Chapter 43
FORTY-THREE
Two Months Later
“Millie…” Gwen’s face crumples slightly when she says it, like maybe she doesn’t know what to say next. Or maybe what she wants to say is something she knows I won’t want to hear. “It’s been two months.”
I don’t need my little sister to remind me. I know exactly how long it’s been since I came home.
Walking out of that bathroom and finding Dean gone did to me what finding out that my fiancé and my best friend were having an affair failed to do.
It broke me.
I don’t know how long I sat there and cried.
Until I was wrung dry and limp with exhaustion.
Until I could see the push of daylight through the frosted glass of the bathroom wall.
Praying he’d given up and gone to sleep, I told myself I’d get dressed, as quietly as I could, and leave.
Spend the day on the beach and this time, I’d close the curtain so if Dean came looking for me again, he wouldn’t be able to find me.
I’d sleep in that fucking cabana if that’s what I had to do to keep him away from me.
I told myself it was because I was done pretending.
I was over him and that I was telling the truth when I told him I didn’t want to play games anymore but it was a lie.
The truth was, I knew that if Dean came for me, if I saw him again, I’d give in. I’d beg him to keep lying to me.
Leaning over the side of the still running tub, I cupped my hands under the spigot, filling them with cold water before scrubbing them over my face. Turning it off, I dried my face, taking a few deep breaths when the thought of opening the door nearly drove me to the tub again.
Dean Mercer is an asshole, Millie. He’s always been an asshole—a smug, opportunistic asshole but you can hardly blame him, can you?
You made it too easy for him. Your stupid legs fell open the second he touched you—I mean seriously, how desperate can you possibly be?
Truth Island? What are you, twelve? Jesus Christ—you were practically begging to be used and lied to.
Properly chastised, I gripped the door handle, mentally focused on getting dressed and getting out as quickly and quietly as possible but when I opened the door and stepped into the bedroom, my traitorous gaze went directly to the bed.
I expected to find Dean sleeping or maybe still sitting there, waiting for me to come out so he could lie to me some more, but Dean wasn’t in bed.
Dean was gone.
I spent my last three days on the island alternating between crying hysterically and silent catatonia because if Dean loved me—if he really did love me like he said, he wouldn’t have left. He would’ve been waiting for me when I finally found the courage to open that bathroom door and he wasn’t.
“I’m fine, Gwenie.” Giving her what I hope is a reassuring smile, I lift my wine glass to my lips and take a measured sip of chilled Chardonnay. “Really.”
Even though the look she gives me says she’s completely unconvinced, Gwen gives me a smile of her own.
This is the best part. What makes everything that happened worthwhile.
I might’ve lost my fiancé and my best friend, but I got my little sister in trade.
We meet at Davino’s weekly for dinner—just the two of us. It’s the best part of my week.
“You know…” Lifting her own glass of sparkling water, she takes a drink. “We really should send Paige a thank you card. If she wasn’t such a filthy tramp, you’d be married to that spineless troll and completely miserable.”
She’s not wrong.
Time and distance have given me a sort of detached objectivity.
Marrying Allister, even if he’d been faithful, would’ve been a mistake.
One I would’ve closed my eyes to and refused to acknowledge because at the end of the day, he still never loved me.
Still only wanted me for my money. At least Dean had been honest about his motives.
Until he wasn’t.
I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since the moment I met you …
“Have you heard from him again?”
Looking up from my scallop risotto, I blink at her because for a moment, I think she’s talking about Dean.
Asking if he’s reached out or tried to see me since I came home.
He hasn’t. It’s like Dean Mercer has ceased to exist. I’ve read every article and blind item that’s been written about us since I’ve been back in New York and they all say the same thing—Mr. Mercer remains unavailable for comment.
But Gwen isn’t talking about Dean.
She said have you heard from him again.
That means she’s asking me about Allister.
“Not since the last time.” I give her an eye roll. “I think threatening to have Uncle Andy sic the IRS on him finally scared him off for good.” Cutting a scallop in half with the side of my fork, I flick her a quick look. “Why? What’s going on?”
When I got home, I dove directly back into work.
Giving myself no time to fall back into my pit of despair, I showed up at Blackwell Tower, bright and early, Monday morning, smiling at a slightly stunned-looking Alice on my way past her desk.
