Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
DEAN
I used to think morning sunlight was energizing—one of those rise and grind platitudes that made sleep feel like a personal failing.
In Atlanta, the sun came up hard, refracting through a mile of glass and steel before it hit my apartment.
My apartment was an open-concept box, dressed in grayscale and chrome.
My furniture looked like it had been ordered in a single, hurried click.
Which it had. The only decorations were a set of black-and-white prints and a potted succulent that had been dead for months.
It was day twenty-six since I’d left Dove Key, and my desk was stacked with market projections I couldn’t bring myself to care about. My focus was shot. I kept unlocking my phone, my thumb hovering over the Main Street real estate listings I kept telling myself I wasn’t interested in.
As if to punish myself, I tapped to bring up the hopeless text conversations that had started three days after I got back to Atlanta, and the reality of what I’d done—what I’d lost—hit me.
The texts where I tried to tell Brynn I’d been an idiot, and she agreed before telling me to go to hell.
Not quite that bluntly, though that was what I deserved.
At first, she’d been more polite, informing me she was buying the Corner Scoop and relocating to Dove Key.
That text hit me with the force of a sledgehammer.
She was slipping away from me.
I didn’t delete any of the texts. The words were burned into my memory, but I read them again anyway. The last exchange was from a week ago.
Dean: Hey. How are you? I panicked. I’m not proud, but I am sorry.
The three little dots appeared and disappeared for an eternity before her reply finally landed hours later. A clean, polite kill shot.
Brynn: I appreciate that, but you made your feelings clear, and we live very different lives, right? I’m a small-town girl and you’re the big-city man. I wish you the best, but there’s no reason for us to keep in touch. Let’s move on.
I tried one more time. A desperate, stupid Hail Mary.
Dean: I’m sorry again. I’m here if you want to talk.
And next to my text—Read. 8:14 p.m.
No reply since.
I locked the screen and tossed the phone onto the couch. I wish you the best was the corporate-speak of breakups, a polite dismissal that stung more than anger ever could. She hadn’t just shut the door. She’d locked it, bolted it, and walked away. And I was the one who’d handed her the goddamn key.
The air was thick with the distant hum of downtown.
When I first moved here, that noise felt like promise.
Now it just sounded like a million people shouting into a void.
My second cup of coffee tasted like scorched earth, and my hands shook just enough to make typing a challenge.
I blamed it on the caffeine, but the real problem was I hadn’t slept more than three hours a night since that last text.
I tried to focus on the quarterly projections, but my brain kept drifting to images of Brynn’s face as she told me off, the sound of her voice when she called me a coward. I hated that she was right. I hated even more that I missed her so much.
I ran my hands through my hair—longer than I liked—and gave the screen a withering look. I set the mug down so hard it sloshed onto a stack of old conference badges. I didn’t bother to wipe it up.
The phone rang again. Josh’s name lit up, just as it had the last three mornings. I’d let him go to voicemail every time. This time, knowing what he was probably calling about, I answered just to get it over with.
“Mercer,” I said, my voice sharp.
“Don’t hang up,” Josh said. “I’m not calling to talk about my newlywed happiness, okay? I’m calling because Holly is worried about Brynn. And I’m worried about you.”
“Nothing’s wrong. Stop worrying.” I let the silence stretch.
Instead of filling it with platitudes, he said, “You sound like hell, man. What happened in Dove Key? Holly told me about the fake-to-real thing that happened with you two. But why did you bolt and disappear off the face of the earth?”
My first instinct was to laugh it off. Second was to lie. Third—because I was out of defenses—was to just stand there, my own emptiness echoing back through the line.
“I’m fine,” I said finally.
Josh didn’t buy it. “We’re not sure Brynn is. Did you know she moved to Dove Key last week?”
“I know.” A cold wash of shame hit me. “But that’s not my problem.”
Josh didn’t miss a beat. “Look, I don’t know what went down, and maybe it’s none of my business. But Holly says Brynn admitted she misses you. And you sound like someone’s holding your head underwater.”
Josh was the guy who listened, who let you vent, then said the one thing that made you think maybe it wasn’t all pointless. He waited, giving me time. I stared out at the city view that stretched to the horizon, everything measured, perfect, and meaningless.
“I blew it.” My words tasted raw, like gravel. “She got close, and I freaked out. I said some things. Not good things.”
Josh exhaled. “You want to talk about it?”
I stopped in front of the window, my forehead almost touching the glass. The city vibrated below, but all I heard was the echo of my own voice. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. That wasn’t the plan.”
“Nobody ever means to, Dean. That’s the problem.”
I shut my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose.
I could see Brynn’s face, every flicker of hurt, every flash of hope.
I could still feel every inch of her body, taste every moment of her sweetness.
I could see her inside that ice cream shop in Dove Key, sunlight in her hair, looking like a future I never thought I wanted and was now terrified to lose.
“It was the morning after,” I said, each word pulled out like a splinter. “I woke up and everything felt—too close. Too real. And I said things I can’t take back.”
“Like what?”
“I told her it was just a fling. Fake. That it didn’t matter. She didn’t. That I didn’t want more.” My voice cracked, an ugly sound in the empty room. “I made her believe it was all a game. I didn’t mean any of it. I just… I didn’t know what else to do.”
Josh was silent for a beat. “Why’d you do it?”
I turned from the window and scanned the room. The pristine kitchen with a knife block still in its shrink-wrap. The living room with its single shelf of finance and leadership tomes. The espresso machine I’d never figured out how to use.
“She got to me,” I said, hating how weak it sounded. “In just a few days, she got inside my heart. I don’t know how to be a real thing anymore. I thought if I pushed her away first, it would hurt less.”
Josh gave a little snort. “How’s that working out for you?”
I almost smiled. “Like a charm, asshole.”
