AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"But meeting you is one of the nicest things that's ever happened to me," he added, a faint smile touching his lips.
I silently added matchmaking to my mental list of things to do for Dean, possibly with Mike's mischievous expertise.
When Daddy stepped away to take a call from Joe, Dean's newfound paternal instincts kicked in. Half-jokingly, half-seriously, he asked, "Do I need to have a stern talk with Hank about treating you well and guarding your heart?"
I was taken aback by his sudden fatherly concern, but it made me laugh. "Oh, you don't need to worry about Hank. He's the man I'm going to marry one day," I confessed with sincerity and love in my voice.
Dean's expression softened, a genuine happiness lighting up his eyes. "Walking you down the aisle would be an honor I'd cherish," he admitted.
A warm glow filled my heart. The thought of Dean being a part of such a significant moment in my life was both overwhelming and beautiful.
When Hank returned, he joined in our conversation. We shared passionately about our work in the advertisement industry, detailing the blend of creativity and challenges we faced daily. "Every campaign is like a puzzle. You have to fit the right pieces together – the idea, the execution, the client's vision. It's exhilarating and exhausting all at once."
Dean, taking his turn, delved into the life of an author. "Writing, you see, is a solitary journey," he began. "Hours bleed into days, and days into nights as I wrestle with words, trying to create stories that touch hearts. It's lonely, this battle with words and narratives, in a room where my only companions are my thoughts and a blank page."
He then spoke about the publishing industry's unpredictability. "Finding a publisher is just the start of a rollercoaster ride. There's the anxiety of book launches, the constant fear of becoming irrelevant. I remember my first book signing," he chuckled. "I was a bundle of nerves, wondering if even a single person would show up."
“I would show up,” I though to myself.
Listening to Dean, my admiration for him grew. His life, so different from mine, yet filled with a similar passion for creativity, fascinated me.
When Dean excused himself to fetch some refreshments, I turned to Hank, filled with gratitude. "I can't thank you enough for helping me find him. It means the world to me, Daddy."
"Well, I did consider becoming a detective at one point. Seems I missed my calling. Besides, seeing you this happy is all the thanks I need, sweetheart."
Dean soon returned, and as the conversation flowed, I suggested spending a day together.
He agreed, a look of anticipation in his eyes. "I'd like that very much, Lina. There's so much to catch up on."
"Take care, Lina," Hank said as he stood up to leave a few hours later. "And remember, I'm just a phone call away if you need anything."
I walked him to the door, feeling a blend of excitement for the night ahead and gratitude for his presence in my life. "Thank you, Daddy. For everything," I said, giving him a heartfelt hug.
Hank raised an eyebrow. “Can you still call me that, princess? Considering you have found your birthfather…”
I gasped and smacked his arm as he ducked and sauntered away.
I woke up the next morning at Dean’s apartment. Little had I known what the day had in store for me. In a way, this was the beginning of the end of the carefully constructed façade, but I didn’t know it then.
The morning revealed a different side of Dean, one that I hadn't seen the day before. Lying awake in the guest room, I heard soft, muffled sobs through the thin walls. The sound of his crying was filled with such raw emotion, it painted a picture of a man grappling with a deep, unspoken sadness. I was taken aback, my image of the composed author from yesterday clashing with this hidden vulnerability. I decided to not get involved for now, respecting his privacy. This was a side of him he hadn't chosen to show me yet.
As I lay there, listening, I realized Dean had been maintaining a brave front for me. Knowing he was hiding such pain made me feel a mix of compassion and helplessness. I wanted to reach out, to offer support, but I also understoodthat some wounds needed to be approached with care, especially those hidden so deeply.
Later that morning, he introduced me to his yoga routine. As he moved through the various poses, including the challenging 'Crow Pose' and the 'Headstand,' I noticed his body trembled slightly under the strain. His physical strength was evident, yet there was a hint of desperation in his practice. It seemed as though he was using the exertion as an escape, a way to momentarily free himself from whatever turmoil lay within.
The array of self-help books on his shelf, all themed around finding happiness and healing, spoke volumes. It was clear he was on a journey of self-improvement, but I couldn't help but wonder what he was trying to heal from. His engagement in yoga, his choice of reading material – it all pointed towards a man searching for peace, a way to mend something broken inside.
Lunchtime brought another revelation. As we sat down, I noticed his absentminded snacking. He reached for cookies, chips, anything within arm's reach, eating mechanically. His gaze was distant, lost in thought. This contrasted starkly with his disciplined yoga session earlier. It dawned on me that his overeating seemed less about physical hunger and more about an emotional void he was trying to fill. It was a coping mechanism, a way to deal with whatever pain he was holding inside.
Behind his cheerful façade was a man struggling with inner demons, using physical discipline and mindless eating as ways to cope. Everyone had their battles, hidden beneath the surface. His made me appreciate the openness and communication I shared with Hank, and how important it was to have someone with whom you could share your true self, without fear or reservation.
The afternoon unfurled with a mix of laughter and subdued moments as I observed Dean grappling with the emotional toll of his mental health issues. His laughter was sporadic, often drowned out by an undercurrent of melancholy that seemed to cling to him like a shadow. It was clear to me that he was fighting a silent battle with what appeared to be clinical depression.
One moment in particular made this painfully clear. We were looking through old photo albums, and Dean paused at a picture of himself at a book signing. He chuckled, saying, "That was a good day. Sold a lot of copies." But his smile didn't reach his eyes, and he quickly closed the album, as if the memory was too much to bear. It was a fleeting glimpse of happiness overshadowed by a lingering sadness, a stark reminder of better days long past.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he added with a forced smile, "I had a lot of good days, you know. I just wasn’t smart enough to know what they were back then. Otherwise, I would’ve cherished them."
People were like books, I thought. Their covers often hide the real stories within. Some pages are worn with grief, others blank with unspoken pain. We present chapters we think the world wants to read, while the rest remain hidden, locked away in the depths of our hearts. Dean was a living embodiment of this, showing only the chapters he thought I could handle, while the rest of his story remained shrouded in shadows.
