Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
Brooke
I stand frozen in the resort driveway, watching Dean's taxi disappear around the bend, taking with it the man I love and any chance of a future together. My mother appears at my side, silent at first, her presence a familiar comfort even as her disapproval radiates in waves I can practically feel against my skin. The Hawaiian sun beats down, merciless and bright, highlighting the world in painful clarity—the vibrant flowers lining the drive, the impossibly blue sky, the empty space where Dean stood moments ago. I should move, should say something, should at least pretend I'm not falling apart inside. But my body won't cooperate, locked in place by the certainty that I've just made the biggest mistake of my life. Again.
"Why are you letting him go again?" My mother's voice breaks through my paralysis, quiet but laced with a disappointment that cuts deeper than anger ever could.
“He’s got to get back to his ranch, Mom.”
“Brooke…” The way she says my name makes me go completely still.
I turn to look at her, finding her eyes—so like my own—filled with a mixture of compassion and exasperation, and my heart falls. “You knew all along.”
“Of course I knew, honey. I’m your mother. What I don’t understand is why you didn’t just tells us you and Dean broke up two years ago.”
So, there’s no more point in pretending then. “It's…complicated," I manage, the words sounding hollow even to my own ears.
"No," she says firmly, "it's actually quite simple. You love him, he loves you, but you're too afraid to fight for it."
"Mom—"
"Don't 'Mom' me, Brooke." She takes my hands in hers, her grip surprisingly strong. "I've watched you push away that man twice now. The first time, I told myself it was your life, your choice. But this time?" She shakes her head. "This time I'm not staying silent."
"You don't understand," I protest weakly. "There's so much to consider—my job, his ranch, the distance?—"
"Oh, I understand perfectly." Her voice softens slightly. "You think I don't know what it's like to be afraid? To worry that loving someone means losing yourself?"
This stops me short. My mother has always seemed so certain in her choices, so comfortable in her identity as wife and mother alongside her career. "You were afraid?"
"Terrified." She smiles slightly. "When I met your father, I was on track to make partner at my firm, the youngest woman ever considered. Marriage, family—those weren't in my five-year plan."
"But you gave it up for Dad," I say, the old familiar fear rising in me. "You left the firm."
"I left that firm," she corrects. "And joined another, part-time at first, then full-time when you girls were in school. I found a different path, not a lesser one."
"It's not the same," I argue, though her words have planted a seed of doubt in my certainty. "Times were different. The expectations?—"
"The expectations are ones you've put on yourself, Brooke." She releases my hands to cup my face, the gesture so tender it brings tears to my eyes. "This idea that you have to choose between career and love, between success and happiness—it's a false choice. The hardest part is having the courage to imagine a different future than the one you've planned."
Her words hit me with unexpected force, echoing what Dean has been trying to tell me all along. The problem isn't that there's no solution—it's that I've been afraid to even look for one, to consider alternatives to the stark either/or I've constructed in my mind.
"What if I can't make it work?" I whisper, giving voice to my deepest fear. "What if I try, and I fail, and I lose everything—my job, my independence, and Dean too?"
"Oh, sweetheart." My mother's smile is sad but knowing. "What if you don't try, and you spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been? Isn't that a greater failure?"
The question lands like a physical blow, forcing me to confront the reality of a future without Dean—not just the next few weeks or months, but years stretching endlessly forward. Holidays spent alone in my Manhattan apartment. Successes with no one who truly understands to celebrate them with. A life that looks perfect on paper but feels hollow in practice.
And suddenly, the fear that has paralyzed me transforms, crystallizing into something new: the terror of losing Dean forever, of watching him walk away not because he doesn't love me, but because I'm too afraid to love him the way he deserves.
"He's gone," I say, the words catching in my throat. "I let him go."
"To the airport," my mother reminds me. "He hasn't left the island yet."
The implication hangs between us for a moment before the full meaning registers. "You think I should..."
"I think," she says deliberately, "that if you love someone, you fight for them. You show up. You prove that they matter more than your fear."
My heart begins to race, possibility unfurling where moments ago there was only resignation. "I need to go after him."
"Yes," she agrees, a smile breaking across her face. "You do."
"I need a car. Or a taxi. Now." The urgency is sudden and overwhelming, propelling me into motion after what feels like hours of stasis.
My mother is already turning toward the valet stand. "Go change quickly. I'll have them call a cab."
"No time," I decide, glancing down at my sundress and sandals. "This will have to do."
She nods, understanding the urgency, and hurries to arrange transportation. I pull out my phone, checking the time with shaking hands. Dean's flight was scheduled for early afternoon, which means I have maybe an hour to reach him before he boards. Not much time, but enough. It has to be enough.
