57. Fiona
Fiona
The phone buzzed on the counter as Fiona dried her hands on a dishtowel. Her heart gave a traitorous little jump when she saw Dean’s name on the screen.
She hesitated before answering—just long enough to remind herself that she didn’t owe him anything.
But curiosity was a powerful thing.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” Dean said, his voice low and a little breathless, like he’d been working up the courage to call for twenty minutes. “Sorry if this is a bad time.”
“It’s fine,” she said, even though her pulse had already picked up.
“I was wondering…” He trailed off, then regrouped. “Would you meet me? Just for a few minutes. I want to show you something.”
She leaned against the counter, keeping her voice steady. “What kind of something?”
“A good something,” he said quickly. “Nothing heavy. Just—something I put together. Something I want you to have. No pressure.”
Fiona swallowed. “Where?”
There was a pause, and then: “That bar on Eighth.”
She blinked. That bar. Their bar. The one they used to walk to after long workdays, tucked into a booth with fries between them and his knee touching hers.
Convenient, she thought automatically. Easy for her to get to.
Used to be easy for both of them.
“I know it’s last-minute,” he added. “But… I’ll be there at seven. If you want to come.”
Fiona didn’t answer right away.
Dean rushed to fill the silence. “It’s not a date. I mean—obviously. It’s not a date.” Then, softer, almost a whisper: “Even though I wish it was.”
Fiona closed her eyes. She could feel the warmth of his voice in her chest, the weight of everything unsaid between them pressing down like weather.
“Okay,” she said finally. “I’ll come by. For a little while.”
“Yeah?” His voice lifted in something like hope.
“For a little while,” she repeated.
There was a pause. “Thank you, Fiona.”
She hung up before she could say you’re welcome —before she could let herself mean it.
She turned back toward the kitchen and braced her hands on the sink, staring out at the early evening sky.
Their bar. Her apartment. Her life.
But maybe, just maybe, there was room in it to hear him out—one last time.