51. Fiona
Fiona
"Special delivery," the secretary said with a knowing smile, holding out a small white bakery box tied with ribbon.
Fiona looked up from her desk, squinting slightly against the fluorescent lights. Her head was pounding from too much wine and too little sleep, and she'd already downed two cups of coffee trying to feel human again.
"For me?" she asked, her voice rougher than usual.
"From a very handsome man who clearly adores you," the secretary said, setting the box down carefully. "Dark hair, expensive suit, looked like he hadn't slept much but was trying to hide it."
Fiona's stomach flipped—whether from the hangover or recognition, she couldn't tell. Dean.
She untied the ribbon with shaking fingers, already knowing what she'd find inside. Lemon shortbread cookies from the bakery near their—his—apartment. The ones he'd brought home that first time, watching her face light up as she bit into the buttery, citrusy perfection.
The small card tucked under the ribbon made her chest tight: These made you smile once. I hope they can again. -D
"He's persistent, I'll give him that," the secretary said, clearly settling in for gossip. "Though I have to say, between the cookies and the classroom donation, he's certainly committed to making you happy."
Fiona's headache suddenly got worse. "What?"
"The anonymous donation? A few weeks back?" The secretary looked confused by Fiona's expression. "That was him. Same man, different day. Came in with a check and very specific instructions that it all go to your classroom."
The room tilted sideways, and Fiona gripped the edge of her desk to steady herself.
Dean. The anonymous donor who'd made it possible for her students to have proper supplies, to do real science experiments, to feel the wonder of discovery—that had been Dean.
Fiona stared down at the cookies, her mind reeling through her hangover fog.
While she'd been struggling to buy whiteboard markers with her grocery money, Dean had been quietly ensuring her classroom was fully funded.
While she'd been grateful to some mysterious benefactor, he'd been the one making sure her students could learn properly.
"Are you alright, dear?" The secretary asked. "You look a little pale."
"I'm fine," Fiona managed, though she felt anything but. "Just... surprised."
And hungover. And completely overwhelmed by the realization that Dean had been taking care of her world even when she'd shut him out of it completely.
Fiona zipped the second suitcase and sat back on her heels with a sigh. “That’s it,” she said, gesturing at the two modestly full bags beside her. “This is the grand total of what I’m taking back.”
Emma leaned in the doorway of the guest room, cradling a mug of coffee and raising an eyebrow. “You sure that’s everything? You’ve been living here for almost two months.”
Fiona smiled faintly, tugging at a loose thread on her sweatshirt. “It’s just clothes and toiletries. Everything else is already at the apartment.”
Marcy flopped onto the edge of the bed, narrowly avoiding the suitcase. “Well, we’re still here. Moral support and all that.”
“Also because Emma promised muffins,” Travis added from the hallway, holding up a Tupperware container. “Which, incidentally, are amazing.”
“Those are for after the heavy lifting,” Emma scolded, but her smile was fond.
“There is no heavy lifting,” Fiona reminded them, standing up. “Two suitcases. That’s it. This is a ceremonial move at best.”
“But it’s still a big deal,” Milo said from his perch by the window. “You’re going back. That’s not nothing.”
Fiona hesitated, her gaze flicking between the bags and the familiar walls of Emma’s house. It was a big deal. She’d told herself it wasn’t—that it was just practical, just the next step. But her chest was tight in a way that had nothing to do with logistics.
“It doesn’t feel like I’m moving home,” she admitted quietly. “Just… toward something I’m not totally sure of yet.”
Marcy stood up and wrapped her in a hug without asking. “That’s okay. You don’t have to be sure. You just have to know you’re allowed to try.”
Fiona closed her eyes, breathing in the comforting scent of Marcy’s shampoo. “Thanks.”
“Plus,” Emma added, stepping forward and hugging her from the other side, “you’re not doing it alone.”
Travis and Milo exchanged a look and then stepped in too, awkwardly forming a mismatched group hug that somehow felt exactly right. Fiona laughed softly, caught somewhere between touched and overwhelmed.
Travis hoisted her second suitcase into the trunk with a grunt, slamming it closed with exaggerated flair.
"Jesus, what did you pack in here? Bricks?" he said, wiping his hands on his jeans.
"Two sweaters and a lifetime of bad decisions," Fiona replied, managing a small smile.
"Well, this should make Marcy happy.”
Fiona blinked. "Excuse me?"
Travis shrugged, leaning against the car. "Y'know. Moving back. Feels like progress. Maybe a new start. I don't know. Dean says if Emma and Marcy are happy, that makes you happy, and I think that means if you’re happy, Marcy's happy?—"
Fiona's eyes narrowed. "Dean says what now?"
