Chapter 47
DEXTER
THURSDAY. LAST DAY.
It’s Holly’s final evening in New York.
She didn’t want a party, said it would make things feel too final. She swears this isn’t forever, and that she’ll be back. I didn’t press. I just asked her what she wanted to do instead.
“Hang out,” she said. “Like old times. I’ve missed that.”
Hard to say no to that.
So I cleared my evening. I shut everything down early and told Keith and Reed not to call unless the office was on fire.
The pitch is tomorrow morning. There’s nothing left to do tonight.
Her apartment is all packed up. Furniture is covered, sheets are stripped, fridge is empty. So we meet at mine.
I decide no cooking, and order her favorite things: There’s an artichoke pie from Di Fara Pizza, quesabirria tacos from Rosalita’s, a cherry cheesecake I special-ordered from Veniero’s in Little Italy.
And Oreos (not her thing, but mine. And trust me, tonight I need the sugar).
Instead of champagne, I pour us a glass of sparkling cider.
This time, she shows up right on time.
She’s in flats, hair down, hoodie unzipped. She looks tired, but still, she has never looked more gorgeous. She gives me a soft smile when she walks in, kicks off her shoes, and joins me at the table.
The second she sees the food, her eyes widen. “You did all this?”
“I ordered all this. Figured I’d help you say goodbye to New York carbs in style.” I pull out her chair and sit across from her. “Go on. Eat. You’ve got two passengers to feed.”
“The babies are still microscopic.” She takes a huge bite, glancing over to me. “It’s the mommy who needs feeding.”
We smile, and load up our plates with a little bit of everything. She’s too hungry to ask when I started eating like this. Tonight, I don’t give a damn. We both dig in.
“I spent most of the afternoon with Kenzie,” she tells me between bites. “Then finished packing up the last boxes. Feels weird to see the apartment with just the furniture left, and all my stuff gone.”
“How’d the kids take the news?” I reach for two Oreos. “You said Shelby was waiting until the last minute.”
“Oh, she had to tell them early. Her oldest noticed she was cleaning up her ex’s old office. They’ve been counting down since.”
“That’s good.”
“I was scared they wouldn’t care. That I’d show up and be a stranger.”
I shake my head. “No one could forget you, Holly.”
Her eyes meet mine. I should shut the hell up. I cram the Oreos between my teeth.
She looks down, folds the crust of her pizza and pops a bite in her mouth, cheeks a little pink. “Right? So…” She glances up. “How about you. You ready for tomorrow’s presentation? I mean, duh. Obviously you are.”
“We’ve got it locked,” I say. “Mitch Underwood, the competitor’s project manager, has pulled every trick he can. It all backfired.”
“Made him look weak, right? There’s no way they’ll go with him.
” She wipes her fingers on a napkin, and lifts her eyes to mine.
“You’re the better choice, and they’ll see that the second you walk in.
Mitch might be smart, but he’s a suit, probably all gelled hair, talks big, no grit.
The kind of man who pats you on the back while quietly plotting to screw you over. ”
“You know him?”
“Nope.” She reaches for her fork, unapologetically eyeing the cheesecake. “But I saw ‘Aliens’ last week. You know, Carter Burke.”
Of course she did. My mouth twitches. “That’s what we’re basing this on?”
“That and my gut. And my gut is rarely wrong.” She nudges a cherry loose and eats it first. “You’ve done the work. You know what a team actually needs on-site. Mitch would probably break a nail trying to put on a hard hat.”
“Mitch wouldn’t survive the first safety briefing.”
“I’d give him ten seconds.”
“That’s generous.”
She smiles, full and warm. “You’re going to crush it.” Her smile falters at the edges. “I’m sorry I won’t be there to see it.”
“We’ll FaceTime.”
“I might still be in the air.”
“Then I’ll wait.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” I take a sip of the cider. “What time’s your flight?”
She pulls out her phone from her purse, and swipes.
“Nine-thirty. JFK to Heathrow.” She holds it out.
I take it and glance at the screen. “We’ll need to be on the road by six.”
By this time tomorrow she’ll be across the Atlantic. I stare at the confirmation and hand the phone back.
“Holly,” I say. “When do you come back?” The words are out before I can stop them.
I know I should leave it alone.
I want to punch myself.
I don’t want to do this. I need to do this.
She stops mid-bite. Her fork hovers, then lowers to the plate.
“Dexter, we’ve been through this.” This isn’t the sharp-tongued Holly who argues every point. This one looks tired down to the bone. “When the school is running, when the twins are settled. I can’t promise a date.”
I don’t argue. I push back from my chair, walk around the table, and go kneel beside her.
Her breath catches.
“I’m not trying to change your mind.” My voice is calm. “I’m not.”
Her eyes hold mine, softening in a way they haven’t been in a while. I reach out and run my fingers along her jaw. She leans into it, just a tiny fraction.
She’s right on the edge of letting me in, close enough that I can almost touch it. But one shove, one wrong move, and she’ll close the crack and put the wall right back where it was, or worse, seal it for good. I have to be careful.
“I meant what I said,” I tell her quietly, my thumb caressing her chin once. “I won’t stand in your way. I won’t make this harder.”
She sets down her fork and swallows, eyes locked on mine.
“But I need to know. A date, a year, a fucking number.” I wait. “Something.”
Her chin trembles.
“When will you come back, Holly?”
