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The soft embrace of my grey sheets.
This is the bed where Dean and I…
He's all over this room. In the old movie posters—the ones we watched together. In the tattoo mock-ups hanging on the walls. In the framed art from high school.
The smell of the sheets.
The mirror.
And the girl staring back at me in the reflection, asking me why the fuck I'm running from the person I need more than anything.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Dean
The afternoon is a blur of ink, skin, shitty music, quiet conversations. I fail to bring my usual banter. I distract my clients okay, but it's dull as doorknobs shit. Weather. Sports. Celebrity and shop gossip.
I cancel my gym session with Walker.
Jog around the beach instead.
Fail to find clarity.
It's not in my shower, on the couch where I fucked Chloe last night, on any cop show on TV, in a takeout Thai feast.
My bedroom is a mess of memories and feelings.
The feel of her fingertips against my skin.
That short black hair in my hands.
That strawberry shampoo.
She's the only thing in my head.
I find my cell. Shoot her a text.
Dean: You get home okay?
It takes an eternity for her to reply back. But she does.
Chloe: Yeah, thanks. I'll get in touch in a few days to talk about my apprenticeship. Until then, I want to be alone. I really appreciate the opportunity. You're a great teacher. I know you don't believe it, but you're a great guy. Good luck with everything.
It's as courteous as can be.
Like she's already over breaking my heart and walking away.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Dean
"Where's your better half?" Emma takes a long sip of her coffee. Her dark eyes fix on mine.
It's weird. She's nothing like Brendon, but the two of them have the same stare. The I don't know what you're doing, but I know it's wrong. I wish I could fix it, but, honestly, you're hopeless.
"Taking a few days off." The words feel funny on my tongue. I'm no stranger to lying. But doing it with a straightforward response? It's weird.
It's been twenty-four hours since Chloe walked out that door and it still doesn't feel real.
