Chapter Twenty-Eight The Goodbye Tour
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Goodbye Tour
Poppy
The country club smells like old money and regret. Perfect.
I’m doing this thing where I hover near the mimosa station like it’s home base in a really bad game of tag. Dean’s across the room talking to his mother, and I’m pretending the orange juice needs my complete attention.
“You’re being weird,” CeCe mutters beside me.
“I’m being strategic.”
“You’re hiding behind fruit juice.”
“Strategically hiding.”
She grabs a mimosa. Downs half of it. “Just go talk to him.”
“Pass.”
“Poppy—”
“Look, there’s Ivy!”
I abandon CeCe and her judgy eyes, and make a beeline for the bride. Safe territory.
Ivy’s glowing in that post-wedding way, all soft edges and stupid happiness. Mason’s got his arm around her, and they’re doing that thing where they can’t stop touching. Little brushes. Fingers intertwined. Casual PDA that makes my chest hurt.
“Poppy!” Ivy extracts herself to hug me. “Tell me you’re not leaving yet.”
“Flight’s at two.”
“Italy!” She bounces a little. “I’m so jealous. Please eat everything.”
“That’s the plan.”
Mason joins the hug, because apparently we’re those people now. “Seriously, Poppy. Can’t thank you enough.”
“Just doing my job.”
“Bullshit,” he says. “You went above and beyond. The guitar thing alone—”
My stomach twists. “That was all Dean.”
They exchange one of those married people looks. Great. They know. Everyone knows. The whole world knows I spent last night on Dean Whitaker’s couch like some pathetic—
“Poppy?”
His voice hits me like a physical thing. Low. Careful. Too close.
I turn. Try for casual. “Hey.”
He looks tired. Good tired, but still. Hair’s doing that thing where it’s trying to be messy but can’t quite commit. He’s in jeans and a button-down that’s probably worth more than my car payment.
“Hi,” he says.
Hi. That’s it. That’s all we get?
Ivy clears her throat. “We’re gonna go… check on the buffet.”
“The buffet’s fine—” Mason starts.
She drags him away. Subtle as a brick.
And then it’s just us. Standing too close. Not close enough.
“So,” I say.
“So.”
Quality conversation. Really nailing this goodbye thing.
“You left early,” he says quietly.
“I had to pack.”
“Right. Pack.”
He’s doing a thing with his jaw. Some tense thing that means he’s thinking too hard.
“Dean—”
“Have a good flight.”
Wait. What?
“That’s… that’s it?”
Something flickers across his face. “What else is there?”
Stay. Ask me to stay. Tell me last night meant something. Tell me this week meant something. Tell me I’m not the only one who’s drowning here.
“Nothing,” I say instead. “Just. You know. Thanks for letting me use your guest house.”
“It’s what we agreed to.”
Right. Our business arrangement. How silly of me to think—
“Take care of George,” I blurt out.
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “George isn’t my responsibility.”
“Someone should probably tell George that.”
“I’ll add it to my list.”
We stare at each other. His eyes are filled with something… but I can’t tell what. The room’s too loud. Too bright. Too full of people who aren’t having the world’s most awkward goodbye.
“I should—” I gesture vaguely toward the exit, the words catching in my throat like broken glass.
“Yeah.” His voice is flat, resigned. Like we’re discussing the weather instead of whatever this thing between us was.
But then he reaches out, his fingers barely grazing my wrist. The touch is so light I might have imagined it, except for the way my skin burns where he’s made contact.
“Poppy.”
I freeze. My name on his lips shouldn’t sound like a prayer and a goodbye all at once, but it does.
“Be careful,” he says.
The words hit me like cold water. Be careful? That’s what we’re going with? Not ‘I’ll miss you’ or ‘this has been incredible’ or ‘please don’t go.’ Be freaking careful? Odd choice, but okay.
“Always am,” I lie, forcing the words past the lump in my throat.
He lets go. Steps back. The distance between us might as well be an ocean. And that’s it. That’s our goodbye. No fanfare, no dramatic declarations. Just two people pretending this doesn’t hurt as much as it does.
