36. Dean
Dean
"—and you schedule your own damn dentist appointment," Dean was saying, stabbing his fork into his pasta with more force than necessary. "She's not your secretary."
Travis blinked, mid-chew. "I mean, she's better at that stuff?—"
"No." Dean's voice was sharp enough that both men looked up from their plates. "She's not better at it. You just never learned because someone else always did it for you."
They were sitting in some forgettable Italian place downtown—the kind with checkered tablecloths and breadsticks that came free with every meal. Dean knew he was a hypocrite, but the alternative was sitting alone in his apartment, so here he was.
Giving relationship advice to men who still had relationships.
"Look," Milo said carefully, "I get that you're going through something right now?—"
"I'm going through a divorce because I was a piece of shit husband," Dean interrupted. "And if you two don't want to end up where I am, you need to stop taking your girlfriends for granted."
Travis shifted uncomfortably. "Dude, it's not that serious. Marcy doesn't mind?—"
"Marcy minds." Dean's laugh was bitter. "Trust me. She minds. She's just not saying anything because she loves you and she's hoping you'll figure it out on your own."
He thought about Fiona's family video calls, the ones he'd half-listened to while scrolling his phone. How many times had Emma and Marcy vented about their boyfriends' helplessness while Dean sat there thinking it was funny instead of infuriating?
How many times had he thought of himself as the perfect husband? What a joke that turned out to be.
"When's the last time you did something thoughtful for Emma?" Dean asked Milo. "And I don't mean flowers after you fucked up. I mean just because you love her."
Milo frowned. "I don't know. Her birthday?"
"Jesus Christ." Dean rubbed his forehead. "That's not thoughtful, that's the bare minimum. I'm talking about paying attention to what she actually wants. What she actually needs."
"Like what?"
Dean thought about Fiona. About the lemon shortbread he'd brought home that one time, how her face had lit up like he'd brought her diamonds.
"Like picking up her favorite coffee without being asked. Like listening when she tells you about her day and actually caring about the answer."
Travis was looking at him like he'd grown a second head. "You're acting like relationships are some kind of job."
"They are a job." Dean's voice was getting louder, drawing looks from other tables. "The best job you'll ever have, if you don't fuck it up. And you’ll want to show up. Every single day."
The men looked unconvinced. Dean sighed.
"Emma packs your lunches sometimes, right?" he asked Milo.
"Yeah, when she's making hers?—"
"When's the last time you packed hers?"
Silence.
"Marcy picks up your dry cleaning when she's getting her own stuff done?"
Travis nodded slowly.
"When's the last time you did something—anything—to make her life easier instead of expecting her to make yours easier?"
More silence.
Dean sat back in his chair. "I had the most generous, loving woman in the world. She would have done anything for me. And I turned her into a joke for strangers because I thought that was clever. Because I thought I was too good for the kind of love she was offering."
He thought about @shitfionasays. About choosing to document Fiona's vulnerabilities instead of protecting them. About treating her love like content instead of like the sacred thing it was.
"You think Fiona left me because of one mistake?" Dean said, his voice rough. "She left because I undermined her. Over and over. In ways I didn’t even notice until it was too late."
Milo and Travis stayed quiet. Watching. Waiting.
"I was supposed to protect her. Cherish her. Make her feel safe and seen and adored. That’s the bare minimum when you love someone like her. And I didn’t even clear that low bar."
He gave a bitter laugh, shaking his head.
"I made her a fucking punchline. Turned her into spectacle. I laughed with my friends while strangers mocked her in the comments—and she didn’t even know. Jesus."
He ran a hand over his face, like he could scrub the shame off.
Milo leaned back in his chair. "Why do you even care? You don't really know us."
Dean looked at him for a long moment. "Because Fiona cares. Emma's her sister, Marcy's her cousin. When they're happy, she's happy."
His voice went quiet, raw. "And all I want—all I live for now—is for Fiona to be happy."
The table went silent.
He looked at both of them.
He pulled out his wallet, threw cash on the table.
"Don't be me," he said, standing up. "Don't lose the best thing in your life because you were too stupid to recognize what you had."
He walked out of the restaurant, leaving them sitting there with their half-eaten pasta and their uncomfortable truths.
Outside, Dean took a deep breath of the cool evening air. Something that felt almost like satisfaction settled in his chest.
He couldn't protect Fiona anymore. Couldn't be there when she had a hard day or when some asshole parent crossed a line. Couldn't hold her when she was tired or celebrate with her when her students had breakthroughs.
But this? This he could do.
He could make sure the people she loved treated her family with the respect they deserved. He could plant seeds that would bloom into better relationships for Emma and Marcy—relationships that would make Fiona smile when she heard about them on family calls.
It wasn't much. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.
But it was something he could give her.
Dean rubbed his eyes and hit "save draft" for the fifth time that hour.
He used to be fast at this kind of thing. In his early twenties, he'd built entire websites from scratch. But that had been years ago. Long before the promotions. Long before the team.
Now he was a strategy guy—the one who pointed at mockups and said "make it look more premium" while junior designers did the actual work.
This time, he was doing it himself.
It was slow, frustrating work. His skills were rusty. Nothing he touched came out right the first time. But God help him, he was doing it .
Because this wasn’t for a client.
This was for Fiona.
And there was something… grounding in that. Something that tugged at a very old, very male part of him—provider, fixer, builder.
No one would see his name on it. Fiona might never know it came from him. But that wasn’t the point.
The point was that this work—the invisible kind, the kind no one noticed unless it was broken—would make her days a little easier.
Maybe a parent would finally find the school contact form without rage-clicking through dead links.
Maybe a grandparent could donate to her classroom without needing help.
Maybe the homepage would feel just a little less sad.
Maybe she'd smile.
That was enough.