Chapter 6 — Zoe #2
"I need time." He looks at Dean. "I need time to process that Perry's dead. That I lost one brother yesterday. That I might be losing another one today. I need time to figure out if I can look at you across the table at church and not feel like you lied to me for years."
"I never lied."
"Omission is still lying." Dad's voice is tired now. Defeated. "You kept something from me that you knew would matter. That's a lie by another name."
Dean doesn't argue. Just nods.
Dad looks at both of us. "I want you to leave now. I can't do this anymore today."
"Are we still brothers?" Dean asks. The question is quiet but it cuts through everything else.
Dad is quiet for a long time. "Ask me after Perry's funeral. After I've had time to grieve one loss before I decide if I'm taking on another."
The finality in his voice makes it hard to breathe.
Dean nods once. Takes my hand. "Come on."
I stand on shaking legs. Let him pull me toward the door. At the threshold I look back.
"I love you," I say to my father.
He doesn't respond. Just stands in the middle of his living room with his arms crossed and his face carved from stone.
We walk out.
The door closes behind us with a soft click that sounds impossibly loud.
In Dean's truck neither of us speaks for two blocks. Then I start crying. Not quiet tears this time. Full sobs that shake my whole body.
Dean pulls over. Puts the truck in park. Reaches across and pulls me into his arms as much as the center console allows.
I cry into his shoulder while he holds me. His hand in my hair. His other arm tight around my back.
"I'm sorry," I say when I can finally speak. "I'm so sorry."
"For what?"
"For ruining your friendship. For making you choose. For—"
"Stop." He pulls back enough to look at me. Uses his thumbs to wipe my tears. "You didn't make me choose anything. I chose you. On my own. Knowing what it would cost."
"He's your best friend."
"And you're the woman I love. Both of those things can be true."
"What if he never forgives you?"
Dean is quiet for a moment, and I see the pain flicker across his face. "Then I'll have to live with that. But I'm not living without you. Not anymore."
The certainty in his voice steadies something in me.
"Do you regret it?" I ask. "Any of it?"
"No." He kisses my forehead. "I'd do it all again. The only thing I regret is that I can't make this easier for you."
"It's not supposed to be easy."
"No. I guess not."
He pulls back onto the road. The rest of the drive is quiet. When we reach his house—our house, I'm starting to think of it—he kills the engine but doesn't move.
"Perry's funeral is Tuesday," he says. "Your dad will be there. I'll be there. It's going to be hard."
"I know."
"He might not talk to me. Might not even look at me."
"I know that too."
"Are you still okay with this? Knowing what it's costing?"
I look at him. At the lines around his eyes. The scar through his eyebrow. The gray in his hair at his temples. The evidence of forty years lived hard.
"Yeah," I say. "I'm still okay with it."
We go inside together.
Dean heads for the kitchen. Pulls out eggs and bread without asking if I'm hungry. The domesticity of it—him knowing I need to eat even when I don't want to, him moving around his kitchen making breakfast for us—makes my throat tight all over again.
I sit at the table and watch him crack eggs into a pan. Watch him butter toast. Watch him move with the efficient grace of someone who's been taking care of himself for a long time and is just starting to learn how to take care of someone else too.
He brings two plates to the table. Scrambled eggs and toast. Simple. Perfect.
We eat in silence. His foot hooks around my ankle under the table. The touch is casual but grounding.
After, we clean up together. He washes. I dry. Our rhythm is already established even though we've only been doing this for two days.
When the kitchen is clean he pulls me against his chest. His heartbeat is steady under my ear.
"What are you thinking?" he asks.
"That my cat is still at my apartment and I haven't checked on him in two days."
Dean's chest rumbles with quiet laughter. "That's what you're thinking about?"
"Hamlet needs food. And his litter box is probably disgusting."
"We can go get him. Bring him here."
The casual way he says it—like of course my cat would come here, like of course this is where I live now—makes something settle in my chest.
"What if he doesn't like it here?" I ask.
"Then we'll figure it out. But he's part of the package. Where you go, he goes."
I tilt my head back to look at him. "You're really okay with this? Me basically moving in after three days?"
"You're already here. Might as well make it official."
"What about my lease?"
"We'll handle it. Break it or sublet it or keep it until it runs out. Whatever you need."
"And if my dad never comes around? If choosing me means losing him?"
Dean cups my face. His palms are rough against my skin. "Then I lose him. But I don't lose you. That's the choice I made and I'm not taking it back."
"Even if it hurts?"
"Even then."
I kiss him. Hard and desperate. Trying to convey everything I don't have words for.
When I pull back I say, "I need to tell you something."
"Okay."
"I was scared when you left last night. More scared than I've ever been. And when you came back bleeding I realized that this is what my life looks like now. Waiting. Wondering. Being terrified that you won't come home."
"I know."
"But I also realized something else." I press my hand flat against his chest. "I'd rather have you and be scared than not have you and be safe. That's probably not healthy. My therapist would probably have opinions about it. But it's true."
His arms tighten around me. "We're both a little fucked up then. Because I feel the same way about you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He kisses my forehead. "You're worth the fear. Worth the cost. Worth every hard thing that comes with this."
We stand in his kitchen holding each other while the afternoon sun moves across the floor. Outside, Bloomfield keeps turning. Marrow is still out there somewhere. My father is still angry. Perry is still dead and will be buried on Tuesday.
But we're here. Together. Solid.
"What do we do now?" I ask.
"Now we go get your cat. Then we come back here and figure out how to build a life."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
He takes my hand and leads me toward the door. Toward my apartment. Toward Hamlet. Toward the ordinary practical work of combining two lives into one.
It's not romantic. It's not easy. But it's real.
And real is what I chose when I chose him.