The taxi arrives with a screech of tires on pavement, the driver responding to the urgency my mother must have conveyed. I hug her quickly, fiercely.
"Thank you," I whisper against her hair.
"Go get him," she replies, pushing me gently toward the cab. "And Brooke? Don't hold back. Not this time."
I slide into the backseat, calling to the driver before the door is fully closed: "Kahului Airport, as fast as you can. It's an emergency."
As we pull away, I catch a glimpse of my mother standing in the driveway, one hand raised in farewell, a smile of satisfaction on her face.
The drive to the airport passes in a blur of tropical landscape and racing thoughts. I try Dean's cell twice, but it goes straight to voicemail—either turned off or already in airplane mode. No matter. I'll find him. I have to.
With each mile that passes, my resolve strengthens. The fear doesn't disappear—I'm still terrified of the unknown, of the changes and compromises ahead—but for the first time, I recognize it as the price of admission to something greater. Something worth fighting for.
I spend the drive rehearsing what I'll say when I find him, but every practiced speech feels inadequate, too scripted for the raw emotion churning inside me. In the end, I decide to trust that when I see him, I'll find the right words. The true ones.
The airport comes into view, a modern structure surrounded by palm trees, and my heart rate kicks up another notch. The driver, sensing my anxiety, pulls up directly to the departures area.
"Good luck," he says as I thrust cash into his hand, not waiting for change before bolting toward the terminal doors.
Inside, the airport is bustling with travelers—families returning from vacation, business people in wrinkled suits, honeymooners still glowing with newlywed happiness. I scan the departure board frantically, searching for flights to Denver or Colorado Springs.
There—a flight to Denver departing in forty minutes. That has to be Dean's. I check the gate number and race toward security, only to be stopped by a stern TSA agent.
"Ticket and ID, please."
"I don't have a ticket," I admit breathlessly. "I need to reach someone before they board. It's important."
The agent's expression doesn't change. "Can't let you through without a ticket, ma'am."
"Please," I beg, desperation making my voice crack. "I just need to talk to him. Five minutes."
"Rules are rules," he says, unmoved by my pleading. "You can try paging them from the courtesy phone."
I want to scream with frustration, but I know it won't help. Think, Brooke. There has to be a way.
The departures area is separated from the secure side by glass walls. If I can't go to Dean, maybe I can at least see him, make him see me. I hurry to the barrier, scanning the crowded terminal beyond for his familiar figure.
There—by the coffee shop, his back to me, that same stance I'd recognize anywhere. Dean. My Dean.
"Dean!" I call, but my voice is lost in the cacophony of airport announcements and traveler conversations. I bang on the glass, drawing irritated looks from nearby passengers, but he doesn't turn.
Desperate now, I run to the courtesy phone the TSA agent mentioned. An airport employee watches with mild interest as I grab the receiver.
"I need to page someone," I say breathlessly. "It's an emergency."
"Name?" she asks, fingers poised over a keyboard.
"Dean McAllister, on the Denver flight."
She nods, typing something before handing me the microphone. "Go ahead when you hear the tone."
A sharp beep sounds, and then my voice is echoing throughout the terminal: "Dean McAllister, please come to the main concourse. Dean McAllister to the main concourse."
I watch through the glass as he turns, confusion evident even at this distance. His eyes scan the terminal, looking for the source of the page. I bang on the glass again, waving frantically, and this time—this time he sees me.
For a moment, he just stares, as if unable to believe I'm really there. Then he's moving toward the barrier, his expression a complicated mix of hope and wariness that makes my heart ache.
When he reaches the glass, we're separated by just inches of transparent barrier, close enough that I can see the flecks of darker gray in his eyes, the slight stubble on his jaw from missing his morning shave.
"Brooke?" His voice is muffled by the glass, but I can read the question in it clearly enough. "What are you doing here?"
"I love you," I blurt out, not caring who hears, not caring about anything except making him understand. "I love you, and I'm sorry, and I was wrong."
His eyes widen slightly, but he doesn't respond, waiting for more. And suddenly, all the words I couldn't find in the taxi come pouring out.
"I've been so afraid," I continue, pressing my palm against the glass separating us. "Afraid of losing my independence, my career, the life I've built. But I've been so busy protecting myself from potential hurt that I didn't see the real damage I was doing—to you, to us, to any chance at happiness."
Around us, travelers slow their hurried pace, some stopping outright to watch the drama unfolding. I barely notice them, focused entirely on Dean's face, on the subtle shifts of emotion there.
