49. Fiona
Fiona
Fiona's hands gripped the steering wheel as she pulled away from the apartment—away from Dean standing under the streetlight, watching her go.
She pressed her fingers to her mouth, still able to taste him there.
What had she done?
The city lights blurred past her windows as she navigated toward the highway, sense memory guiding her through familiar streets while her mind reeled.
Years, decades.
The certainty in his voice when he'd said it made her chest tight. He meant it. He was going to fight for her, whether she wanted him to or not.
And suddenly, anger flared hot and bright in her chest.
How dare he.
How dare he touch her like that, make her feel beautiful and desired and precious, then act like it erased everything else. Like a handful of spectacular orgasms somehow balanced the scales of two years of public humiliation.
Her grip tightened on the steering wheel.
He'd had the audacity to kiss her in that parking lot and declare his intentions like she was some prize to be won back through sheer determination.
Like her forgiveness was inevitable if he just tried hard enough.
The highway stretched ahead of her, dark and endless. She'd driven this route so many times now, but tonight felt different.
The irony was almost laughable. He was promising transparency now, after years of documenting her private moments for strangers to mock. After letting twenty-three thousand people laugh at her while she trusted him completely.
But God, the way he'd touched her...
She’d wanted to have sex. Hot, emotionless sex wouldn’t have been a problem. But her body remembered him. Remembered being safe in his arms, being cherished, being loved. It didn't care about social media accounts or betrayal or the careful walls she'd built around her heart.
Her body just wanted him back.
The exit for Sweetwater appeared ahead, and Fiona signaled, following the familiar curve of the off-ramp. Almost home. Almost back to the safety of Emma's guest room, where she could think clearly without Dean's hands on her skin and his promises in her ears.
I love you, Fiona. That's never going to change.
Neither, she was afraid, would the way her heart had responded when he'd said it.
Even though it should have. Even though she should have laughed in his face and told him that love didn't humiliate. Love didn't betray. Love didn't mock.
Fiona pushed through the front door with more force than necessary, keys clattering as she dropped them in the bowl by the entrance.
"Hey, Fi!" Emma called from the living room. "How did it?—"
"Fine," Fiona said briskly, not slowing down as she passed the couch where Emma and Milo were "watching TV.
" She deliberately didn't look too closely at Milo's hand, which was definitely positioned somewhere it shouldn't be if they were actually paying attention to whatever was on the screen.
Emma's cheeks were flushed, her hair slightly mussed.
"I'm just going to—" Fiona gestured vaguely toward the guest room and kept walking, hoping they'd get the hint that she didn't want to talk.
She made it to the guest room, closed the door behind her, and stood there for a minute before the walls started closing in. The silence was too loud. Her skin still felt like it was humming from Dean's touch, and her mind was a chaotic mess of anger and confusion and want.
She turned around and marched back to the living room.
Emma and Milo sprung apart like teenagers caught by parents, both of them staring at the TV with suspicious intensity.
"He kissed me," Fiona blurted out. "Dean. He kissed me and he—" She stopped, heat flooding her cheeks. "We... had sex. And then he made me dinner. And then he kissed me again and told me he's going to make me trust him again and that he's going to fight for me for years, decades if necessary."
Emma's mouth fell open.
"And I'm furious," Fiona continued, her voice getting louder. "I'm furious because he thinks—what? That because he gave me a few orgasms, suddenly everything's fine? That I'm just going to forget two years of public humiliation because he's good with his mouth?”
Milo shifted uncomfortably, clearly wishing he was anywhere else.
"But I'm also—" Fiona's voice cracked. "God, Emma, I miss him. I love him. How can I be so stupid? Even knowing what he did, even knowing I can't trust him, my stupid heart just?—"
"Okay, okay," Emma said, standing up. "Milo, tea. Make tea for all of us."
"On it," Milo said, practically fleeing to the kitchen.
"And stay!" Emma called after him. "We need your input!"
"Do we though?" came Milo's voice from the kitchen.
"Yes!" both women said at the same time.
Fiona collapsed onto the couch, burying her face in her hands. "I'm an idiot. I'm a complete and total idiot."
"You're not an idiot," Emma said firmly, sitting beside her. "You're human. And you loved him."
"I still love him," Fiona whispered. "That's the problem."
"Post it," Emma said, refilling Fiona's wine glass with the kind of determination that came after the second bottle had been opened. "Seriously, Fi. Post it."
"I can't post that," Fiona laughed, but her thumb was already hovering over her phone screen. The draft post glowed up at her, three paragraphs of wine-fueled honesty that she'd never intended to write.
"Why not?" Milo asked from his spot on the floor, where he'd migrated after Emma had commandeered his corner of the couch. "It's your account. Your life."
"Because it's..." Fiona gestured helplessly at the screen. "It's too much. Too honest."
"That's exactly why you should post it," Emma said firmly. "When has being honest ever been wrong for you?"
Fiona reread the words she'd written:
Sometimes the person who broke your heart shows up and reminds you why you fell for them in the first place. Sometimes your body remembers being safe before your brain remembers being hurt. Sometimes forgiveness feels like the stupidest and smartest thing you could do, all at the same time.
I don't have answers. I just have questions and wine and the unsettling realization that healing isn't linear. That moving on doesn't always move in straight lines.
To everyone else figuring it out as they go: you're not alone in the mess.
"It's too personal," Fiona said, even as part of her ached to share it. Her followers had been with her through the divorce, through building her new life. Maybe they deserved to know she was human enough to stumble backward sometimes.
"Your entire account is personal," Milo pointed out. "That's why people follow you."
Emma leaned over to read the draft again. "This is beautiful, Fi. And it's real. This is just... you."
Fiona stared at the words on her screen. Her words. Her truth. Her choice to share or not share.
"What if people judge me?" she asked quietly.
"Let them," Emma said fiercely. "The people who matter will understand that love is complicated and messy and that good people sometimes make choices that don't look perfect from the outside."
Fiona's finger hovered over the post button.
"You know what?" she said, surprising herself. "Fuck it."
She hit post.