Chapter 29 #2
Any other day, I’d notice the sleek door of his house.
When it unlocks, it doesn’t make the creaky sound mine makes.
I’d notice the floor-to-ceiling windows as soon as I enter, how there’s a closet to my right, a shoe rack to my left.
I’d notice that when I walk through the space, there’s an open-concept kitchen near his living space.
There’re two stairwells curved around the living area that lead upstairs. Somewhere up there, he has a room.
I’d feel how soft his couch is.
I’d notice how wonderfully designed the place is.
But all I really notice is how this place isn’t Dean .
I don’t know how long I sit in one spot.
Scenarios of how this conversation will go play one-by-one.
One could be that he walks in, and I throw water on his face, yelling at him to take the money back.
Two could be that we sit down, stare, because we both know what I’m going to say. Third, is whatever this is.
He walked in ten minutes ago and stands in front of the fridge.
He’d look composed if it isn’t for the rapid tapping against the steel wall, or the dishevelled way his hair sticks out in all directions, the perspiration of sweat dripping from his temple, or how he pulled his tie out fast enough to pop the shirt’s top button.
“I can make us pizza.” His shoulder moves up, down, up, down, synchronising with his breathing.
It's two-thirty in the afternoon. Work doesn’t end until five.
Dean left for me.
“I can, um , do pizza.”
We’re being awkward.
Bringing up money is always weird. Your friend borrows twenty dollars from you, you don’t know how to ask for it back. After dinner when you both actively try to fight for the bill, one of you always backs out because you don’t know how to deal with it.
All of the world’s problems come back to money.
Dean doesn’t say a word when he lifts his sleeves, washes his hands, and keeps his eyes away from me.
“Do you want help?” If I get into the kitchen, lighten up the mood, it’ll make it better. We’ll roll out the dough, decorate a pizza, and talk about why he thought sending me money was appropriate.
He looks up. Watercolour green glazing over my browns. “I’d like that.”
Whatever scenario number this is, might work.
“I’m gonna head to the bathroom first,” I drag the last part out and point around. “Where…”
“The door next to the entrance.”
Not a closet then.
As I do my business and stare in the mirror—I brainstorm again. There has to be a good way to talk about this without letting anger get in the way. Which I am, by the way. I’m mad but not enough to sabotage our relationship. We spent far too long walking on eggshells and not enough time together.
I’ll bring it up when we start decorating the pizza with toppings.
“What the fuck , Dean?”
The door slams on the outside.
Staring at the closed door, I know that voice.
Not too well, but enough to remember the disdain dripping at the end.
Callahan Vuk doesn’t raise his voice, but he’s good at patronizing everyone around him.
When I asked for time off, he didn’t care.
When Dean asked him to apologize, he looked at me like I had to get on my knees first. This was the man Dean took the fall for.
The middle brother of three. I’m trying to be empathetic, but his voice rises outside the powder room, and I don’t like it.
I walk out but stay away to listen.
“Cal, can we talk later?” Dean’s voice is brotherly. Not gentle, but not rude. He talks to Callahan with unfiltered friendship and pain .
“No the fuck we can’t.” Callahan moves around, I hear the shuffling of fabric. The deepened breath, the shallowness of the air around them. The tension reaches me. “Tell me why the hell my assistant comes to tell me we’re missing 15k from the account?”
Oh shoot.
“I can explain.” Dean, you don’t need to explain to anyone but me.
“If this has to do with your love story, I’m done.
Fucking done , Dean. You act all high and mighty, coming out of prison.
You have everyone hating on me. People come to me and ask about you.
Our own mother looks at me with pure hatred in her eyes.
Azar doesn’t talk to me unless he really needs to.
You’re the only person that looks at me like you don’t hate me and I’m fucking done with this act of yours.
” He keeps going, puncturing every vein connecting me and Dean.
