37. Fiona
Fiona
Fiona was folding laundry in the guest room when she heard Emma's surprised laugh from the kitchen.
"You made reservations?" Emma's voice carried down the hall, bright with delight. "At Rosetti's? How did you even get a table there on a Friday?"
Milo's voice was warm, pleased with himself. "Figured it was time I took my girl somewhere nice."
Fiona smiled, setting down a stack of towels. Through the thin walls, she could hear the rustle of movement, Emma probably doing that little bounce she did when she was excited about something.
"You don't have to dress up or anything," Milo continued, "but if you want to wear that blue dress—the one you wore to your cousin's wedding—I wouldn't complain."
"You remember that dress?" Emma's voice went soft.
"Course I remember. You looked incredible."
Fiona felt her chest warm as Emma's footsteps hurried toward her bedroom. A moment later, Emma appeared in the doorway, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
"He made reservations," Emma said, like she was announcing a miracle. "Actual reservations. At the place I mentioned wanting to try like two months ago."
"That's wonderful," Fiona said, genuinely happy. "When's the last time you two went on a real date?"
Emma paused, thinking. "Honestly? I don't think we ever have. Not really. We just... hang out. Order takeout. Watch Netflix." She shook her head, grinning. "I don't know what's gotten into him, but I'm not complaining."
She disappeared into her closet, emerging with the blue dress Milo had mentioned. "Think this is too much?"
"It's perfect," Fiona said. "You look beautiful in that color."
Emma held the dress up to herself in the mirror, smoothing the fabric. "I forgot what it felt like, you know? Being excited about getting dressed up for someone. Having plans that require more effort than putting on sweatpants."
Fiona watched her sister's reflection, remembering that feeling. The flutter of anticipation when Dean used to take her to gallery openings or work events. Back when she'd thought he was proud to have her on his arm instead of wincing at her social missteps.
"You deserve this," Fiona said softly. "You deserve someone who makes an effort."
Emma caught her eye in the mirror. "You deserve it too, you know."
"I know," Fiona said, though the words felt hollow. "Someday."
Emma turned around, dress still clutched to her chest. "Fi, I don't want you to think—just because Milo's finally stepping up doesn't mean I'm going to abandon you here. You know that, right?"
"Em." Fiona stood up, reaching for her sister's hand. "Go. Have fun. Eat delicious food and let him pull out your chair and tell you you're beautiful. You've earned this."
Emma squeezed her fingers. "I love you."
"I love you too. Now go get ready before he changes his mind."
Emma laughed and headed for the bathroom. Fiona could hear her humming as she turned on the shower—actually humming, like she couldn't contain her happiness.
Fiona went back to folding laundry, listening to the sounds of her sister getting ready for a real date. The blow dryer, the clink of jewelry, the spray of perfume. Small sounds that meant someone was being cherished.
When Emma emerged an hour later, she looked radiant. The blue dress fit perfectly, her hair was loose and soft around her shoulders, and she was wearing the smile of a woman who felt beautiful.
"How do I look?" Emma asked, spinning once.
"Like Milo's the luckiest man alive," Fiona said.
And as she watched her sister float out the door on Milo's arm—she felt pure, uncomplicated happiness for someone she loved.
It was enough. For tonight, it was enough.
The multipurpose room was already buzzing when Fiona clipped her name badge to her cardigan. Posters lined the walls, each one proudly scrawled with crooked letters and glitter glue. A table near the door was stacked with handouts and sign-in sheets.
She took a deep breath. Smiled. This was her domain. Organized chaos, overachieving poster boards, the faint scent of dry-erase markers—home.
Parents and community members filtered in slowly—some wide-eyed, some bored, a few clearly there only out of obligation. She floated from one conversation to the next, talking curriculum, reading levels, class field trips.
She was mid-sentence with a kind-looking mom when a too-familiar voice cut through the crowd.
“Well, well. Look who’s running the show.”
Fiona’s stomach dipped.
She turned slowly.
Troy Granger. Dark blazer, button-down open at the neck, like he was dressing for a date rather than a school event.
“Mr. Granger,” she said evenly.
He held up his hands, mock-innocent. “Right. Forgot we’re being professional .”
The mom beside her drifted away nervously, sensing the shift.
“I’m here for Marcus,” Troy said. “Just being a supportive dad. You know how it is.”
His eyes skimmed over her. “You look good.”
Fiona forced herself to stay calm. “There are sign-in sheets by the table if you want to fill one out.”
He leaned in slightly. “You always this frosty with the other parents, or just the ones who ask you out?”
Before Fiona could respond, another voice—quiet, firm, unmistakably male—cut in behind her.
“She said no.”
Troy straightened. His eyes flicked past her shoulder. “And you are?”
Dean stepped up beside her, holding a tablet under one arm like he’d just come from setting up the projector. He didn’t look angry. Just solid. Steady.
Fiona’s breath caught. She hadn’t even realized he was here.
“I’m the guy who’s going to tell you one more time to walk away,” Dean said evenly. “And after that I’m going to stop being polite about it.”
Troy gave a half-laugh, half-scoff. “Jesus. What, are you her bodyguard now?”
“No,” Dean said. “Just someone who respects her boundaries. You should try it sometime.”
Something in his tone—low, even, unimpressed—made Troy finally pause. He glanced back at Fiona, like he expected her to step in.
She didn’t.
She just crossed her arms. “You can find Marcus’s project on the back wall. You’ll need to move along now.”
Troy’s mouth twisted, but he must’ve seen the writing on the wall. “Whatever. I can do better than some fat teacher , anyway.”
And with that, he turned and stalked off down the row of folding chairs, muttering under his breath.
Fiona exhaled. Her hands were shaking, just a little.
Dean turned to her, his voice low. “I know that wasn’t my place.”
She stared at him for a beat, unsure what to say.
Then he added , “Thank you for letting me do that.”
She blinked. “Letting you?”
“I know you didn’t need me,” he said quietly. “But it meant something to be the one who told him to fuck off.”
Fiona’s heart thudded, confused and full.
He wasn’t gloating. He wasn’t trying to win points.
He was just… grateful.
“Okay,” she said softly. “You’re welcome, I guess.”
Dean gave a small nod. Didn’t linger. Just stepped back toward the tech table like it was any other school night. Like he was just part of the support crew.
Fiona stood there a second longer, staring after him.
The road home was quiet, lit only by scattered streetlamps and the muted glow of her headlights.
The night replayed in loops. The way Dean had stepped forward. The way he hadn't made a scene. The way he'd said thank you for letting him defend her.
He’d just stood beside her and told a man to back off, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like of course he’d do that. Like of course she deserved that.
She blinked, trying to refocus on the road.
He had been in her space. Quiet. Supportive. No condescension.
And she didn’t know what to do with that.
She knew what he really thought about the career. She knew he thought of her as a joke.
She pressed her lips together, fingers tightening on the steering wheel.
What if he’s changed?
What did that mean? For their marriage?
Was it too late?
Was it enough?
Did it change anything?
She swallowed the tight ache in her throat. The divorce was still happening. She was building something new. A life without him in it. A life that was finally her own.
She exhaled shakily and turned onto the familiar back road that led to Emma’s place. The stars were bright above her. The night was still.
She didn’t have answers yet. Just the weight of questions pressing against her ribs.