Chapter Twenty-Nine
Same Shit, Different Day
Dean
The conference room smells like disappointment and overpriced coffee. Same as always. Except now I hate it.
“—quarterly projections show a fifteen percent increase in billable hours,” Gideon drones on.
I’m supposed to care. That’s my job. Caring about billable hours and win rates and whatever soul-sucking metric we’re measuring this week.
Instead, I’m watching a pigeon outside systematically destroy someone’s lunch. Good for you, pigeon. Burn it all down.
“Dean?”
Shit.
“What?”
Gideon’s giving me that look. The one that says pay attention, asshole. “Your thoughts on the Morrison settlement?”
My thoughts? My thoughts are that it’s been three days since Poppy left and Muffin won’t stop scratching at the guest house door like she’s waiting for someone who’s never coming back.
“Aggressive but fair,” I say. Safe answer. Always works.
“That’s what you said about the Henderson case.”
“And?”
“The Henderson case was a custody dispute. This is one involves blackmail.”
Crap.
“Right. I meant aggressive but… fraudulent.”
The room goes quiet. That special quiet that happens when you’ve just said something spectacularly stupid.
“Meeting adjourned,” Feldstein says. His voice could freeze hell. “Dean. Stay.”
Everyone files out. Gideon shoots me a what the hell look. I shoot him back a mind your business look.
“Want to tell me where your head’s at?” Feldstein asks once we’re alone.
“Right here.”
“Bull.” He leans back. Studies me like I’m a problem to solve. “You’ve been off lately. Distracted. Sloppy.”
“I’ve been—”
“You missed the Patterson deadline.”
“By an hour.”
“You called opposing counsel by the wrong name. Twice.”
“They all look the same.”
“Dean.” His voice goes soft. Dangerous. “I went to bat for you. Told the partners you were ready. That you could handle the pressure.”
“I can.”
“Can you?” He stands. Walks to the window. Gazes out. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like something’s got you twisted up.”
Someone, my brain supplies helpfully. Someone has me twisted up. Not something. Big difference.
“I’m fine.”
“No. You’re not.” He turns. “Take the week. Get your shit together. Come back ready to work or don’t come back at all.”
“You’re suspending me?”
“I’m saving you from yourself.” He heads for the door, pauses. “Whatever happened upstate? Fix it or forget it. But decide.”
The door closes with a click that sounds final.
I sit there for ten minutes. Staring at nothing. Damn.
This is really not good.
Muffin’s on my porch when I get home. Again. Because of course she is.
“Why are you here? Thought you stayed with Nadine while I was at work?” I ask.
She waddles over, snorts, then heads straight for the guest house.
“No.” I follow her. “We’ve talked about this.”
Scratch scratch scratch.
“She’s not there.”
Scratch scratch scratch.
“Muffin. Come on.”
She looks at me with those stupid sad eyes. Like I’m the jerk for pointing out reality.
“I know,” I mutter. “I miss her too.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. Muffin tilts her head like finally, some honesty.
“But missing people doesn’t bring them back.” I scoop her up. “Trust me. I’m an expert.”
I carry her back to my house. She goes limp, full passive resistance mode.
“You’re being dramatic.”
She farts.
“That’s just petty.”
Inside, I set her on her designated spot. She immediately gets up and waddles back to the door.
“We’re not doing this again.”
Scratch scratch scratch.
“Fine. Stay there. See if I care.”
I make coffee. Check emails. Pretend to review a brief. Muffin keeps scratching.
“You know what your problem is?” I tell her. “You don’t know when to quit.”
She pauses. Looks at me. Goes back to scratching.
“She left, okay? Went to Italy. Probably drinking wine and… eating pasta and… being happy without us.”
Muffin whines.
I microwave leftover risotto and eat it straight from the Tupperware, standing by the kitchen counter while Muffin sighs into her bowl.
The dining table sits across the room—set with exactly zero place settings, surrounded by chairs I haven’t used since the night I made risotto for Poppy.
I built this life for efficiency. For order.
And yet lately, all I can see is the empty space where something could be. Should be.
I rinse the container, wipe down the spotless counter, and open my laptop again.
There’s nothing lonelier than silence pretending to be peace.
My phone buzzes. Work email. I delete it without reading.
“You want to know something messed up?” I sit on the floor next to Muffin. “I keep catching the scent of her. Like, everywhere. How can someone’s perfume linger like that?”
Muffin settles next to me, finally giving up on the door.
“Found a bobby pin in my couch yesterday. Just… sitting there. Like it belongs.”
She rests her head on my knee. I pat it softly.
“And George won’t shut up. Just stands on the lawn screaming at nothing. Nadine says he’s ‘processing’.” I huff out an exhale. “Remind me I need to order him more goat feed from , by the way.”
A soft wheeze. Muffin’s version of agreement.
“Be careful,” I mutter to myself, sitting on my living room floor with Muffin sprawled across my lap. “That’s what I said. After everything that happened between us, I told her to be careful.”
The words taste like regret every time I replay them. Which is approximately every five minutes.
