Page 39 of The Heartbreaker Next Door

It wasn’t until the third time a stranger referred to Dean as “your husband” that I realized how we must have looked. I quickly corrected her by saying he was, “just a friend, not even that, really…he’s my boss and it’s just for the event…” but my cheeks burned every time. The truth was, a not-insignificant part of me wanted to see what it would look like if we were a real team. If there was a “we.”

Turns out, when you spend enough time pretending to be a family, something in your mind starts to forget it’s an act. I wasn’t prepared for how much I liked the mental snapshot of the three of us—me, Dean and Maverick—moving as a unit. Not just for the scavenger hunt, but for the weird, ineffable things: how we’d instinctively cluster together in the shade while tallying points, or the way Dean’s hand would find Mav’s shoulder to keep him from darting into the next clue station, or how Maverick kept looking up at Dean after each accomplishment, hungry for approval, and how (miracle of miracles) Dean always gave it, if only with a subtle nod or a low, “Nice work, little man.” I was supposed to be immune to fantasizing about this kind of domesticity, but the more I watched them, the harder it became to keep my imagination locked down.

The rest of the day passed in a Technicolor blur. The scavenger hunt led straight into a flurry of icebreaker games on the lawn, then into a raucous, slightly chaotic cookout on the long barn tables that I’d covered in brown paper and artfully arranged buckets of crayons. Maverick, naturally, took this as an invitation to create a full-scale mural featuring stick-figure horses and a very detailed, slightly disturbing rendering of a cowboy duel, which I only noticed after he narrated it for a circle of new friends, complete with sound effects.

After the food vanished, families dispersed to try out their chosen activities: pony rides, roping lessons (which quickly devolved into an impromptu lasso-throwing contest between rival dads), and goat yoga.

It was during the marshmallow break, while Maverick inhaled his body weight in sugar and then ran off to the obstacle course, that I caught a fragment of conversation that lodged in my chest like a splinter. Mav, mid-explanation to a new friend from the next town over, said, “No, Dean’s not my real dad, he’s better because if he says he’s going to do something, he does it.”

I felt the words like a physical blow. I wanted to correct him, to reassert boundaries, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

So I busied myself with refilling hot chocolate urns and herding foam-sworded children toward the s’mores pit. I was so distracted, I almost missed it when the dusk fell hard and fast, the temperature dropping by ten degrees in as many minutes, and suddenly the entire festival crowd migrated to the bonfire circle for the evening program.

We arranged the hay bales in a big horseshoe around the fire, with the kids crammed front and center and the adults pretending to be interested in the local bluegrass band but mostly catching up on gossip.

Mav wedged himself between Dean and me, hands already sticky with marshmallow residue, and announced, “I want to sleep out here tonight.”

The suggestion set off a chorus of copycats, and before I knew it, every child in a five-mile radius was plotting a group campout.

Dean, to his eternal credit, didn’t flinch. He just raised one eyebrow at me, as if to say, “Is this a you problem or a me problem?” It felt, for a moment, like a secret language.

Thankfully, the end-of-day tiredness hit Maverick like a freight train. That or he was coming down off a sugar rush. He tried to fight it, propping his elbows on his knees and nodding along to the music, but the more he struggled, the heavier his eyelids became. The minute the ghost story segment started—some overzealous teen volunteer narrating a slightly-too-scary tale about the haunted stables—Mav’s bravado evaporated. He pressed in closer to Dean, looking for comfort but too proud to ask. Dean didn’t say a word, he just moved his arm and Mav climbed into his lap. The sight had my ovaries exploding. I had to look away because I was scared I’d get spontaneously impregnated. It was too much.

I tried to focus on the story, but really I was watching Dean, wondering what it cost him to give this much. His face in the firelight was half-shadow, half-softened, and for the first time since I’d met him, I saw him not as the unflappable Lockhart, not as the numbers guy or the boss or the problem fixer, but as a man with a big heart beneath the facade and the capacity to love.

The story ended, the crowd applauded, and one by one, families peeled away toward their cabins or tents, towing groggy children in their wake. When I turned to tell Mav it was time to go, I found him sound asleep on Dean’s chest. His breathing was slow and deep, his hand clutching Dean’s shirt.

I moved to scoop him up, but Dean stood, lifting Maverick in his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world. He carried him directly to the cabin Mav and I were staying in. Mav’s head lolled against his shoulder, and when I tried to offer help, Dean shook his head, a silent, “I’ve got this.” He didn’t say it to impress me, or to make a show for the world, he just did it, because that was who he was.

Something inside me cracked open, just a little. I was screwed, and not in the fun way. The kind of screwed you only realize too late, when your heart has already decided something your brain hasn’t signed off on. I didn’t want to give in, but I also didn’t want to let go of the feeling—the safety, the warmth, the possibility of belonging that had, somehow, infiltrated my defenses.

Dean managed to carry Mav through the crowd, open the cabin door and lay him down without waking him. It was top-grade parenting if I’d ever seen it. Then I grabbed his pajamas mouthed “thank you” to Dean, who nodded and slipped back out quietly. After I changed him, and tucked him in, I found myself restless and stepped out onto the porch to get some air.

I was surprised to see Dean standing there, arms crossed, staring up at a sky so star-choked it didn’t look real. He remained facing forward, and didn’t acknowledge me when I joined him, but I knew he knew I was there. I stood beside him, silent for a beat, then two.

Finally, I spoke out loud the same sentiment I’d mouthed. “Thank you. For today. For everything.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched the stars, his jaw working, like he was trying to bite down on words he’d never meant to say.

“You’re welcome,” he said, voice rougher than usual. “You did all the hard stuff.”

I let out a laugh that sounded smaller than I intended. “You have no idea how much it helps, having backup.” The air between us was thick with things unsaid.

Dean turned to me, close enough that I could see the strain in his eyes, the places where exhaustion and yearning fought for dominance. “You make it look easy,” he said. “But I know it’s not.”

I looked away, blinking hard at the darkness. “It’s not. But it’s worth it. He’s worth it.”

Beside me, out of my peripheral I saw Dean nod, like he understood, but there was something else in his expression—longing, maybe, or regret. He reached out and, for a second, I thought he might touch my face. Instead, he brushed a strand of hair behind my ear and let his hand drop.

I wanted to say more. I wanted to ask if it was as hard for him as it was for me, this business of pretending not to want what was so obviously right there. But I couldn’t. There was no point. We both knew this wasn’t a good idea.

So we stood in silence, side by side, two people who knew better, watching the sky.

But the problem was, I knew I was already gone.

13

RULES, BOUNDARIES, AND BROTHERLY BODYGUARDS