When I came home after a long day, Allister was waiting for me in the lobby.
Thankfully, the doorman stopped me and warned me before I went inside.
Opting to face him, rather than camp out on the sidewalk, I marched inside, breezing past the reception area where he’s waiting for me, on my way to the elevator.
When he saw me, he jumped up from his seat. “Millie—”
“Call security,” I instructed Mitch, who immediately picked up the desk phone. “After that, call the police. I want him trespassed.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mitch answered me, one eye on me, while the other stayed on Allister.
“You can’t ignore me,” Allister seethed at my back. “After spending the last two weeks doing God knows what with that bartender, you owe me—”
Stopping, I turned back to look at him, ignoring a stony-faced Mitch who’d made his call and come out from behind his desk to position himself between us.
“I owe you nothing,” I told him, my tone cool and level.
“And any humiliation or hardship you’ve suffered as a result of my leaking those texts is far less than you deserve.
” Turning back toward the elevator, I thought better of it in favor of delivering one last, parting shot.
“And the bartender was right—turns out, I wasn’t the problem.
It was your mediocre dick the entire time. ”
Leaving a stunned Allister and a laughing Mitch, I took the elevator to my apartment and promptly listed it for sale, after which I packed a bag and moved to The Hawthorne. I haven’t been back since.
Since then, he’s tried a few more times—once outside Blackwell Tower and once here while I was meeting with a client. That was last week but after threatening him with the IRS, I haven’t seen or heard from him since.
“Welll…” Leaning over the table, she drops her tone into a conspiratorial whisper. “Aunt Renee is still banging her that dirty bartender faked those texts and disparaged my daughter’s good name drum for whoever will listen.”
“He didn’t,” I tell her with a definitive head shake. It’s something my father has subtly suggested, more than once. Dean may have done a lot of things but he didn’t do what Paige is accusing him of. “They’re real. I know they’re real. The timing between those texts and Allister’s—”
“I believe you,” Gwen says, reaching across the table to give my hand a commiserating squeeze. “Dad’s been working on getting them authenticated and finding out who sent them.”
“Good.” Pulling my hand from under hers on a forced laugh, I shake my head. “Maybe then, Aunt Renee will shut the fuck up and accept the fact that her daughter is a narcissistic cunt.”
“Dean Mercer was a horrible influence on you,” she says, sitting back with a mystified grin. “A week with him and you’re casually dropping the eff-bomb and the C-word.”
You have no idea.
“Dean didn’t teach me anything new,” I tell her, even though my week with Dean taught me plenty. “He just made me realize that I don’t have to be perfect all the time and that no one really expects me to be.”
“I’ve always been Team Dean.” Before I can ask her what she means by that, she sighs. “Have you heard from him?”
“Dean?” I feel the prickle of tears behind my eyes when I say his name again. “No. Why would I? We served our purpose to each other.”
“And what purpose was that exactly?” Gwen asks, looking up from her plate while she skewers a blistered cherry tomato with her fork. She’s been trying to get me to tell her what happened during my week of temporary insanity. Even though I’ve given her a vague idea, my sister wants details.
Come on, Mills. I’m an old married woman—I need everything in full, graphic detail.
Which, considering she’s two and a half years younger than me, is pretty ridiculous.
“We had a good time,” I say, giving her the same answer I always do. The only answer I can say out loud that won’t leave me sucking wind or make me feel like I’m about to ugly cry and dissolve into a puddle of tears. “But we established from the start that it wasn’t a big deal.”
I’m in love with you, Mills. I’ve been in love with you since the day I met you…
Feeling like I have a lump of wet cotton stuck in my throat, I concentrate on my breathing. On neutralizing the sting of tears that stabs against the back of my eyelids, every time I remember it.
Gwen gives me her usual, skeptical once over when I say it. “So, you haven’t heard from him?”
Sighing, I swallow hard before giving her a forced laugh. “No, Gwenie—I haven’t heard from him.”
Now she doesn’t look skeptical. She looks downright accusatory. “And you don’t care if you do hear from him?”
“No.” Shaking my head, I give her a flat smile and lie. “I don’t care if I ever hear from Dean Mercer again.”