I keep seeing that look in her eyes when I said it. Like I’d kicked something small and defenseless. Or destroyed some small part of her. I hate it. Hate myself even more.
I wanted to say more. God, I wanted to say everything. The words were right there, caught in my throat like shards of glass. But maybe that’s the problem—she makes me feel things I can’t name. Things I definitely can’t want.
I sigh, running my hand through Muffin’s fur. “Could’ve said anything else. ‘Thank you.’ ‘I’ll miss you.’ ‘Please don’t go.’ But no. I went with ‘be careful’ like I’m her damn travel agent.”
“Well, isn’t this cozy.”
I look up. Nadine’s standing in my doorway because apparently nobody knocks anymore.
“It’s called depression,” I say flatly.
“It’s called Tuesday afternoon.” She lets herself in, naturally. “Is Muffin bothering you?”
“Always.”
“Want me to take her?”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than intended.
She raises an eyebrow. “No?”
“She’s… fine. We have a system.”
“Uh-huh.” She settles on my couch uninvited, making herself at home like she owns the place. “How’s work?”
I lean back against the wall, arms crossed. “Fantastic.”
“That why you’re home at two o’clock on a Tuesday?” Her tone is too knowing, too sharp.
“Early day.” I avoid her eyes, focusing on Muffin instead.
“And yesterday? Also an early day?”
I glare at her. “Are you stalking me?”
“I have a Ring camera. And too much time.” She studies me with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. “You look terrible, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
“Why haven’t you shaved? And when’s the last time you ate actual food?”
“I eat.”
“Scotch isn’t food.”
“It’s made from grain.”
“Dean.” Her tone carries that warning I’ve heard a thousand times.
“What do you want, Nadine?”
She’s quiet for a moment. That’s never good. The silence stretches between us like a taut wire.
“How long are you planning to mope around like this?” she finally asks.
My chest does something stupid and painful. “I’m not moping.”
“You’re sitting on the floor with my dog discussing bobby pins.” She gestures at our pathetic tableau.
“That was a private conversation.” I scratch behind Muffin’s ears, defensive.
“Dean.” Her voice softens, which is somehow worse than her judgment. “She really got to you, didn’t she?”
I don’t answer because what’s the point? We both know the truth. The silence hangs heavy, suffocating.
“She’s in Italy,” I blurt out, the words escaping before I can stop them.
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s where she said she was going.” My jaw tightens.
“But you haven’t actually confirmed—”
“Nadine.” It’s a warning.
“I’m just saying. People change plans.” She shrugs, too casual.
“Not Poppy. She’s a planner. She follows through. It’s her whole thing.” Even saying her name hurts. Some stupid foreign ache in my chest that won’t go away.
“Hmm.” She stands, and I can practically see the wheels turning in her head. “Well. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“Although Italy’s a big place. She could be anywhere. Rome. Venice. That cute little beach town with the lemons…”
“Portofino.” The word slips out automatically.
“Oh?” Her smile is pure evil. “She mentioned that specifically?”
I’ve walked right into her trap, and we both know it.
She heads for the door with purpose. “You know, the guest cottage is just sitting there empty. Might be therapeutic to check on it. Make sure everything’s… in order.”
My shoulders tense. “I’m not going in there.”
“If you say so.” She pauses at the door, playing her final card. “Though people leave things behind sometimes. Might want to make sure it’s ready for the next guest.”
“There won’t be a next guest.” The words come out hard, final.
“Ever?” She turns back, eyebrow raised.
I don’t answer because the thought of anyone else in that space, in her space, makes me want to punch something.
“Right.” She shakes her head like I’m a lost cause. “Three years, Dean. Never seen you like this.”
Same, I think but don’t say it.
“Maybe she’ll come back.” Nadine shrugs, trying to act casual.
Something twists in my gut—hope and dread tangled together. “She’s not coming back. She has a life in California. A business.” Each word is another nail in the coffin of whatever we almost were.
“Right.” She pauses at the door, delivering her killing blow. “You know what’s funny?”
“Nothing about this is funny.”
“I’ve lived next door to you for three years. Never seen you smile. Not once.” She looks at me with something like pity. “A week with that girl and you smiled every day.”
“That’s not—”
“Even at that damn goat.”
I give her a stern look because nothing about George was funny. That goat is a disaster.
She opens the door. “The goat made her laugh. And when she laughed…”
“What?”
“You smiled.” She shrugs like she hasn’t just eviscerated me. “Just an observation.”
She leaves.
I sit there with Muffin, both of us staring at the door like idiots waiting for something that’s never coming back.
“She’s not wrong,” I tell the dog. “I did smile more.”
Muffin grunts in what I choose to interpret as sympathy.
“So what? Smiling’s overrated.”
She gives me a look that clearly says I’m full of it.
Three days. Feels like a lifetime. Feels like yesterday. Feels like I’m drowning in the space she left behind.
“Be careful,” I mutter again. “What a complete moron.”
Muffin leans against my leg, warm and solid and understanding.
At least someone gets it.
I make myself get up off the floor, trying not to notice how empty everything feels.
Same house. Same job. Same life.
Except I hate it now.
All of it.
Without her here to make it make sense.