His hurt is mine. “I let you follow her to that damn dating show and what? You repay me by plastering your choices on my screen. Why do I have to revisit it every damn time? Why is it biting me in the ass over and over again? All I asked was for you to stay low the second I handed you a job in my place. Then you take my money, hand it over to her like my hard work means nothing .”
I’ve never understood the difference between having brothers or sisters, but I get it now.
One is full of silent understanding and the other with pained melancholy.
“She knows, Cal.” It’s full of resignation like he regrets the words coming out. I try to read past the untouchable tone flickering in his voice.
Callahan’s intake of breath tells me a lot. “You told her?”
“She was on the jury.” I don’t like where this is going. “I had to do something. ”
My fingers turn white from fisting my dress.
I had to do something.
Throwing a wad of cash to keep my mouth shut it ticks that box.
“If playing the hero is a kink of yours, then carry it out fully. Don’t drop it midway, brother. Stay fucking low. Take the blame as much as you want but keep me and my business away from it.”
“You’ve got some nerve, Callahan.” I walk out of my hiding spot. Callahan turns to look at me and he runs a hand down his face.
“Couldn’t have told me she was here?” He asks Dean with a glare.
Dean doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look at me either.
“Hey,” I snap at his face. “Talk to me, I’m right here.”
“I don’t have time for this,” Callahan scoffs, heading towards the door. I pull him back by his sleeve.
He pulls away, muttering a curse under his breath.
All I see is red. Callahan Vuk has a stick up his ass.
Marching right up to him, I push him roughly against the door.
A finger pointed in his face. Looking straight into his surprised eyes.
“I’ve had it with you. That man over there,” I point back at Dean.
“Spent four years of his life behind bars. He didn’t get to see you, your mom, or your brother at that time.
He sacrificed his life for you, not because he wanted you to realize your mistake or because he wanted everyone to kiss his feet, but because he loves you.
You’re stupid if you don’t see that. He’d do it again and again, even if you remain an ungrateful shit . ”
Callahan attempts to move but I shove him harder.
“You can say that he took the blame all you want—that he made his choice. But what about you , Callahan? When you let him decide for you, that was your choice. The man I love sat all alone in that trial room with no one from his family to support him, that was your choice. He’s not throwing the past in your face, you are.
He has done nothing to deserve your disrespect, but has done more to earn friendship, love, and a whole family to come back to—which you have made impossible.
The one time he picks himself, you throw it in his face like he’s the villain in your story.
Well, I got some news for you, Callahan. Look in the fucking mirror.”
I don’t blink. I don’t cower. I don’t stop.
I’m not panting, but my heart feels like it’ll erupt any second. I may need a transplant, a blood fusion—something to keep going. All I’m left with is sad grey eyes and a stubborn jaw.
“Now apologize to Dean,” it’s said placidly. “And get out.”
Callahan doesn’t look at his brother. He keeps his eyes down when his voice breaks apart a forced, “I’m sorry,” before clemently shutting the door behind him.
Icicles of stoic air puncture my skin.
“I’ve never seen him speechless before.”
I pray to a higher entity, someone who can stop me before I break his heart open too.
“ You ,” I point a finger in his face. Too late. “On my way here, I thought you gave me that money to help me out—that you have a knight in shining armour mindset, but that’s not it, is it? You paid me off as a threat. You don’t tell my secret and I don’t tell yours.”
“Nova—”
“ No ,” I snap, rabidly. If I wasn’t human, canines would burst from teeth, I’d hiss, possibly bark at Dean for being the danger I need protection from. “Curse me for thinking you were a good man, Dean.”
He moves closer to me. Tries to hold me despite the space between us.
A brain tumour would hurt less, I think.
“Get out,” I force it past my lips. He stops. “ Please .”
Dean watches me, every architectural mystery on his face falls apart. There’s no history there, just a tragedy that’ll get buried under the archives.
Opening the door for him, I watch his slow pace make it past the invisible line.
Then he turns to look at me. “You love me?”
And because I feel like crying, I shut the door in his face.