22. If the Armor Fits
IF THE ARMOR FITS
Felicity
The day of the black-tie fundraiser arrived like a boulder crashing through the window of my mind.
My nerves hadn’t allowed me to sleep for three days straight, and the tight churning in my gut started the instant my eyes opened and didn’t let up, not even after two mugs of coffee and a heroic round of dry-heaving over my bathroom sink.
It wasn’t a normal case of event planning anxiety, either.
Not when the centerpiece of my existence—my four year old son—was currently out of my line of sight and in the hands of the last man on earth I would trust with an actual, literal heart, let alone the small, sticky, precious one who lived inside mine.
Tanner, Mav’s father and my personal cautionary tale, had rolled into Valentine Bay last week like a late-season hurricane: sudden, loud, and with a whiff of property damage. He’d asked to take Maverick for the day, after he’d already got Mav excited for the excursion.
“It’s just a couple hours, Felly,” he’d said, like I was still nineteen and still green enough to find that endearment endearing. “That way you can get ready for your party, and we get some real father-son time.”
The casualness of his pitch made my skin crawl, but I’d sworn to myself I would never stand in the way of Mav and Tanner’s relationship.
I knew, firsthand, what it felt like to be abandoned by a parent, two in fact.
I would never do that to my son, no matter what it cost me.
I would never let my issues with his dad negatively impact him.
It wasn’t about me, Mav would always come first.
Still, agreeing to his “afternoon” with Maverick was something I’d only done after the world’s lengthiest internal debate and a frantic, emergency phone consult with my therapist, who assured me that it was both “healthy” and “developmentally optimal” for a child to witness both of his parents in the wild, even if one of those parents had the emotional maturity of a mall kiosk.
Tanner swore up and down he’d have Maverick back by two in the afternoon, plenty of time for him to get ready for the fundraiser.
So, at ten a.m. sharp, I did the most unnatural thing I could imagine, let my son run up the walk into his father’s arms, watched them get into Tanner’s rented sports car, and then stood on the porch with a smile that could have won an Oscar for Best Performance by a Woman Not Currently Having a Panic Attack.
I waved. I shut the door. And then I cried, just a little, just enough to keep my eyes from swelling shut before my big night.
That left me four unpromised hours to get ready for the Founder’s Day fundraiser.
Four hours of silence, four hours with no sticky hands, sudden shrieks or “Mom! Mom! Mom!” interruptions.
Four hours in which to either execute the finishing touches on the biggest event of my professional life, or to spiral into a million catastrophic what-if scenarios about whether or not Maverick would come home with thirteen cavities and a new catchphrase like “What happens in the Porsche stays in the Porsche” or something equally horrifying.
I tried to keep busy. I checked on the ballroom setup.
I double-checked the seating chart. I texted three members of the event committee and then called Bethany at Ever After Blooms, who assured me that yes, the ranunculus would be there by five-thirty, and yes, they would be in the precise shade of cream I’d specified, and no, the delivery kid would not “accidentally” eat any of the edible centerpieces, which happened to me once.
When I ran out of logistical tasks, I took a shower and shaved everywhere.
I put on my makeup, a process that took forty-five minutes instead of the usual nine, because I kept losing my place and forgetting if I’d already done my eyeliner or not.
I tried on the dress, then the backup dress, then the original dress again.
I took a photo and sent it to Gen who responded, Damn girl, Dean is going to need a bib to catch all that drool.
The mention of Dean sent a new shiver up my spine, one that had nothing to do with my child’s current whereabouts and everything to do with the fact that the man had been a complete freaking mystery for the last two weeks.
He was still around—still showed up for meetings, still checked in on me and the fundraiser’s progress, still fixed things around my house and made sure the balance sheets always balanced—but he’d gone from slowly-opening-up to fully-locked-vault almost overnight.
Every time I tried to ask about it, he’d give me the same stock answer, “Just busy.” When I tried to be playful, he’d respond with a dry, distracted smile and change the subject.
When I tried to confront him about his withdrawal, he’d say something like, “There’s just a lot going on,” and then vanish for an entire evening.
It was the weirdest, most infuriating emotional retreat I’d ever witnessed, and I’d dated a man who once feigned a nap to avoid talking about our anniversary plans.
I knew it had to do with Tanner showing up, but since Dean and I weren’t an actual couple, it wasn’t like he owed me anything, that was part of the rules. Thankfully, I’d been so busy with the fundraiser, I was able to distract myself from the shift in our relationship.
When Dean pulled up at six on the dot, looking like the face of Armani in a black tuxedo, I was already a raw wire of nerves and unspent frustration. I opened the door, surprised to see him. I’d told him to go ahead without me.
“You look…beautiful.” Dean’s compliment was given behind that familiar Lockhart wall, the one built with a mix of old ranch stoicism and new corporate insulation.
He said it like he might say “the quarterly forecast looks stable” or “please pass the salt.” But I caught the fractional hesitation, the blink-and-you-miss-it softening of his eyes, even thought it was barely there to the untrained observer.
I had spent a lifetime cataloging the subtle art of male emotional camouflage. Dean Lockhart’s tells were small, but they existed, if you cared enough to look.
“Thanks,” I said, “you look… really good.” Which was true, and also unfair, because he made formalwear seem like the natural evolutionary endpoint for his entire bloodline.
He looked like a lost Bond villain who’d missed his stop at the casino and ended up on my porch, all broad shoulders and tailored lines and a face that made you want to deliver your deepest, darkest secrets just for the chance to see him smile.
I stood there in my form-fitting red cocktail dress, the one with the architectural neckline that made me feel like a modern-day princess if the fairy tale was set in an accounting office, and tried not to let my anxiety show. I failed.
