25. Chapter 25 #3
“Thank you,” I tell her. “I love my little inn.”
“How have the guests been liking the rooms?” she asks.
“I’ve gotten some great reviews,” I say, which reminds me of something. I turn to Dominic. “I got a few from the week of the festival that kept mentioning a bellhop, and one even mentioned a concierge. Was that you?”
Dom gives me a confused look. “No, that was Dean.”
“That was Dean?”
There were only a couple of mentions—one that said the bellhop was so helpful with their bags and another that said the concierge went out of his way to find her an umbrella when it started raining.
Of course that was Dean. Why did I even think it was Dominic? That last one doesn’t even sound like him. I guess I assumed it was Dom because Dean was supposed to be working on the farm, not secretly helping to keep my inn running. And yet, somehow, that’s exactly what he was doing.
And I never asked him to do any of it.
“Yeah,” Dominic says, rubbing his eyes. “The bed broke in the yellow room, too. He found me at the fair and asked if I could help fix it. And he told me not to tell you since you were busy with the festival.”
“What?” I ask.
Emma shakes her head at him. “But now you’re telling her?”
“Why does it matter? He’s gone.”
There’s that stabbing-in-the-gut sensation again.
“Yeah, but he told you not to tell her because he knew it would stress her out.”
“But that was, like, two weeks ago.”
“Still, there’s no reason to bring it up now,” Emma says, then looks at me, sees the tears streaming down my face, and her expression softens. She comes over to the bed, sits next to me, and starts rubbing my back.
“I’m sorry Dom’s so insensitive,” she says.
That actually makes me laugh through the crying, which helps some.
“I’m not crying about Dom,” I say. “I’m crying because the best man I’ve ever known is gone. And I never told him how I felt about him.”
“Why didn’t you?” Emma asks, still rubbing my back.
“Because there was no point. He’s in Manhattan, his job takes him all over the place, the farm is being sold, and I have an inn here. It would never work.”
“I’m sorry, Rosie,” Emma says, an arm going around me, her head on my shoulder as she hugs me.
“Me too,” I say.
After they leave, I change into my pajamas, wash my puffy red face, brush my teeth, and then crawl into bed and pull my grandma’s quilt around me, grateful for the comfort it brings.
I can’t believe Dean did all that while I was at the festival.
Actually, no, I can believe it. This man helped me with the inn, made me dinner nearly every night, changed his plans to take care of me while I was sick.
I could go on and on. He did so much, and now I find out he was doing things I didn’t even know about.
What’s truly unbelievable is that I gave Dominic credit for helping at the inn during the festival, when it was so obvious that it was Dean.
And I never got to tell him thank you for it.
I pick up the phone from my bedside table, pull up his name in my messages, and then start a new one to him. Only the words don’t come. I have thanked him so many times already that it feels almost hollow wanting to say it now.
Thank you is not enough.
Maybe I should just tell him what I’m really thinking: I miss you. I’m totally in love with you. I’m miserable without you.
I start to type out the words but stop. I can’t tell him something like that over text. He’d probably send me back one word: good.
I laugh to myself, holding my phone to my chest.
That’s not something I should text anyway. Those are words that should have been said aloud. And I had plenty of opportunities to do it.
While he was making me dinner: “This is the best stir-fry I’ve ever eaten. By the way, I’m in love with you.”
While he was working on the tile in the Beauty and the Beast bathroom: “That one’s a little crooked. Oh, and one more thing, I love you.”
When he was holding cold compresses to my head and sleeping on a couch that didn’t fit his body. “Thanks for making me eat soup. Did I mention I’m in love with you?”
I roll over onto my side, frustrated with myself.
I didn’t do any of that, and I’ve been blaming it on all the math I was doing and the case I created in my head. But that wasn’t the whole reason. I was afraid.
Because once upon a time, I told Jackson we could make things work when I was leaving Boston, and he broke up with me. So, out of fear, I said nothing to Dean, and he’s gone anyway. Same stupid ending.
I look at my phone again, debating if I could take the coward’s way out and just text him.
Me: I was thinking we should make out sometime.
There. That’s subtle enough.
I snort out a laugh to myself, delete the whole thing, and then triple-check that I didn’t actually send it.
If I’m going to tell him, it needs to be in person. Even if that thought feels more uncomfortable than the no I gave Hal earlier today.
I’ll tell him when he comes back after the farm sells. Even if the math doesn’t work.
I put my phone back on the bedside table, turn off the lamp, and hope I’ll be able to sleep.
I highly doubt that will happen.