Travis tilted his head, as he realized what he'd just said. He lifted his hands like he was surrendering. "Nothing. Just—guy talk. Not important."
"Travis." Her voice carried the same tone she used with her fifth-graders when they were caught passing notes.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Okay, okay. He may have... strongly encouraged Milo and me to get our acts together. Gave us this whole lecture about treating our girlfriends better. There might've been threats. Or at least very intense eye contact."
Fiona felt something cold settle in her stomach. "He talked to you. For me."
"Look, he didn't yell or anything," Travis said quickly. "He just made it really clear that if we didn't treat Emma and Marcy right, you'd be unhappy. And he didn't want that. He really didn’t want that.”
The breeze rustled the leaves around them as Fiona processed this. Dean had intervened in her family's relationships. Had sat down with Travis and Milo and essentially coached them on how to be better boyfriends.
She couldn't make sense of it—this Dean who orchestrated happiness behind the scenes and the Dean who had thought her job, her feelings, her whole philosophy of life were silly.
How could the same person who had felt that way also care so deeply about her family's wellbeing that he'd intervene on her behalf?
"He did that?" she asked quietly.
"Yeah. But it wasn't about winning you back or anything like that. It was just… trying to make sure you were happy. In his weird, intense way." Travis studied her face. "Are you mad?"
Fiona stared at the ground, her thoughts spinning. All those improvements she'd noticed—Travis recording the game for dinner with Marcy, Milo being more attentive to Emma. She'd thought they were just growing up, becoming better partners naturally.
But Dean had orchestrated it. Had seen what would make her happy and quietly worked to make it happen, even knowing she might never find out it was him.
"I don't know," she said honestly, looking back up at Travis. "But thank you for telling me. Even if you didn't mean to."
Travis grimaced. "Happy accidents. I'm full of 'em."
He opened her car door with an exaggerated bow, and she climbed in, her heart feeling both heavier and lighter than it had all day.
As she drove away, she couldn't stop thinking about Dean sitting across from Travis and Milo, passionately defending her happiness to men he barely knew, asking for nothing in return except the knowledge that the people she loved would be taken care of.
She couldn't reconcile these two versions of the man she'd married—the one who had humiliated her and the one who was apparently devoted to her wellbeing from the shadows.
The door clicked open with a familiar creak.
She stood there for a long moment, her suitcases just behind her, staring into the quiet apartment like it might speak first.
The soft hush of the place pressed in around her. Not silent, exactly—just still. Like it was waiting.
She stepped inside.
This had once been their home. Their couch. Their bookshelf. Their mismatched mugs. Every corner was saturated with memory—some soft and golden, some that made her want to flinch.
The entry table was exactly as she remembered it. The ceramic bowl sat in its usual spot, half-full with keys she didn’t need anymore. But next to it—her wedding ring.
She stared at it.
The ring gleamed in the low light. Innocent. Unchanged. Waiting.
She remembered the way she’d pressed it into his palm. Her fingers had been shaking, but her voice had been steady. She’d meant it. Letting go of that ring had been an act of survival. Of reclaiming something for herself.
She didn’t touch it.
Instead, Fiona dragged her suitcases inside and shut the door behind her, sealing herself back into the place that used to be theirs. She rolled the bags into their bedroom—no, her bedroom now. He had left. This was her space.
Still, the last time she’d stood in this room, she’d had Dean’s hands on her hips, his voice rough in her ear, her name like a vow. She had told him it didn’t change anything. She’d meant it.
And yet…
She sat on the edge of the bed. The sheets were fresh, cool against her palms.
It felt like the apartment itself had been wrapped up and offered to her. Not a bribe. Not a ploy. Just a place where she could live in peace.
Fiona stood up and walked back into the living room, then to the kitchen. Everything was in its place. Her mugs were stacked neatly. A fresh box of her favorite tea sat on the counter.
He’d made it ready for her. Like she still mattered. Like her comfort still mattered.
But did that make up for the rest? For the betrayal? For the laughter with his terrible friends? For the way he’d made her into a joke?
Fiona leaned against the counter, her arms folded tight around her chest.
Dean had humiliated her. But he’d also funded her classroom. Spoken with Travis and Milo. Given up his apartment. Shown her how desirable she was.
It didn’t undo what he’d done.
But it complicated it.
She glanced toward the entry table again.
The ring sat where she’d left it. Still. Waiting.
She was divorcing the man who had shown his contempt for her. That was the right thing to do. So why did it feel like her heart was breaking all over again?