Chapter 42
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
dexter
Standing on the sidelines while someone you love hurts is a new pain, especially when you had a hand in it.
When Florence walked out of the office, panic took root. I’d screwed up. Again. And this time, nothing I said or did was going to repair the damage.
Stop trying to fix me, Dex.
My actions and incurable need to protect her made her believe there was something to fix. There’s nothing broken about Florence. I’d wanted to run after her, beg and convince her not to leave me. I wanted her wrath, for her to shout and scream at me, because that’s what I deserved.
Nothing.
She tucked herself away in the A-frame for the rest of the day. I had one-hundred and one tasks to complete. Instead, my eyes went bleary from staring through the window all afternoon, waiting for her to appear with her bags packed.
Florence is right. I’d acted exactly like her brothers. It didn’t matter what I said; her mind was made up. I’d fucked up, so blinded by my obstinate need to protect her. It would be easy for me to hide in my workshop, lick my wounds, and wait for the inevitable.
That was the old Dex.
She’d taught me so much; the biggest lesson: ask for help.
So, I climbed into my truck and headed to the person I’d always turned to, even when my stubborn nature begged me not to. In hindsight, going to Patrick to discuss relationship issues with his sister might be peculiar.
Too late, because the second I pull up outside his house, he’s opening the front door.
“Hey,” he greets. “This is a surprise. Did we have plans?”
“Nah.” I traipse past him and pause in the entryway. “I need some advice.”
He frowns. “Okay?”
“And before you listen, I’m coming to you because you’re my friend, not Florence’s brother.”
His eyes widen a fraction in understanding. “Do we need whiskey for this?”
“Yes.”
All credit to Patrick, he didn’t punch me once while I told him everything that happened with Florence since New Year’s Eve. Well, not everything.
Guilt paints his features during the parts his sister felt smothered or lost. He smiles, listening to the times Florence called me out for my shit. At the end, he silently contemplates everything.
We’re sitting in his kitchen, each nursing a glass of amber liquid. I welcome the burn.
This is the kid who shared his sandwich with me in the schoolyard because I dropped mine in the dirt. He kept watch under the bleachers while I had my first kiss. He was the first person I called after receiving my diagnosis.
Finally, he speaks. “You’re right. You fucked up.”
I swallow. “That’s fair.”
“At least you’re accountable.” He raps his knuckles on the marble counter.
“I’m going to be the big brother for a moment.
Florence was born to give the three of us a hard time, but she also loves the hardest. And when she loves something, she doesn’t give up on it.
My sister also feels everything. Since learning about her ADHD, it makes more sense, and I wish I’d been more patient and understanding of that.
Right now, by the sounds of it, she’s feeling a lot. ”
Because of me.
My gaze falls, watching a drop of condensation glide down the glass.
Patrick taps my arm, and I look up.
“If Florence said she’s in it for the long-run, trust her. She didn’t leave, she didn’t end it, she’s processing. For some absurd reason, she loves you.”
Her words from this morning replay in my head, making my heart constrict. How can she believe she doesn’t belong with me?
My knuckles crack in frustration. “I can’t just stand by and watch her beat herself up. I want her to know I’m there.”
“Then show her.”
Show her.
Love doesn’t have to be heard.
Florence doesn’t need words of assurance. She needs to witness it. Because while beautiful, her brain is trying to convince her otherwise. It can’t argue with tangible evidence.
It’s not about her fitting into my future or me fitting into hers.
It’s about imagining one together.
We’ve done everything backward.
We skipped some parts and fast-forwarded others, and perhaps it was my fault for pushing and pulling for as long as I did.
An idea strikes. Patrick notices the second it does.
“I need a favor.”
He clamps a hand on my shoulder. “Knew you’d work it out. Don’t wait too long, though. You’re not getting any younger.”
I shove him away. “Fucker.”
Nostalgia fills his eyes. “If my dad were here, he’d tell you to let the failures of today build the foundations of tomorrow.
” When his voice cracks, I steel myself, knowing his next words are going to strike hard.
“He'd also give you his blessing in a heartbeat. So, you’ll have to make do with mine.”
Patrick follows me back to the cabin and it’s after midnight by the time he leaves. Unable to help myself, I sneak over to the A-frame and check the locks before returning to the main cabin.
After a fitful sleep, I woke before dawn to meet her in the office. If she shows.
I grip the edge of the desk, body rigid as I wait for her to storm in here and slap her letter of resignation in my face.
Her appearing in the doorway to my office, two cups of coffee in hand, is a shock.
“It’s decaf.” Hearing her voice is harmonic.
She’s here.
All I can do is stare, drinking her in, from her scuffed Chucks to the jaw cracking butter-yellow dress all the way to the smattering of freckles I’ve memorized. There’s color in her cheeks, and though she looks tired, the panic I witnessed yesterday is nowhere to be found.
She also wears a mask of surprise.
“Dex, what the heck have you done?” Eyes the size of saucers, she takes in the room and places the cups on the desk.
She’s here. She’s still mine.
Playing it cool, I grab my keys from the desk. “Keep the windows open, and don’t touch the walls. And for the love of god, keep the goats out.”
“Where are you going?” Her feet are glued to the floor as she watches me fasten my work belt around my hips.
“I’ve got some site visits. It’s all in the calendar.” I nod at the laptop. “Then, I’ll be in my workshop building you that bookshelf, so don’t come in or you’ll ruin the surprise.”
She gapes at me.
“I’ll see you later.” I stalk past her, holding my breath. If I get a whiff of coconut, I’ll be forced to kiss her senseless.
She grabs my wrist, stopping me. I turn to face her.
“Are we not going to discuss the fact your office is pink?” she asks in disbelief.
“No.” I smile. “Because it’s your office.”
With her stunned silent, I retreat to the door.
“One more thing. When you clock off, am I allowed to tell you how beautiful you are and that I love you?”
She swallows, averting her gaze, but there’s no missing the content pull of her lips. “I think that would be okay.”
“See you at five then. Behave.”
There are blisters on my hands, I’m in dire need of a chiropractor, and wearing ear protectors for a prolonged period leaves me discombobulated. Absolutely worth it.
It’s 4:57 p.m., and I rush to place the last tool on the wall, switch off the lights, and lock up the workshop just in time to meet Florence outside the goat pen.
She spins around at the sound of my boots stomping over the gravel.
“Hey, how was yo—”
“You’re beautiful and I love you. Sleep well and don’t forget to lock your door.”
Her eyes widen, and before she can respond, I bound over to my cabin.
My girl is braving the storm.
She doesn’t need me to see her through it.
She needs me there at the end.