20. Dean
Dean
Dean watched Fiona's face.
He'd expected tears. Anger. Something. Some crack in her armor that he could work with, apologize into, promise his way through.
"Thank you," she said finally. "For saying that."
Dean’s heart stumbled. Thank you. She said thank you. That had to mean something—didn’t it? A thank you was a door left ajar, wasn’t it?
Hope flared in his chest. "Fiona?—"
"But it doesn't change anything."
"What do you mean?"
She sighed. "I don't love you anymore, Dean."
The words didn’t land at first. His brain rejected them like a bad signal, fuzzed them out into something less permanent. She was angry. She was bluffing. He’d apologized, he’d meant it, so this had to be a test—right?
"You don't mean that," he said, voice cracking. "You can't mean that. We can work through this. I'll do anything?—"
"I know you would." Her voice was gentle but firm. "You're not a monster. You're not evil. You're just... not the person I thought you were."
Dean's chest hurt. "I can be better. I am better. I'll prove it to you?—"
"I don't want you to prove anything to me." Fiona stepped back slightly. "It’s too late.”
His fingers dug into the porch railing hard enough to sting. She was just hurt. That was all.
"But I love you," he whispered.
"I know," she said sadly. "But that isn't enough for me.”
Dean opened his mouth, then closed it.
"I spent two years married to a man who didn’t protect me,” Fiona continued. "Two years feeling like something was wrong with me because your friends always seemed to be laughing at some inside joke. Two years being made to feel stupid and naive and small."
"You're not?—"
"I know I'm not," she said, and there was steel in her voice now. “But I don’t think you do.”
"That's not true?—"
"Isn't it?" She met his gaze directly. "Be honest, Dean. Really honest. Didn't some part of you think I was stupid? Didn't some part of you enjoy feeling superior?"
Dean's mouth opened, but no words came out. Because deep down, in the ugliest corner of his heart, he had enjoyed it sometimes. The way she looked at him like he was smarter, more sophisticated. The way her innocence made him feel worldly by comparison.
The silence stretched between them.
"That's what I thought," Fiona said softly.
"I can change," Dean said desperately. "I want to change.”
"Good," she said. "You should work on that. For the next person you love."
The next person . The phrase slid under his ribs like a blade. He couldn’t picture it—couldn’t even stomach the idea.
"So that's it? Years of marriage, and you're just... done?"
"I've been done since I saw the account,” Fiona was speaking gently, as if he was the one who deserved her kindness when he had destroyed the woman he loved. It burned. "I just needed a couple of days to accept it."
When Dean looked up, her face was calm, resolved. Like she'd already moved past him. Past them.
"I won't fight you on anything,” she said gently. “The apartment, the furniture, whatever. I just want this to be over quietly."
"Fiona, please?—"
"I'm sorry, Dean. I really am. But I can't stay married to someone who doesn’t respect me.”
She turned to go back inside.
"Wait," Dean called. "What if I waited? What if I gave you time and space and proved that I've changed? Months, years, however long it takes?"
Fiona paused in the doorway without turning around.
"I can’t stop you,” she said quietly. “But wouldn’t you be happier be with someone you actually like?”
The door closed with a soft click, leaving Dean alone on the porch.
The car felt too quiet.
Dean flicked the radio on, then off again two seconds later. It all sounded wrong—too bright, too cheerful, too indifferent. Like the world had kept turning while something inside him had cracked in half.
The highway unspooled in front of him. Wet black asphalt, sharp yellow lines, the occasional flash of taillights disappearing into the rain.
He kept one hand tight on the wheel. The other sat limp in his lap, fingers twitching now and then like they wanted something to hold.
Fiona hadn’t cried.
He’d replayed it a hundred times already, and she hadn’t cried. She hadn’t yelled. She hadn’t broken. She’d just...
He could still hear her voice.
“I don’t love you anymore.”
He gripped the steering wheel, something desperate and useless rising in his chest. His eyes burned.
She was supposed to cry. He’d imagined her shaking, railing, giving him something to work with. A crack in the armor.
The city skyline was still thirty miles out, a faint suggestion of gray through the windshield. His phone buzzed in the cupholder—the notification of a work email. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care. Not right now.
He thought of the list in his apartment. "Get Fiona Back"
He almost laughed.
Every item on that list had felt so actionable. So clear.
He gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white. The leather was smooth beneath his palms—his stupid expensive car, his perfect life, his apartment with the art prints and espresso machine.
And none of it could get her back.
Not when she saw him clearly now.
“Didn’t some part of you think I was stupid?”
The answer had been yes. That quiet superiority, that inward smirk, that smug little voice that said: she's lucky to have me. And he’d told himself that she had been. Until she wasn’t.
Until she looked at him and saw what was underneath the charm.
Not a monster. Just a man with small, selfish instincts. A man who thought love was enough to excuse being careless.
He hadn’t known heartbreak could be so quiet. No screaming. No smashing plates. Just that terrible calm. Like the moment after a fire when there’s nothing left to burn.
He used to think the worst thing was someone hating you.
Now he knew better.
The worst thing was being unloved . Fully. Gently. Irrevocably.
Dean's keys hit the ceramic bowl with a hollow clink that echoed through the empty apartment. The sound was too loud in the silence—sharp and final, like punctuation at the end of a sentence he didn't want to finish.
He stood there, staring down at the tangle of metal in the white dish. His house key. His office key. His gym fob. And there, nestled against the rim like it had been waiting for him—Fiona's spare car key.
Attached to that ridiculous pompom keychain she'd bought at a gas station. He'd teased her about it, called it "aggressively cute." She'd just smiled and said it made her happy.
He picked it up.
The pompom—electric blue and unnaturally soft—compressed under his thumb.
Christ.
His car was parked outside. Sleek. German. Expensive. A status symbol on wheels, designed to telegraph success to anyone within a thirty-foot radius.
Fiona's car was practical. Older but still reliable. The kind of car you bought when you cared more about getting places safely than getting there with style.
His throat felt tight.
She was out there in Sweetwater, driving back and forth every day in her beaten-up Honda. Probably grateful for any wheels at all. While he sat here with a car worth more than she made in six months, feeling sorry for himself.
She'd never asked for anything. Not once. Not the apartment with the view, not the expensive dinners, not the clothes that would help her fit in with his friends. She'd just... adapted. Smiled. Tried to keep up.
And he'd let her drive the shitty car.
Dean closed his fist around the key. He looked at her wedding ring, abandoned on the entry table.
He turned toward the door.
It was a small thing. Stupid, maybe. But it was hers now. Should have been hers all along.
He grabbed his jacket from the hook and headed back out into the rain.
The least he could do was give her the nicer car.
The very least.