27. Fiona
Fiona
Fiona leaned back on the couch, legs tucked under her, a warm mug of tea cradled in both hands. Emma sat cross-legged beside her, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn in her lap. Marcy was on video call, propped against the toaster on speakerphone, her face glowing softly from the screen.
“…and then Travis asked why I couldn’t just ‘wing it’ on his cousin’s wedding speech,” Marcy was saying. “Like I didn’t spend two weeks rewriting it because his family scares me.”
“That man is a disaster,” Emma muttered around a mouthful of popcorn.
“He’s a deeply lovable disaster,” Marcy said. “But yes. A disaster.”
Fiona laughed, soft but genuine. It was the first time she’d really laughed all week—really laughed, without feeling like it might crack something inside her.
Marcy caught the sound and raised an eyebrow. “There she is.”
“Hi,” Fiona said, a little sheepish.
“You look slightly less like you’ve been living inside a thundercloud,” Marcy said gently. “Progress.”
Fiona curled tighter into herself on the couch, exhaling slowly. “Can I… say something that might make me sound like a jerk?”
Emma raised her hand like she was swearing an oath. “Always.”
Fiona hesitated, then: “I think I owe you guys an apology. For always acting like Dean was… perfect.”
“Oh, thank God,” Marcy said instantly. “We’ve been dying for you to say that.”
Fiona blinked. “Wait, really?”
Emma smirked. “Fi, you used to talk about that man like he invented kissing.”
“You made us feel like absolute goblins for getting annoyed when our boyfriends forgot our birthdays,” Marcy added.
“I did not!”
“You literally said, ‘Dean always remembers things like that. He’s just so thoughtful.’”
Fiona groaned. “Okay. Fine. I was the worst.”
Emma reached over and nudged her shoulder. “You were in love. And it was easy to love him when he was performing well.”
“Yeah,” Fiona said quietly. “Performing.”
The word sat between them for a second.
Marcy tilted her head. “You don’t have to feel guilty for loving someone you thought was a good guy.”
“I just…” Fiona frowned down into her tea. “I feel stupid. Like I built him up so high that I didn’t see the cracks.”
Emma popped another piece of popcorn into her mouth. “That’s not a flaw, Fi. That’s hope. And you’re not the only one who’s done it.”
There was a pause. Fiona looked up.
Emma sighed. “Milo’s great. But he still thinks ‘emotional labor’ means I have a second job.”
“And Travis,” Marcy said, making a face, “gets overwhelmed when I ask him to schedule his own dentist appointment. I’m dating a grown man with the self-management skills of a cat.”
They all laughed.
“But you know what?” Marcy went on, her tone softening. “They try. It’s messy, but they try."
Fiona was quiet.
"You know what your next guy's going to be like?" Emma said, settling back with the popcorn bowl.
Marcy's eyes lit up on the screen. "Oh, we're doing this? I love this game."
"He's going to be the kind of person who asks what you need instead of assuming he knows," Emma said. "Like, actually asks. And then listens to the answer."
"And he's going to think your stories are charming, not material," Marcy added. "He's going to laugh with you, not at you."
"He's going to brag about you to his friends," Emma continued, getting into it now. "Not make you the joke at dinner parties."
Fiona felt something twist uncomfortably in her chest. She forced a smile. "Sounds nice."
"Oh, and he's going to love how you see the world," Marcy said, warming to the topic. "Like when you get excited about weird cloud formations or cry at commercials with dogs. He's going to find that beautiful, not embarrassing."
"Someone who gets that kindness isn't naivety," Emma said firmly. "Someone who knows the difference."
They kept going, painting this picture of some hypothetical perfect man, and Fiona found herself retreating further into the couch cushions with each detail.
She didn't want some theoretical next guy.
She wanted Dean.
Not the Dean who had betrayed her, not the Dean who had turned her into content for strangers.
But the Dean who used to trace patterns on her back when she couldn't sleep.
The Dean who brought her coffee exactly the way she liked it without being asked.
The Dean who had looked at her like she was the answer to a question he'd been asking his whole life.
That Dean had felt like home.
That Dean had felt like the person. Not a person. The person.
"—don't you think, Fi?"
Fiona blinked back to the conversation. "Sorry, what?"
Emma was looking at her with concern. "I said he's going to be someone who makes you feel safe. Really safe."
"Right," Fiona said quietly. "That sounds... good."
But it didn't sound good. It sounded impossible.
Because despite everything—despite the betrayal and the humiliation and the legal papers sitting in her bag upstairs—Dean had been the love of her life.
And she wasn't sure you got more than one of those.
Marcy must have caught something in her expression because her voice went gentler. "Hey. You know you don't have to think about any of this yet, right? Like, not for a long time."
"I know," Fiona said, but her voice came out smaller than she intended.
Emma reached over and squeezed her hand. "You're allowed to grieve him, you know. Even after what he did. You're allowed to miss the good parts."
Fiona's throat tightened. "The good parts felt so real."
"They were real," Marcy said softly. "At least for you. And that matters."
Fiona nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
Because that was the thing that made it all so much worse. She hadn't just lost her husband. She'd lost her future, her person, her other half. The man she'd planned to grow old with was gone, and in his place was a stranger who'd found her childish, thought she was ridiculous.
She wasn't ready to imagine loving anyone else.
She wasn't sure she'd ever be ready.