you. For me. For us.”
“I quit my job.”
“You’re kidding.” His shock is palpable. And pretty damn hilarious, if this was an appropriate time to find things funny.
“No. I’m unemployed.”
His lips tip up at the corners, very, very slightly. “Well, you’ll be pleased to know I accepted that promotion, so at least one of us isn’t being a drain on society.”
My eyes widen. “Now you’re kidding.”
“Nope. I meant it when I said I didn’t want to be one of those suits, but...”
“I thought you turned them down.”
“I did. Then after I thought about it, I called ’em up, apologized for being a dumbass and asked for a second chance.”
“And they said yes?”
“Of course they did. Who’s going to pass all this up?”
I laugh sadly. “Only a fool.”
He fiddles with the sleeve of his hoodie. “I want to be good enough for you. Suit, tie, whatever it takes.”
“You are.”
“I’m not. But I’ll try. You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. You’re the smartest woman I know. The hottest fuck of my life. If I’ve gotta dress up for that, then I will.”
Does it mark me as cheap if I say those are the nicest things any man has ever said to me? I guess it shows on my face, because Dean lifts my chin with a finger.
“What?” he asks. “That not okay?”
“I didn’t know you thought those things.”
“What things?”
I flush and look away, feeling stupid and emotional. “You’ve never complimented me.”
“I haven’t?”
“Never mind. It’s stupid.”
“I guess I just assumed you heard things like that every day.”
“Well, anyway—”
“You gotta know,” he interrupts, peering down at me. “There’s no way you’re hearing this shit—this stuff—for the first time.”
“I’m not fishing for compliments, Dean. I just didn’t expect—”
“You shouldn’t have to fish. Oreo gave me the rundown on how to woo women and I’m pretty sure telling them they were pretty was right near the top, next to answering their questions.”
“You have a checklist?”
“Oh yeah. It’s fucking hilarious. Excuse me. It’s positively hilarious.”
My brows pull together. “What?”
“I’m not allowed to swear at work. I’m trying to cut back.”
I stifle a laugh. “That must be hard for you.”
He glances away. “Oreo’s got his list, management’s got theirs. When they first told me the new rules and requirements, I thought they were trying to change me. Dress me up, make me talk better. Then I realized, maybe they just see something more than I do. More than an ex-con with a chip on his shoulder. More than some guy who makes girls cry.”
I blink rapidly, eyelashes still damp with tears. “There’s more to you than that.”
“The not swearing is harder than wearing the fu—Christ. Than wearing the tie.”
“I’m sorry for everything, Dean.”
He shoots me a small smile. “You don’t gotta apologize anymore. Not for ten years ago, not for now.”
“Say it anyway.”
He stares down at me, those eyes dark and helpless. “I forgive you, Rachel. You forgive me?”
“You know I do. Thanks for standing up for me. Thanks for being there. Thanks for being here.”
“Say the words.”
I swipe at a wayward tear. “I forgive you, Dean.”
“Yeah?”
I nod past the lump in my throat. “Yeah.”
“Good.” He leans into me, resting one palm on the brick wall next to my head. “So?”
I frown, perplexed. “So what?”
He brings his lips close to mine, close enough I can feel them move when he utters words I never dreamed I’d hear again. “Whaddya say?” he asks. “You wanna be my girlfriend, or what?”
I can’t help it. I burst out laughing. “Oh my God.”
“You jerk.” He punches me in the shoulder, but he laughs too. “Come on. Answer.”
“Yeah,” I say, like I did so many years ago in that listing old double-wide. “Okay. Fine.”
And then he kisses me. Hot, wet, discovering. And I’m more than ready to be found. I’m not the girl with head lice and a drunk mother, not the fancy lawyer on the thirty-second floor, looking down on everyone else. And he’s not the Dean Barclay I fell in love with when I was fifteen, not the boy I left in the middle of the night, not just a man who robbed a store. He’s different now, bigger, harder, darker. Better.