He let me stew in it. “You know, I never told you this, but Holly almost dumped me after our first semester. She said that I was so busy avoiding mistakes I never actually showed up for my own life.”
I pictured Josh, steady and even-tempered. Happily married. The idea that he’d ever lost his footing was comforting.
“You ever think about your ex?” he asked, so abrupt it cut right through me.
“Jesus, not if I can help it.”
He didn’t laugh or snort. I could picture him sitting there, dead serious. “She called you a doormat. Said you were too easy to please. And your answer was to build a whole new life to prove her wrong.”
I bristled, but Josh kept going, his voice quiet but relentless. “You got the high-profile Atlanta job. The apartment. You made yourself untouchable. You kept everyone at arm’s length because if nobody gets in, nobody can walk away.”
I looked at my hand. It was trembling. I clenched it into a fist, but it didn’t help.
“You ever ask yourself what you really want?” Josh asked. “Or have you just been reacting to what you don’t?”
I stared at the expensive apartment, utterly devoid of personality. “I don’t know.”
It was the most honest thing I’d managed since I left Dove Key.
“Maybe start there.” Josh’s voice was softer now.
“You’re still letting your ex control your life, Dean.
You’re not your job or your apartment. The only person making those rules is you.
You don’t have to prove a thing to anyone, including yourself.
So call an audible—change the play. Stop running from something—Brynn—that might change your life. ”
I nodded, though he couldn’t see it. The anger had drained out of me, replaced by a dull ache. I walked to the fridge, opened it, and stared at a single can of seltzer. It seemed symbolic. “Maybe I needed to hear that.”
“It’s true,” Josh replied. “Call her. Email her. Hell, text her if nothing else. Otherwise, this will eat you alive, man.”
“Thanks for listening, Josh. I’m sorry I unloaded on all your newlywed bliss.”
A tiny smile lifted one side of my mouth at his laugh. “Yeah, well, you’re an asshole, right? Let me know how it goes. We’re worried about you two.”
“I will.” I ended the call and tossed my phone absently in my hand.
The next text I got was a news alert about a jump in shipping futures, which would’ve thrilled me a month ago. Now it just felt like someone else’s life. I scrolled to Brynn’s contact, hovered over her name, then set the phone down. I needed a minute.
I walked through the apartment, pacing tight circles.
I thought about the dive shop, about the way the air in Dove Key felt thick and real.
I thought about Brynn’s laugh, the stubborn set of her jaw, the way she’d looked at me like she could see every one of my worst impulses.
And might learn to love me anyway. Until I tossed it all away.
I didn’t deserve her. But I wasn’t going to let that stop me this time.
I sat at my desk, opened a new draft email, and started typing.
Brynn,
I owe you a lot of apologies. I know I hurt you. I ran because I was scared, not because I didn’t care. The truth is, I’ve never cared more about anything in my life.
I want to do better. I want to try.
—Dean
I stared at the words until they blurred, my finger hovering over the send button, a single click away from… what? More waiting? Staring at my phone, hoping for a reply that might never come, putting the ball in her court after I was the one who walked off the field?
It was the coward’s way out. An apology lobbed from the safety of a thousand miles away.
Words were what I’d used to wound her—sharp, easy, and disposable.
Vacation fling. Just a charade.
How could more words, typed on a screen, ever fix that? They couldn’t. This wasn’t a negotiation to be handled over email. This was a mess I had to stand in the middle of. An email asked for forgiveness.
Showing up earned it.
My jaw set. I highlighted the entire draft, every raw and honest word, and hit delete.
I watched the confession vanish. The screen was blank, but my mind was clear.
From my living room, the view was perfect—downtown Atlanta on display, every luxury car crawling through intersections, every sidewalk pulsing with ambition.
It had once felt like an achievement, a trophy.
Now it just looked like a high-rise zoo, the glass a reminder of how easy it is to build a cage and convince yourself it was a throne.
I leaned back and tipped my head toward the ceiling.
That image flooded my mind again. The storefront with my name on it.
The flower baskets. A street that was the heart of a town.
I picked up my phone again and scrolled to the listings I had bookmarked.
My favorite was still active. My heart hummed, but not with panic.
More like adrenaline. A kind of relief, like stepping out of a packed elevator onto an open rooftop.
A decision made.
I thought of Brynn. Her unfiltered laugh that dared me to stop pretending.
Her stubborn optimism. How the taste of her lips was the first thing I’d wanted more of in years.
I wanted that life. The messy, loud, embarrassing one, where people knew you well enough to see you screw up and loved you anyway.
If Brynn was going to run toward something, the least I could do was show up at the starting line.
I cracked my knuckles and opened a new email window. The subject line was Resignation. I wrote quickly.
To Whom It May Concern:
Effective two weeks from today, I am stepping down from my role and leaving the company. Thank you for the opportunity, but I’ve realized what I need most can’t be found in a spreadsheet.
All the best,
Dean Mercer
I read it over. No deletes. No regrets. I hovered over the Send button, savoring the feeling of risk—of freedom. Then I sent it.
I pulled up a travel site and searched for a flight to Key West. There were two options. I picked one that left in three hours, paid extra for an aisle seat, and sent the boarding pass to my phone. I reserved a car, and then I was ready.
I examined my apartment. I’d packed it with statement pieces but never invited anyone to see them. I’d paid a premium for the view but never actually looked at it. It was time to go.
I pulled a duffel from the hall closet and tossed in a stack of clothes and a battered paperback I’d never finished. I closed the door behind me, the latch clicking like a starter’s pistol. The elevator was empty, the descent smooth and fast.
I walked out into the night, the Atlanta air thick with humidity and promise. I took a cab to the airport, watching the skyline recede in the rearview. Somewhere between Peachtree and the terminal, I realized I was smiling.