60. Dean
Dean
Dean sat at his desk, scrolling through his email inbox.
“If I let you close again...”
If.
She hadn’t said no. Hadn’t walked out or told him to leave her alone. It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t a promise.
But it was something.
Dean held onto that if like it was a lit match in the dark. One spark, one maybe. One glorious, unbearable sliver of possibility.
In the too-bright office, his inbox was a graveyard.
Three meeting invitations from last week had been mysteriously "updated"—his name removed from the attendee list. The campaign he'd been slated to lead had been reassigned to Jared. His access to the high-profile client channels had quietly disappeared.
Six months ago, this would have sent him spiraling. The politics, the power plays, the ego-wars—they’d once meant everything.
Now?
Dean glanced at his phone, checking his banking app.
His direct deposit had cleared this morning.
Enough to cover his modest expenses at Russell and June's, plus the automatic transfer to Fiona's account.
The monthly amount that ensured she never had to worry about rent, groceries, or whether her classroom would have supplies.
That was what mattered.
"Dean." Richard appeared at his cubicle, holding a slim folder. "I've got an account for you. Local chain, looking to refresh their radio spots."
Dean knew what this was - busy work. The kind of small, unglamorous account they gave to people they were quietly managing out. Six months ago, he would have seen it as an insult, evidence that his star was falling.
"Sounds good," Dean said, taking the folder. "When do they need the proposal?"
Richard blinked, clearly expecting pushback. "End of week?"
"No problem."
After Richard left, Dean opened the folder. Peterson Hardware had been in business for forty years. Family-owned. Three locations serving small towns within an hour of the city. Their current radio ads were earnest, straightforward - a man's voice talking about quality tools and honest service.
Dean smiled. This he could work with.
He thought about Fiona's classroom, about the bulletin boards she decorated with construction paper affirmations. About the way she'd light up when talking about a student's breakthrough. There was no irony in what she did, no cynical distance. Just genuine belief that her work mattered.
Maybe that's what Peterson Hardware needed too. Not clever wordplay or aspirational lifestyle messaging. Just honesty. Just the truth about what they offered - reliable tools for people who built things, fixed things, made things work.
"How's the mighty fallen," came a voice behind him.
Dean turned. Cam stood there with his arms crossed, that familiar smirk playing at his lips.
“Local hardware?" Cam continued. "Rough landing, man. From luxury cars to... what, screwdrivers?"
"Actually," Dean said, closing the folder, "I'm looking forward to it."
Cam's smirk faltered slightly. "Seriously?"
"Yeah. These people have been serving their community for forty years. That's more authentic than anything we've worked on recently."
"Jesus, you really have lost it." Cam shook his head. "This martyr act isn't a good look, Dean. Roxanne was right - you're making a mistake."
Dean leaned back in his chair, studying Cam's face. This man's approval had once mattered to him. This whole crowd's approval had mattered. He'd shaped himself around their expectations, their definition of success.
"The only mistake I made," Dean said quietly, "was thinking any of this mattered more than going home to someone who loved me."
Cam's expression shifted, something uncomfortable flickering behind his eyes. "Come on, man. Don't tell me you're still hung up on?—"
"Her name is Fiona," Dean interrupted. "And yes, I'm still hung up on my wife. I'll always be hung up on my wife."
Dean turned back to his computer and started typing notes about Peterson Hardware. Honest work for honest people. No awards, no industry recognition, no bragging rights at rooftop bars.
Just enough income to keep taking care of the woman he'd failed, in the only way she'd let him.
It was the best work he'd done in years.
Dean stood at the kitchen counter in Russell and June’s house, making dinner for the couple who had taken him in without judgment.
He was slicing basil when his phone buzzed.
Dean stared at the message for a long time. It didn’t hurt the way he’d expected — no sharp sting, no cinematic crash. Just a quiet sinking. Like gravity remembering him.
He walked back to the stove and turned off the burner. The sauce kept bubbling for a few seconds before settling. The kitchen was suddenly too quiet.
He sat at the table, phone still in his hand. Scrolled back up. Read it again.
The divorce paperwork had been filed.
He leaned back in the chair and stared at nothing in particular.
His thumb brushed the edge of the phone absently.
He thought of their wedding.
He’d been such an idiot.
He’d hired the trendiest planner he could find—some high-demand boutique team with a waitlist and a signature aesthetic. It had all been sleek and editorial and nothing like Fiona. Minimalist florals, industrial edge, place cards written in gold.
Fiona had smiled through it, because of course she had. Because she didn’t ask for much. Because she thought the point was marrying him, not curating a mood board.
At the time, he’d told himself he was uplifting her. That he was giving her the best.
What he’d actually done was make the day about himself. About how it looked. About how it read to other people. Not about how it felt to her.
If he could marry her again?—
Christ . His whole body reacted just to the idea of it.
His throat tightened, his chest burned. He’d never understood the phrase until now—wanting something so badly it hurt. It was an ache that lived in the bone.
If he could marry her again, it would be in her parents’ backyard. String lights and paper flowers. Lemonade in pitchers. Decorations made by her class of fifth graders.
He sat there, holding the phone.
He had signed the papers. He’d made the bank transfer. He’d let her go the way she asked.
He was no longer Fiona’s husband. She was no longer his wife.