I turn and walk away before I do something stupid. Like cry. Or scream. Or ask him what the hell last night was if this is how it ends. My feet carry me toward the door on autopilot while my heart stays behind, scattered in pieces on the floor.
CeCe intercepts me at the door, her timing impeccable as always. “You okay?”
“Peachy.” The sarcasm drips from my voice like poison.
“That bad?”
“He told me to be careful.” The words come out as an accusation, as if CeCe is somehow responsible for his emotional cowardice.
“Oh honey.” Her voice is soft with understanding.
“Like I’m his elderly aunt going on a cruise. Or his niece who’s staying in a shady hostel.” The comparison would be funny if it didn’t hurt so much.
“Maybe he just—”
“Don’t.” I grab her arm, probably harder than necessary. “Just. Can we go? Please?”
She nods, understanding written all over her face. We head for the exit together, and I don’t look back. Can’t look back. Because if I do, if I see him standing there watching me leave, I might not have the strength to keep walking.
Because if I do, if I see him standing there with that stupid jaw thing and those stupid sad eyes, I might—
“Poppy!”
Gloria appears like a sequined guardian angel, blocking our escape. Of course she does. My aunt has impeccable timing when it comes to emotional interventions.
“Aunt Gloria. Hi.” My voice comes out smaller than intended.
She studies my face with those all-seeing eyes of hers. “Oh, sweetheart.”
“I’m fine.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
“Liar.” She cups my cheek with one perfectly manicured hand. “But that’s okay. Sometimes we need to lie until it becomes true.”
“I don’t—”
“Italy’s going to be good for you,” she says firmly, cutting off my weak protest. “A little distance. And perspective, pasta, and prosecco.”
I nod, feeling numb. The attempt at humor comes automatically. “The three P’s of healing.”
“Exactly.” She pulls me into a hug that smells like patchouli and possibilities. The familiar scent threatens to undo all my carefully constructed walls. “But Poppy?”
“Yeah?”
“When you’re ready? Don’t let fear make your choices.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are. You both are.” She pulls back, gives me that look that sees too much, knows too much, understands things I haven’t even admitted to myself. “Pride’s a cold bedfellow, darling.”
“Gloria—”
“Go. Catch your flight. Eat gelato. Find your joy.” She kisses my forehead like she used to when I was small and the world was simpler. “But remember—running toward something and running away from something feel the same until you stop.”
Cryptic aunt wisdom. My favorite. Just what I need when my heart is already in pieces.
CeCe tugs my arm. “Come on. Traffic’s gonna be a bitch.”
I let her lead me away. Through the overdone lobby. Past the valet stand. Into the car where I can finally, finally breathe.
“That was—”
“Don’t,” I cut her off. “Just. Drive.”
She drives.
I stare out the window, watching New York blur past, and try not to think about Dean standing in that stupid country club with his stupid perfect face and his stupid “be careful.”
It wasn’t long.
Barely more than a week.
But in that time—chaos, goats, reluctant smiles that felt like victories.
In that time, I watched him slowly crack open, only to slam shut the second things got real. In that time, it felt like a lifetime, and now it’s just… over.
“Hey,” CeCe says softly. “For what it’s worth? I think he wanted to say more.”
“Yeah, well.” I swipe at my cheek. Ugh, allergies. “Wanting and doing are different things.”
“Maybe—”
“Can we just… not? Please? I need to not think about it until I’m at least three wines deep in Italy.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
More tears stream silently down my cheeks.
The airport looms ahead. My great escape. My big adventure. My definitely-not-running-away vacation.
“You sure you’re good?” CeCe asks as she pulls up to departures.
“I’m great. Living the dream. About to eat my bodyweight in carbs.”
“Poppy.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say. Softer this time. “I just. I need to go.”
She hugs me over the center console. “Text me when you land.”
“Will do.”
“And Poppy? Maybe he just needs time to—”
“CeCe. Please. For the love…”
“Right. Shutting up.”
I grab my bags. Head for the automatic doors.
International departures.
Don’t look back.
Don’t think about him.
Don’t wonder if he’s wondering where I am.
Just go.
Because Gloria’s wrong. Sometimes running away is exactly what you need.
Even if it feels like leaving half your heart behind.