40. Dean
Dean
"June pack that for you?" Dean asked, settling into the uncomfortable plastic chair in the break room.
"Every morning for twelve years," Russell said with obvious pride. "Turkey and Swiss today. She writes little notes sometimes."
He showed Dean a piece of paper tucked inside the wrapper: Don't let the idiots get you down. Love you.
Fiona had packed him notes once. The memory made his chest ache. “That's nice," he managed.
Russell studied his face. "You look like hell, if you don't mind me saying."
Dean laughed bitterly. "That's because I am hell. Or at least I'm living in it."
"Want to talk about it?"
Dean stared down at his hands. Once Russell knew what a piece of shit he was, he wouldn’t want to keep eating lunch with Dean.
"I destroyed my marriage," Dean said quietly.
Russell waited.
"I took the woman I loved—the kindest, most genuine person I've ever known—and I served her up to wolves," Dean said, his voice cracking. "I let twenty-three thousand strangers laugh at her."
He told Russell everything. The social media account.
The posts that made Fiona look naive and childish.
The comments he'd encouraged. The way he’d let his so-called friends drag her down.
That he’d taken her to dinner parties at their houses, let her make small talk with people who'd been mocking her for years.
Russell had stopped eating halfway through Dean's confession.
"Jesus, Dean."
A silence bloomed between them. Not awkward—just heavy. Loaded.
Then Russell said, flatly: “You mocked her publicly. For your entire marriage.”
Dean didn’t look up. “Yeah.”
“You brought her to dinners with the same people who laughed at her online?”
“Yes.”
“Sat next to her while your friends ripped her apart and you said nothing?”
Dean nodded, throat too tight to speak.
Russell shook his head, biting back something angry. “You know, I’ve worked with some selfish bastards in my time. But that’s a new level.”
Dean didn’t argue. He let the disgust settle over him.
He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "She filed for divorce. And you know what she asked for? Nothing. Not the apartment, not alimony, not a fucking dime. She just wanted to be free of me."
Russell was quiet for a long moment, sandwich forgotten.
"I don't deserve her back,” Dean said. "I never deserved her in the first place."
Dean's voice got rougher. "I'm so fucked up, Russell. I had the most genuine, loving woman in the world, and I lost her. I thought I was so smart but all I was was stupid.”
Russell looked at him for a long time.
“You’re the dumbest man I’ve ever met.”
Dean looked down. “I don’t expect her to ever forgive me.”
“Good. Because you don’t get to expect a damn thing from her.” Russell’s voice was hard.
Dean was quiet.
Russell’s expression was hard. "You know what June would say about all this?"
"That I'm a piece of shit?"
Russell smiled without any humor. "Well, probably. But she'd also say that a man who can see his own ugliness that clearly might have a chance at becoming someone better."
Russell groaned. He stood up, gathering his lunch. "Come to dinner tonight."
Dean stared at him.
Russell paused at the door. "Seven o'clock. And Dean? Bring flowers. June likes daisies."
Dean was going to meet Russell’s June tonight. He was going to see a marriage that had lasted for decades, just as his own was imploding.
He sat in the conference room, the scent of overpriced espresso and ego thick in the air. The screen glowed with a half-finished presentation, slides slick with buzzwords: “Disruption,” “Synergy,” “Brand Fluency.”
He didn’t speak just to hear himself anymore. That alone already made today feel different.
Richard leaned forward at the head of the table. “So. Let’s talk rollout. I want campaign concepts on the table. Jared, Roxanne—you’re up.”
Jared launched into something bloated and expensive, involving influencer tie-ins with a moody, cinematic ad spot she said would “evoke a post-capitalist yearning for connection.” Whatever the hell that meant. He used to fake understanding. He used to want them to think he was cool.
He hated himself.
Richard nodded along, impressed by the pitch. “Okay. Dean?”
Dean cleared his throat. “I have a simpler option.”
Roxanne didn’t hide her smirk. Jared actually sighed. Richard just raised an eyebrow.
He used to be one of them. Smug. Shallow. God, he used to think this room mattered.
Now he just wanted to scrub himself out of every memory where he’d cut his wife’s accomplishments down.
Dean continued. “Instead of trying to make the brand cooler than it is, we lean into what it already does well: reliability, low cost, no frills. We roll out a regional print-and-radio campaign targeted at small towns and mid-size cities—places where people actually use this product. Emphasize longevity. Practicality. Stability.”
Jared blinked. “Print? Like… printed mail?”
“It’s not flashy,” Dean admitted. “But it’s cost-effective. We could cover three times the market for a third of the price. And these consumers don’t want aspirational—they want useful.”
Silence.
Then Richard leaned back, one eyebrow raised. “That’s… actually smart.”
Roxanne made a face. “But it’s not exciting. There’s no narrative.”
“There’s no waste either,” Dean replied, keeping his tone even. “And it meets the client’s actual goals.”
Jared muttered something under his breath about “billboard beige.”
Dean didn’t care.
For the first time in years, he didn’t care if it won an award. He wasn’t here to impress other ad execs at a conference. He wasn’t chasing applause.
He was chasing something tangible. He was chasing function.
He was chasing Fiona.
Richard scratched his jaw, looking thoughtful. “Put it into a proposal. I want numbers.”
Dean nodded. “You’ll have it by end of day.”
As the meeting ended, Jared and Roxanne left in a huff of vintage perfume and passive aggression. Dean stayed behind, packing up his notes in silence.
Richard paused on his way out. “Didn’t think you had that kind of idea in you,” he said. “Solid work.”
Dean looked up, smiled faintly. “Just trying something new. Thought I’d focus on being good instead of being clever.”
Richard gave a thoughtful nod and left.
Dean stayed seated for a moment longer, staring at his coffee.
He wasn’t trying to be someone anymore. He was trying to do something that mattered.
And for once, that felt better than praise ever had.