14. Michelle
MICHELLE
Isit near the back of the conference room, legs crossed, arms folded, already regretting every decision that led me here.
This was supposed to be a professional development thing.
The tickets weren’t cheap, but I bought them for Max.
I figured it might shake him out of whatever rut he’s been stewing in lately.
At the front of the room, some guy in a blazer two sizes too small is clicking through a slideshow titled Building Client Trust in a Competitive Market.
“You’re not just selling houses,” he says. “You’re selling yourself.”
A woman a few rows ahead of me actually claps. Full palms-to-palms, enthusiastic clapping. I stare at the back of her head.
Max sits beside me, slouched low in his chair, wearing sunglasses like he’s shielding himself from paparazzi. He looks pristine, smells expensive but if I had to guess, I’d say he was out too late and drinking too much.
“Take those off,” I whisper. This whole seminar might be a joke, but we can at least look professional.
He lowers the glasses just enough to give me a look. There's a shallow cut under his right brow, the skin around it faintly swollen.
“Put them back on.”
He does, without a word. I lean in slightly, lowering my voice. “What happened?”
“Slipped over.”
I give him a look. “What’d you land on—someone’s fist?”
“Can we just leave it?”
Whatever. I turn back to the stage. The guy’s moved on to something about how buyers aren’t just investing in properties, they’re investing in dreams. He’s pacing with a wireless mic. I tune him out somewhere around the third mention of “synergy” and I scan the room instead.
That’s when I spot Josh. He’s a row behind us, a few seats down, looking just as bored as I am.
So he’s alive. Which means he ghosted me.
I try not to let that sting. It’s not like I was hoping he’d died or anything, but maybe a minor hospital stay?
Something with both hands in casts, just long enough to explain the silence.
He catches me watching. His jaw tightens, and his eyes flick toward the exit.
He can’t be serious—
Josh bolts. Slips out of his row and heads straight for the main doors.
I’m out of my seat before I’ve fully decided to be, cutting into the aisle. My heel catches slightly on the carpet, but I keep going, weaving through the rows after him.
Out in the hall, a few people linger. Stragglers from other seminars.
“Josh,” I call. He keeps walking, shoulders tight.
“Josh Austin,” I say, louder this time.
That does it. Heads turn. A few people glance his way. He stops. Not because he wants to but because now he has to.
I catch up to him, and the color has drained from his face. The skin around his mouth goes tight as he lifts his hands, palms out, like he’s expecting me to hit him.
“Look,” he says quickly. “I don’t want any trouble, Michelle.”
Trouble?
“What are you—” I start, but he’s already shaking his head, backing up like standing near me is risky.
“I can’t,” he says.
Then he takes off.
I don’t follow. I’m not chasing someone who clearly doesn’t want to be caught. Still, I stay there a few seconds too long, staring at the door he vanished through. What was that about?
I make my way back to my seat, telling myself to let it go. To tune back in and stop obsessing over things I can’t control. But I can't seem to shake it.
The truth is, just like with Jennifer Cole, I don’t even know what I did wrong.
The last time I saw Josh, everything felt normal.
There was no argument, nothing that should’ve led to this.
And yet here I am again, sitting in a room full of strangers, wondering what it is about me that makes people bolt.
“And,” the man at the front of the room says, holding up a finger like he’s about to reveal the secret to the universe, “I want you all to try this at home: stand in the mirror each morning and say this mantra—‘I am abundance. I attract wealth. I am magnetic.’”
He closes his eyes and says it again, slower this time. A few people around the room nod. One woman repeats it under her breath.
That’s it. I’m done.
Max must feel the same, because we glance at each other and walk out without a word.
Back in my car, I almost apologize to Max. I shouldn’t have dragged him to that disaster.
He slides into the passenger seat without a word. Sunglasses still on.
“That was awful,” I say, turning the ignition.
“I never want to hear the word serendipity again,” he says, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
I glance over at him. “Are you alright?”
It’s the wrong question, and I know it as soon as it’s out of my mouth. It hangs there, too personal for the way we usually talk. Men like Max don’t share. Not with me, anyway.
“I’m always alright,” Max says, his voice a little guarded. Then, like he’s trying to shift the energy, he adds, “You think this is bad? You should see Dean.”
“What happened?” I ask, careful to keep my voice even.
“Had bite marks on his palm. Deep.”
“Someone bit him?” I ask, feigning ignorance.
I know it was Monty, but I can’t help myself—I want to hear any detail I can get about Dean.
He doesn’t give much away, and I’ve trained myself not to ask.
But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to know.
From wanting to fill in all the blanks he keeps so carefully guarded.
“Looked like an animal,” Max says. “But he wouldn’t say. Just brushed it off. Typical Dean. Half bleeding out and acting like it’s an inconvenience that anyone noticed.”
I hum in response, like it doesn’t matter either way.
“It’s weird he didn’t tell you,” I say, trying to keep the conversation going.
“Not really. He’s private. Always has been.”
That’s one of the things I like about Dean.
He keeps his mouth shut. There’s a steadiness to him, a quiet kind of control that seems to settle the air around him.
He breathes slow and measured, like nothing ever really gets to him.
It feels safe. But last night, I liked seeing that control crack.
Just for a moment. I liked watching it slip, and knowing I was the reason it did.
"I’ve never even been to his place,” Max adds.
I look over at him, surprised. “Seriously? Not once?”
“I think he lives somewhere on this side of town, but I’ve never had the address.”
That makes me pause. I knew Dean was private, but even his own family doesn’t know where he lives?
“You ever ask?”
“Of course,” Max says. “It’s come up. But he always offers to come over, never invites anyone to his place.”
I check the time. 2:03 p.m. Technically, we’re supposed to be stuck in that seminar for another two hours.
“I’ll drop you at the office,” I say, shifting into gear.
Because now I want to know where Dean Carter lives. Or at least, that’s the story I tell myself. What I really want to know is whether he wants me enough to let me in.
When I drop Max off, I stay in the car. The engine’s still running. I hesitate.
Dean might be asleep—he keeps odd hours—but my fingers move before I can talk myself out of it. I hit dial.
It rings three times before he picks up.
“You alright?” he asks. He assumes something’s wrong. And maybe I used to only call when it was. But not this time.
“I want to see you. Can I come over?”
“I’ll meet you at your place.”
“That’s alright. I’m already in the car. I’ll come to you.”
There’s a pause. Just long enough to hear the shift in his breath. He’s thinking about it. And for a second, I wonder if I’ve misread all of this. If he only wanted the chase, not to actually let me in.
Then he says, “Alright. I’ll text the address.”
We hang up. A moment later, the typing bubbles appear, then disappear. Then come back. He’s still debating. Second-guessing. Then the message lands.
I glance down at the screen and frown. My realtor brain kicks in instantly, mapping the neighborhood, the street.
I know that house.