3. Fiona
Fiona
Fiona stood in front of their bedroom mirror, holding up two dresses. The navy one was safer—appropriate for any occasion, the kind of dress that never drew unwanted attention. The green one was different.
Dean's voice drifted from the bathroom where he was getting ready. "We should leave in twenty minutes if we want to make it before the wine runs out."
She looked at the dresses. She didn't want to be Dean's dowdy, frumpy wife tonight—not in front of his fancy crowd.
She chose the green dress.
It slipped over her head like water, settling against her body with a whisper of silk. She'd bought it months ago on impulse, then let it hang in her closet with the tags still on, waiting for the right occasion. Or maybe waiting for the right amount of courage.
In the bathroom mirror, she opened her makeup bag and stared at the lipstick she'd been saving—a deep berry shade that the sales girl had called "bold" and "statement-making."
Fiona twisted the tube open, then closed it again. Too much. It was too much for a work dinner with Dean's colleagues. She reached for her usual nude shade instead.
Then stopped.
When was the last time she'd worn something that made her feel beautiful instead of appropriate? When was the last time she'd chosen bold over safe?
She applied the berry lipstick with careful precision, then stepped back to look at herself. The woman in the mirror looked... different. Confident. Like someone who belonged at gallery openings and wine tastings, not just parent-teacher conferences.
"Fi, you ready?" Dean called from the bedroom.
She smoothed the dress one more time, squared her shoulders, and walked out.
Dean was adjusting his cufflinks when he looked up. His hands stilled. His eyes went wide, then traveled slowly from her face to her feet and back up again.
"Jesus," he breathed.
Heat flooded her cheeks. "Too much?"
"Not even close." He gave a low whistle that made her laugh and spin once, the dress flaring around her legs.
His gaze dragged over her, lingering at her legs, her waist, her mouth. "You look incredible. Like, stop-traffic incredible."
The confidence she'd seen in the mirror settled into her bones for real now. This was why she'd bought the dress. This was why she'd chosen the bold lipstick. For this moment. For the way Dean was looking at her like she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
"You think it's appropriate?" she asked, suddenly uncertain again.
Dean crossed the room and cupped her face gently, careful not to smudge her makeup. "You're perfect," he said, and kissed her forehead. "They're going to be so jealous that you're mine."
Walking into the restaurant brought all her nerves back. The space was dim and expensive in that understated way—brick walls, candlelight, minimalist. The group was already at least one bottle of wine in when she and Dean arrived.
He slipped in like he belonged. Of course he did.
He greeted people by name, shook hands, laughed easily. Fiona followed, smiling, nodding, trying not to stand awkwardly in the space between two chairs while Dean kissed Ava on both cheeks and made a joke about her new client that everyone seemed to get but her.
She’d known them for years. They’d all been at the wedding. They’d fit the ceremony better than she had—sleek, on-trend, exclusive. It hadn’t really been her thing, but she hadn’t cared about the ceremony—only the groom. She wasn’t fussy about details. She just wanted to marry him.
Most of his friends worked at the agency—same titles, same lingo, same parties. A closed loop of sleek people who moved from meetings to martinis without missing a beat.
Roxanne, with her architectural blazer and that clipped, perfect laugh.
Cam, who always looked at Fiona like she was cute for trying.
The whole crowd blurred together—shiny shoes, tailored sleeves, conversation full of hidden traps, like a polished maze designed to catch anyone who didn’t know the right references.
Fiona sat beside Dean and folded her napkin into her lap. Someone had taken the liberty of ordering for the table—small plates, naturally. Everything would arrive beautifully arranged and tragically under-portioned.
Dean’s friends were talking about oat milk. Or rather, an ad campaign for oat milk.
“It’s performative wellness,” Ava was saying, swirling her wine. “Completely full of itself. I respect it.”
Laughter. A round of smug little nods.
Dean laughed too.
Fiona tried to join the conversation. “I think it’s great that people have options now.”
There was a pause—half a beat too long. Then a few chuckles. Someone smiled, but not at her—more like through her.
She felt her ears go warm.
Roxanne tilted her head. “That’s cute. I guess they don’t stock oat milk where you come from.”
Fiona blinked. She wasn’t from the middle of nowhere. “I’m from Sweetwater,” she said. “It’s only about an hour away from here. We have grocery stores.”
Cam gave a thin smile. “Maybe you should take your class on a school trip. What do you teach again?”
“Fifth grade,” she said, and despite the undercurrents of the conversation, she felt a smile spread across her face as she pictured her students.
Teaching to her meant seeing tiny shoulders straighten when they realized they weren’t dumb, just new at something. Sometimes Fiona wondered if she taught reading and math, or just self-belief in disguise.
She just wished she felt as comfortable here as she did in front of her class.
“God,” Roxanne drawled. “That’s so wholesome I could die.”
More laughter.
Fiona smiled along with it, because it was easier than asking whether they meant to be cruel. She took a sip of wine and let the glass hide her mouth.
She tried again a few minutes later—adding her voice to the conversation.
No one even bothered to respond. Someone started talking over her before she’d even finished.
She smoothed her napkin again, even though it didn’t need smoothing. Shifted in her seat. Looked down the table like maybe someone else would make space for her in the conversation.
Dean was next to at least. He’d been pulled into a different conversation, something Jared had said about brand voice and moral relatability.
His hand rested on her leg under the table. The weight of it, the warmth—it steadied something in her chest.
He leaned in, just enough for her to hear. “They’re exhausting. You’re doing great.”
His hand stayed where it was. Warm. Steady. Anchoring.
She could handle the rest—the low-key digs, the smart jokes with sharp edges, the invisible velvet rope between her and them. She could smile and sip wine and pretend the ache behind her ribs was nothing.
As long as Dean would always be in her corner.
She wanted to stay exactly where she was forever. Fiona lay on her side, head tucked beneath Dean’s chin, her hand resting lightly over his heart.
She could hear it—the steady thump of it beneath her palm. She liked that. That he was warm and alive and here.
His arm was around her, fingers trailing slowly up and down her spine like a rhythm he didn’t even realize he’d fallen into. She felt herself melting into him, bones turning liquid.
“I love you,” she said quietly.
Dean made a soft sound. “Good.” She loved the way his voice rumbled through his chest when he spoke quietly.
Fiona looked up, chin resting on his chest. She still hesitated, even now, afraid of sounding foolish. But with Dean, she could be a little foolish. He never made her feel small for it.
She could say anything to Dean. “Do you ever feel like... I don’t quite fit? In your world?”
He tilted his head, squinting slightly. “What do you mean?”
“Your work friends. Those gallery people. Everyone always has something smart to say, or ironic. I spend my working hours with children.”
She wished she could explain it—the way she always felt like the volume was turned down on her when they were with his friends. Like she had to shrink herself to match the room.
Dean just held her. “You don’t have to fit in with anyone. You’re—” He kissed her forehead. “Different. You’re real.”
Fiona hesitated, then said it. Soft, but honest. “I feel like I’m the butt of a joke sometimes. When I’m with your friends, or at those things we go to. Like they’re all in on something and I’m just... background humor.”
The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them. It sounded dramatic. Needy.
“They’re not laughing at you, Fi. Come on.” He brushed a thumb along her shoulder. “You’re charming. You say whatever you’re thinking, and they don’t know what to do with that. That’s why they’re jealous of you.”
She turned her face slightly into his chest, let the conversation drop.
Dean’s hand kept tracing along her skin, and she stayed curled against him. She could stay like this for hours, breathing him in. Her favorite, safest place in the world.