“What’s that look?” Dean asks.
“I’m just . . .” I tug my bottom lip between my teeth. “Maybe I should go out with Vince.”
Dean coughs on his beer. “You’re fucking kidding me, right? Dude’s a total tool.”
I shrug. “There’s not exactly a long line of guys begging to buy me a drink.”
“It’s because they don’t think you’re interested. You might as well have leave me the fuck alone tattooed on your forehead.”
“If that’s true, Vince hasn’t seemed to notice.”
“That’s why Vince notices. He loves that about you. If he got you to date him, he’d have something no other guy in this town can have. He eats that shit up.”
Something no other guy in town can have. I glare at him. It’s one thing to soften the truth. It’s another to spout total bullshit. “Don’t condescend to me.”
“I’m not. That’s who Vince is.”
That isn’t what I meant, but I just shrug and sip my drink.
Dean’s phone buzzes again, and he sighs as he looks at it. “It was good to see you, champ, but I’ve gotta head out.” He slides off the stool and looks me over as he slides his phone into his pocket. “No dates with Brunetti, got it?”
I roll my eyes. “If you promise not to hook up with Amy.”
I can tell by his grimace that he can’t make any such promise, and my stomach sinks. Dean deserves better than a cheating thrill-seeker who doesn’t return his feelings.
He bops my nose with one finger. “Don’t worry about me, ’kay?”
Too late. “Be safe,” I murmur, and my chest actually aches as I watch him walk away. I tell myself I’m only worried about him. I want better for him than a woman who will lead him on and break his heart over and over again. This tug is concern. It’s definitely not jealousy, definitely not longing for the guy I know better than to let myself want.
* * *
Dean
The biggest mistake I ever made was falling in love with my best friend’s ex-wife. My second biggest mistake was caving to loneliness one drunken night after we’d called it all off. In a moment of weakness, I texted to let her know I was DTF, no strings necessary, and now we’re back to the same fucked-up patterns we had months ago.
I pretend to sleep while she sneaks out of my bed for the thousandth time. I could sit up and turn on a light so she doesn’t have to stumble around in the dark. I could tell her to cancel the Uber I already know is on its way to my door and confess that I only do this because I’d rather have her scraps than nothing at all.
Instead, I bury my face in my pillow and listen to the sounds of her leaving—too afraid that my battered ego and splintered heart might shatter if I had to see the pity in her eyes.
I need to cut this off. I need to say no the next time she asks me to meet her for a drink, the next time she texts to say her date is boring and she can’t stop thinking about me, the next time she calls and tells me exactly where she wants my hands and mouth . . .
“Move,” she whispers to my dog. “Go on. Get out of the way.”
Trixie whines. She’s always loved Amy more than Amy loved her. I know what that’s like. But unlike Trixie, I won’t beg. I stay perfectly still until the bedroom door clicks closed behind Amy.
Only when I hear the thump of the front door opening and closing do I roll to my back and turn on the light to face my empty bedroom. The mess of discarded clothes on the floor—including the black satin underwear she left behind—the empty bottles of wine, and the lamp we knocked to the floor in our haste to get to the bed.
I climb out of bed to clean up and ignore the weighty sense of déjà vu settling over me.
“You deserve better than her. So much better.” Abbi’s words echo in my head. A lie delivered with such conviction that I would’ve believed her if she’d been talking to someone else.
This is my life. Inviting Amy in, hoping she’ll stay, and finding myself alone to pick up the pieces. I close my eyes and promise myself, yet again, that this is the last time.
Chapter Two
Abbi
“Is that my brother’s arm?” Stella asks, shoving her phone in front of my face. “Please tell me that’s not my brother’s arm.”
I drop my rag and take the phone, frowning at it under the fluorescent kitchen lights. “This is Amy’s Instagram,” I say needlessly.
“Tell me I’m losing my mind,” she says, tossing her long red hair over her shoulder. “Tell me that’s not Dean’s arm.”
Frankly, I’m surprised Stella follows my ex-sister-in-law on any social media, but I sigh and study the picture and the big hand and muscular forearm wrapped around Amy’s middle. Amy cropped his face and body out of the image, but I know without a doubt that hand and arm belong to Dean Jacob. The caption reads, Moms Just Wanna Have Fun! Great weekend with great friends but glad to have my baby girl back home.