"I don't have all the answers," I admit. "I don't know exactly how we make it work—your ranch, my job, the distance. But I know I want to figure it out together. I know that nothing I've achieved means anything without you to share it with."
Dean places his hand against the glass, mirroring mine, our palms aligned but unable to touch. "You said you wanted to be friends," he reminds me, his voice still guarded. "Just this morning."
"I was wrong. I was scared. I was an idiot." I laugh, the sound edged with tears. "I don't want to be your friend, Dean. I want to be your partner. In everything."
Something shifts in his expression, wariness giving way to cautious hope. "What changed your mind?"
"My mother asked why I was letting you go again," I say simply. "And I realized I didn't have a good answer. There is no good answer for walking away from the best thing that's ever happened to me."
A small crowd has gathered now, watching our exchange with unabashed interest. Someone nearby whispers, "Is this real life or a movie?" and a part of me wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all—me, Brooke Callahan, practical to a fault, making a public declaration of love in the middle of an airport.
But mostly, I don't care about the audience. I only care about the man on the other side of the glass, whose expression is softening by the second.
"I lied before," I tell him, my voice breaking slightly. "I said it was fake, just pretend. But it never was. Not for a single moment."
"Brooke—" he starts, but I need to finish, need to say everything before I lose my nerve.
"I'm not asking you to give up your ranch or your life in Colorado. I'm not even asking you to forgive me right away for pushing you away. I'm just asking for a chance—a real chance to build something together. To find a compromise that isn't a sacrifice but a new path forward." I swallow hard, gathering courage for the final plea. "Please don't get on that plane. Please give us one more try."
The terminal seems to hold its breath as Dean stares at me through the glass. Then, slowly, he shakes his head.
"I can't," he says, and my heart plummets until he continues: "I can't hear you properly through this damn glass."
And then he's turning, moving away, and for one terrible moment I think he's heading to his gate, rejecting my grand gesture. But instead, he's striding toward the exit that will take him back to the unsecured area, to me.
I run to meet him, not caring about the stares or whispers, focused only on reaching him. When he emerges from the security exit, I launch myself toward him, barely giving him time to brace before I'm in his arms, my face pressed against his chest, breathing in the scent of him.
"I'm sorry," I whisper against his shirt, feeling his arms tighten around me. "I'm so sorry for pushing you away, for being too afraid to fight for us."
Dean's hand comes up to tangle in my hair, cradling my head against him. "Shh," he soothes, his voice rumbling in his chest beneath my ear. "It's okay."
I pull back just enough to look up at him, needing to see his face. "It's not okay. I hurt you. Again."
His smile is gentle, if a bit cautious. "Yeah, you did. But showing up here? That counts for something."
"It counts for everything," I insist, fingers curling into his shirt. "I love you, Dean McAllister. I never stopped loving you. And I'm done running from it."
Around us, the impromptu audience breaks into applause, someone letting out a wolf whistle that makes me flush with embarrassment. But Dean doesn't seem to notice anyone else, his eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that steals my breath.
"Say it again," he requests softly.
"I love you."
He studies me for a long moment, searching for any hint of hesitation or doubt. Finding none, his expression transforms, joy breaking across his features like sunrise.
"I love you too," he says, then bends to capture my lips in a kiss that feels like coming home—like every piece that's been out of place for two years finally shifting back to where it belongs.
The kiss deepens, his arms tightening around my waist as mine wind around his neck. I pour everything into it—all the apologies I still need to make, all the promises I intend to keep, all the love I've tried so hard to deny. When we finally break apart, both breathing heavily, I'm vaguely aware of cheers and applause from our audience, but it feels distant, unimportant compared to the man holding me.
"So," Dean says, his forehead resting against mine, "what happens now?"
It's the question that's haunted me for days, the one I couldn't answer this morning. But somehow, here in his arms, it doesn't seem so insurmountable anymore.
"Now we figure it out together," I tell him. "Day by day, decision by decision. But together."
His smile widens, becoming the full, unreserved expression that I've missed so much. "Together," he agrees. "I like the sound of that."
Our fingers brush as he takes my hand, and I feel a spark—static from the dry airport air, perhaps, but it jolts me nonetheless. A reminder that some connections never truly fade, no matter how hard we try to ignore them.
"Let's go home," I say, a new certainty settling over me like a warm blanket.
Dean raises an eyebrow. "Which home? New York? Colorado?"
I smile, squeezing his hand. "Whichever one we're in together."
As we walk out of the airport, hand in hand, I know there are still challenges ahead—logistics to navigate, compromises to make, fears to overcome. But for the first time, I'm not running from them. I'm running toward them, with Dean by my side.
And that makes all the difference.