He nodded, like we were both adults who understood the transactional nature of compliments.
“Did you get my text?” I asked, hoping he hadn’t missed it.
“I can wait if you’re not ready,” he responded without answering my question.
“It’s not me.” I looked past him, down the length of the drive, as if Maverick might materialize in a burst of energy, clutching a juice box and a fistful of wet sidewalk gravel. “Mav’s not home yet. You can go on without me.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s with Tanner.”
Dean’s jaw twitched at the mention of my ex’s name. “I’ll wait.”
Part of me wanted to insist he go on ahead, but another part of me was relieved I wouldn’t be left waiting alone.
He stepped in, closing the door behind us and locking it with that precise, mechanical efficiency that made me irrationally stabby and a little bit wild for him.
He stood in the center of my living room, hands at his sides, shoulders back, as if he was bracing for something, I just had no clue what that something was.
“So. You’ve been… busy?” I used his words.
Dean hesitated, and his jaw twitched. I could almost see the gears grinding, weighing how much to say, how much to keep locked up.
“Work has been a lot,” he said eventually, which was such an anemic substitute for everything he could have said that I almost laughed.
“Have you been avoiding me?” I asked him point blank.
His expression remained unreadable. “No.”
“That’s not a complaint.” I crossed my arms, suddenly feeling very exposed. “You can. I know that we aren’t…whatever, but I just… kind of thought we were friends. Or, I don’t know, something.”
Dean’s lips twitched at the word friends, and for half a heartbeat I thought he might actually smile. “I wasn’t avoiding you.” His hands flexed at his sides, as if this conversation was making him physically uncomfortable. “I just thought you could use space.”
I stared at him. “Space from what?”
He shrugged. “From me.”
That took me off guard. “Did I say I needed space from you?”
“You don’t have to.” Now he did smile, faint and fleeting and so sad it broke my heart a little. “I knew it would be best if I weren’t around.”
Best if I wasn’t around?
Hearing him say those words caused my stomach to drop.
A lull hovered, the kind that made you think of all the things you should say and none of the things you actually would. Then, it just became too much. “You know, if you’re regretting getting involved… you can say so. I know it’s a lot and wouldn’t blame you.”
That made him flinch, almost imperceptibly. “I don’t regret it.”
“Really?” Maybe it was the nerves, or maybe it was the weight of two straight weeks of sleepless nights, tossing and turning, but the words tumbled out before I could catch them. “You act like every time you’re around me you’re doing me a favor you’d rather not be doing.”
A long silence followed, and I regretted saying too much, but there was no way to take it back.
He looked down at the ground and I braced myself for the reality that he might just walk out the door and never come back.
From experience, men didn’t appreciate being nagged at, and we weren’t even in a real relationship.
When he finally looked back up at me, I could see pain in his eyes. “I don't know what I'm allowed to want here.”
“What do you want?” I managed to ask, despite not feeling like I could breathe.
Before he could respond, Dean’s phone rang so loud I nearly jumped out of my skin.
He didn’t look at the screen—just answered it with a barked, “Yeah,” like whoever was on the other end was an inconvenience he’d quickly get rid of.
When I heard Selma’s voice coming through, muffled but insistent, I knew our conversation was over, for now.
“Where are you?” she demanded. “Where is Felicity? Are you picking her up or is she meeting you?”
“I’m here picking her up, we’re waiting for Maverick to get home,” he said, and I knew by the slight tightening of his jaw that this update was not well-received.
“When is he expected back?” Selma followed up.
“He was supposed to be back at two.”
“At two?” Dean repeated, his demeanor changing. “Have you tried to call him?”
I nodded. “He wasn’t answering, and now it’s going straight to voicemail.”
“No, that’s not okay,” Selma clipped.
“He does this sometimes.” All the time. “I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”
“Where were they going?” Dean asked.
“They were supposed to go to the beach,” I explained.
“Okay, I’m calling your brothers.”
The line disconnected.
“She doesn’t have to do that.”
Dean didn’t acknowledge me, he just scrolled his phone and then called someone.
“Are you calling her back?”
“No,” he said, and then I heard a man’s voice on the line.
“Lockhart, what’s up?”
“Felicity’s ex had her son today and he was supposed to back at two. She tried calling, but it’s going straight to voicemail.”
Who was he talking to? Selma said she’d call his brothers, I had no clue who else he could possibly call.
“Does she have custody?”
“Full physical custody, they share legal,” Dean responded.
We’d talked about my custody arrangement over a month ago, I was surprised he remembered.
“What’s he driving?” the man on the phone asked.
“Rented white Porsche,” I offered.
“Can you send me a photo, age, and description of him?”
“Yep.”
“Alright, I’ll put out a BOLO.”
A BOLO? He must be talking to the police.
“Thanks, man.” Dean hung up the phone.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“Donovan Valentine, he’s a detective.” Dean was typing on his phone, I assumed texting Donovan the information he’d asked for.
My stomach flipped with uneasiness. I felt like this entire thing was getting blown out of proportion. “I don’t think the cops need to be involved.”
“He’s a friend. It’s nothing official.”
“Still, I don’t think—”
“I’m going to go look for him.” Dean acted as though he didn’t even hear me as he walked to the front door.
“Okay, I’ll come with you.” The last thing I wanted was for there to be some sort of confrontation. Plus, if he left I’d be back to pacing the floors alone.
“You need to stay here in case he brings him home,” Dean pointed out.
Shit. He was right.
“Keep your phone on you. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”
With that, Dean was gone.
As I watched him jump in his truck and speed away, all I could think about was what Tanner accused him of riding up on him of being my white knight and riding in to save the day.
That comment seemed to upset Dean, but if the armor fit…
I didn’t think Dean had any idea what his support meant to me. It was everything.