“Dean didn’t teach me anything new,” I tell her, even though my week with Dean taught me plenty. “He just made me realize that I don’t have to be perfect all the time and that no one really expects me to be.”
“I’ve always been Team Dean.” Before I can ask her what she means by that, she sighs. “Have you heard from him?”
“Dean?” I feel the prickle of tears behind my eyes when I say his name again. “No. Why would I? We served our purpose to each other.”
“And whatpurposewas that exactly?” Gwen asks, looking up from her plate while she skewers a blistered cherry tomato with her fork. She’s been trying to get me to tell her what happened during my week of temporary insanity. Even though I’ve given her a vague idea, my sister wants details.
Come on, Mills. I’m an old married woman—I need everything in full, graphic detail.
Which, considering she’s two and a half years younger than me, is pretty ridiculous.
“We had a good time,” I say, giving her the same answer I always do. The only answer I can say out loud that won’t leave me sucking wind or make me feel like I’m about to ugly cry and dissolve into a puddle of tears. “But we established from the start that it wasn’t a big deal.”
I’m in love with you, Mills. I’ve been in love with you since the day I met you…
Feeling like I have a lump of wet cotton stuck in my throat, I concentrate on my breathing. On neutralizing the sting of tears that stabs against the back of my eyelids, every time I remember it.
Gwen gives me her usual, skeptical once over when I say it. “So, youhaven’theard from him?”
Sighing, I swallow hard before giving her a forced laugh. “No, Gwenie—I haven’t heard from him.”
Now she doesn’t look skeptical. She looks downright accusatory. “And you don’t care if youdohear from him?”
“No.” Shaking my head, I give her a flat smile and lie. “I don’t care if I ever hear from Dean Mercer again.”
FORTY-FOUR
Ileft.
Within an hour of Millie slamming that door in my face, I was on her father’s private plane and on my way home because I fucked up and did the one thing I knew I shouldn’t.
I forgot.
I forgot who I am and the way she sees me. I told her the truth. That I’m in love with her. That I’vebeenin love with her since the moment I met her—and it went exactly how I knew it would.
Afterward, I sat in that bed and stared at the wall that separated us, listening to the gut-wrenching sounds of her sobbing under the loud rush of the tub, so sick I wantedto throw-up, until I couldn’t stand it anymore. I got up, put on the suit I wore to her wedding a week and a half ago, dry cleaned and pressed thanks to Mateo, and walked out the door. Took the golf cart to the main hotel and secured a ride to the private airstrip that services the island. As promised, the plane that brought us here was waiting to take me home and I let it because it’s over.
Millie’s never going to trust me again. She’ll never let me back in. She’s managed to twist it all, everything that’s happened between us, into something dirty and meaningless. She’ll believe them when they tell her I preyed on her for her money. That all I wanted from her was access to her family. The connections she could make for me. That Iamjust like Allister, only worse because I’m just a working-class guy from Fenway. Nothing about me is special. Nothing about me makes me even remotely worthy of someone like her.
While everyone was busy watching the island, I snuck my way back onto Manhattan and into my apartment where I proceeded to hunker down like I was waiting out a natural disaster. Kept my blinds closed. Black out curtains drawn. Watched ESPN on mute. Barely showered. Hardly ate. Slept on the couch when I was too exhausted to keep my eyes open. Let the flyers and take-out menus shoved under my door pile up. Let my phone go to voicemail. Stayed off social media.
At least I tried to.
I didn’t post. I didn’t check my DMs but I checked Millie’s Instagram page obsessively for anything new. Something. Anything that would give me a glimpse of her but there was nothing. Not even a Friday morning picture of her breakfast. It was like she’d disappeared, right along with me. I started to worry. Considered calling her father, just to make sure she was okay, but before I could drive myself completely crazy, I got a phone call.
Hello, Dean—this is Gabby Rinehart from the New YorkPost. We’d like to talk to you about the status of your relationship with Millie Blackwell. When she returned to New York this morning, she was alone. I was able to obtain a copy of a flight plan that has you returning four days prior to her—also alone. Look—the story is going to print today, with or without your side of things, so you may as well?—
I fast-pitched my phone into the wall.
That was two months ago
Two long, hellish months.
After Gabby from the Post ran her story—without comment from either Millie or me—other celebrity news outlets came out of the woodwork, wanting an exclusive. A few of the more unscrupulous outfits offered me money for my story.
What really happened on that island between you and Millie Blackwell?
Have you seen her since returning to New York?