Her eyes close for a second. When they open, they’re wet. “I don’t know… I honestly don’t.”
Everything about her face begs me not to speak. A few tears break free, and I reach up, brushing them away with my thumb.
“Okay.” I lean in to rest my head against hers, my hands at her neck. “Tell me when you do.”
She hesitates, just a second, and I feel her forehead dip.
“I will,” she whispers.
That’s all I need. Just proof that I still exist in her future. I slide my knuckles across her cheeks, gently stroking her skin with both my thumbs. A heartbeat later, I force down the ache, kiss her forehead, and give her a smile.
“No more crying.” I stand.
I could say everything, find all the right words.
Or nothing.
Whatever I say or do at this point, anything I offer or give her now, she’d think it was a tactic, another ploy to get her to stay. It’s not that she doesn’t hear me or feel me. She does. But words won’t bring her back. She’s past that.
For her, nothing lasts forever.
And I refuse to be the man who proves her right.
I return to my seat, take a bite of the tacos, and lean back. It tastes good, really good. “Sleep here tonight. Your place is packed, bed stripped. You need the sleep.”
She looks composed, but I know the moment we just shared lingers for her too. I know she felt that. It didn’t just pass her by. “I was planning to head back,” she says eventually. “I figured I’d crash on my couch.”
“Don’t. You’ll sleep in my bed,” I tell her. “I’ll take the couch. We’ll head out early in the morning, it’ll be easier.”
Her couch, it’s lumpy as hell, and she’s kept it for some sentimental reason. I brace for a protest, but after a moment, her expression warms.
Finally, she nods. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
The conversation drifts to lighter things. Nothing that matters. At some point, she scrapes the last bit of cheesecake from the plate and licks the fork, then helps me clean up.
“I should run over to mine,” she says once we’re done. “Grab a few things.”
“Take your time. I’ll be here.”
While she’s gone, I step out onto the balcony and make a quick call.
Five minutes later, it’s handled. Nothing that needs explaining, just tying up one last detail for tomorrow.
Fucking Friday. I head to the bedroom, change the sheets, fold down the covers, open the window a crack.
After that, I start on the couch, fluffing a pillow, throwing on a clean blanket.
Last, and most important, I prep an envelope for Holly with something she needs to have. Something I never got to give her. I’ll press it into her hand tomorrow morning at the airport.
When she returns an hour later, overnight bag in hand, warm socks, hair all tousled, she plants herself right on the couch.
I point to the bedroom. “You’re sleeping in there.”
“Nope. I’m not fragile, Dexter. And your couch is comfy.”
“You’re pregnant.”
“Exactly. Which means I call the shots.”
I nod and go grab some extra pillows, and make sure she’s set up properly. She stretches out and gives me a smile.
“You good?” I ask.
She yawns, already tucking herself in. “Thanks for tonight. For everything.”
“Good night, Holly.”
“Good night, Dexter.”
After that, I move to the bathroom. I brush my teeth, splash water on my face.
Back in my bedroom, I strip off my shirt and take off my socks, but leave my jeans on.
No use pretending I’ll get any sleep tonight.
I’ve got to be up in a few hours anyway.
I lie back, one arm under my head, the other resting across my bare chest. I stare at the skyline through the window. The city’s quiet.
This is the last night she’ll be here. And she’s on the couch.
I made it clear I wanted her with me, told her she didn’t have to go. She shut it down, and that’s where it ends. I took her right to the edge, and that’s as far as I can go.
She’s scared. Scared of what it would mean to believe this could be real. She was taught early that affection has an expiration date, that wanting something too much is how you lose it. So when a man hands her the crown, her first instinct is to hunt for the weakness, the reason it can’t last.
I get that. That kind of damage stays with you. It changes how you move through the world, how you value things, how ready you are for the moment they all disappear. I know how that emptiness hits you when something you wanted slips out of your hands and you realize there’s no move left to make.
I’m not the man who pushes past a no.
If it has to be forced, it’s not yours. It’s not real. It’s nothing.
I close my eyes but don’t even try to sleep. I just lie there, waiting for morning. Wishing it wouldn’t come.
Every sound in this place feels louder, the tick of the clock, faint sirens wailing through the glass, tires hissing on wet streets below. None of it drowns out the one thing I can’t escape. The thought of her.
If I could go back, burn the past down and start clean, would she even want me?
Hell, I don’t know which answer would cut deeper.
My chest feels hollow.
I pull out my phone, swipe through a folder I’ve had for years.
Holly straddling my bike, drowning in my leather jacket.
Swipe. Holly in my kitchen, bent over the counter, scribbling on a stack of design sketches, pencil between her teeth.
She wanted to kill me for snapping it. In the next moment she wrote “idiot” across the margin.
I never erased it. Swipe. Holly asleep on my couch, wrapped in a gray blanket she stole from my bed.
When she woke, her phone dropped, and the screen lit, my face filling the screen.
I’d never seen her move so quick to close her gallery.
Swipe. Holly with Shelby’s kid, Nico when he was a baby, on her lap, reading some children’s book.
The kid was out cold before she hit the second page.
Swipe. Holly on my balcony at sunrise, wearing only my pajama pants, face turned toward the light.
I stare. Damn. Swipe. Holly in her robe, cross-legged on my couch, book open in her lap, hair tied in a high pony—
Suddenly, there’s a knock on the bedroom door.
It’s soft, hesitant.
Fuck.