I always thought I knew what I wanted. And for a long time, I thought I had it. I thought I’d checked the right boxes, wore the right clothes, had the right job. I never considered how any of it felt. If I liked it. And never in a million years would I have imagined that right now, in a Dumpster-lined alley with an ex-con pressed up flush against me, would I realize that this is what I want. All the other stuff is window dressing. I don’t care what the house looks like, and I don’t care what anybody else thinks about it. I just want it to be mine. And I think maybe this time, it is.
Epilogue
Eight months later
Dean’s waiting at the entrance to the West Chicago Carters when I pull up shortly after five o’clock. He spots me and comes over, looking sexy as hell in his starched white shirt, tie and dark pants. He’s still not a fan of the required work attire, but I know he notices the number of heads that turn as he approaches the car, and the smirk he fails to hide tells me even he sees the upside to suiting up.
“Hey.” He drops into the passenger seat, sticks two overstuffed grocery bags in the back and leans over the armrest to kiss me.
“Hey. How was work?”
“The same. You?”
“Good.” And it is. I’d had my reservations about leaving the security of a successful city firm to start fresh with Parker, but things have really worked out for the best.
I steer us out of the parking lot and head toward Dean’s apartment, a fifteen-minute drive from the grocery store. He’d transferred to this location seven months ago and bought an apartment nearby so he wouldn’t have to make the lengthy trip from Camden. It’s twenty minutes from his new place to mine, which is replete with a fenced-in backyard and the requisite yappy dog. All that’s missing is the apple tree—well, we had an apple tree, but somebody mowed it down—and part one of this evening’s mission is to replace said tree. And put a fence around it.
“How much steak did you buy?” I ask, peering over my shoulder when we stop for a red light. The two bags are about to explode.
Dean shrugs. “Enough.”
“For an army?”
“For everyone I invited. You think we should send people home hungry?”
“And risk you losing the title of World’s Best Host? Did you iron your apron this morning?”
He shoots me a look that says he doesn’t think I’m funny.
“It’s just Parker, Adrian, Reginald and that guy you work with. What’s his name? Sam?”
“You’ve met him like seven times.”
I eyeball the
bags. “That’s a lot of steak for six people.”
“I got a good deal.”
“How many people did you invite, Dean?”
“Oh, look, we’re here.” Dean hops out of the car the second I find a parking spot, and strides toward the front door of his building. It lacks the character of his old place but is nice, in a bland, whitewashed kind of way. The fellow residents are equally bland, and despite his suit and tie, Dean still attracts apprehensive stares when he comes home, like he’s a burglar that just keeps breaking into the same apartment again and again.
“Dean.” I hustle after him, fixing him with my sternest, most suspicious look as we wait for the elevator. “How many people are coming for dinner?”
“Would you relax, please, Rachel? We’ve got enough food.” He gets in the elevator and avoids my gaze.
“Dean.” I step in after him and punch the button for the eighth floor.
He coughs and mutters something.
“I’m sorry, what?”
He does it again.
I sock him in the stomach. He flexes and I hurt my pinkie finger. “How many people are coming over tonight, Dean?”
The elevator doors open and he exits. “Thirteen,” he says quickly, hustling down the hall and letting himself into his apartment.
“Thirteen?” I charge after him, getting to the door just in time to see him tugging the tie over his head as he disappears down the hall to his bedroom. “Dean, this is getting ridiculous. When did you start being so sociable? I’m not sure I can keep up with you.”
“It’s good for business,” he calls back. “These guys I work with—a lot of ’em have legal troubles. Be nice, and maybe they’ll hire you.”
I grit my teeth and fill up a glass with water, dumping it into the yellowing plants lining the windowsill. I’m not annoyed, not really. But what I can’t understand is Dean’s insistence on keeping his apartment. He spends maybe one night a week here, the rest of the time we’re at my place. There’s dust on the TV stand and a stack of unopened moving boxes in the kitchen. A quick glance in the refrigerator shows half a bottle of juice and a bag of carrots.
“You know,” I say casually, watching as he returns, changed now into dark jeans and a black, long-sleeved T-shirt that makes him look like a superhero, “this is a lot to pay for a place to store your pool table.”
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