“Crystal, Dean lives here too. There’s not enough room for the three of us.” I don’t think there’s enough room in Mirror Lake for the three of us.
Dean and Crystal have only met once—for about an hour when we were living in LA. I’d heard from Aunt Stella that Crystal was staying in Riverside, so I contacted her to tell her I was married and ask if we could see her.
We met at a diner in Riverside for lunch. Though Dean already had an intense dislike for Crystal from the things I’d told him, he’d made an effort to be polite. Crystal was faintly hostile, annoyed that I hadn’t told her I was getting married, and then defensive when I’d said I hadn’t known where she was.
All in all, it hadn’t gone well. Since then, Dean has not given a damn where Crystal is or what she’s doing, as long as she stays far away from me.
I look at the clock. My stomach is tight.
“I’ll help you find a hotel room, if you want,” I tell her as I go to the door. “But you can’t stay here.”
I step onto the landing and close the door behind me before going downstairs. Not five minutes later, Dean crosses the street toward the building and opens the foyer door. Warmth fills his expression when he sees me, but his smile fades as he recognizes something is wrong.
“What?” he asks.
I grab his arm and lead him outside, where I know my mother can’t overhear us. My heart seizes with nervousness. I take a breath before speaking.
“Dean, my mother is here.”
“What?” His eyes flash, his body stiffening with that protective instinct I know so well. “When did she arrive?”
“A couple of hours ago.”
“What’s she doing here?”
“She said she wanted to see me.”
“Sure, after all these years, she wants to see you.”
My stomach roils at the irritated tone in his voice. And, unexpectedly, I experience a surge of hurt at the implication that my mother does not, in fact, want to see me.
“Where is she?” Dean asks.
“Upstairs.”
He reaches for the door. I grab his arm.
“Dean, don’t.”
“I want to talk to her.” He yanks his arm from my grip and pulls open the door.
“No!” The word comes out like a bullet, surprising both of us.
He stops and turns to face me. I reach for his arm again. My heart is racing.
“I can handle it,” I tell him. “She asked to stay here, but I told her she couldn’t.”
“Damned right she can’t,” he snaps. “How much money does she want to get the hell out of town?”
“She… she hasn’t asked for any money.”
“She will.” His expression is set hard, all the warmth from just minutes ago dissolved into anger. “Give her whatever she wants, then tell her to go.”
“Dean.” I can’t untangle the emotions spinning through me… lingering shock and confusion that my mother is here, and frustration that my husband is issuing dictates about what I should do.
“I can handle this myself,” I say, my own voice hardening. “She’s my mother. I don’t need you to tell me what to do.”
Irritation darkens his eyes. “Find a hotel room for her. I’ll pay for it, since I doubt she can afford it. I don’t want her near you.”
“Dean! Stop it.” Though I understand the root of his anger—God knows I’ve felt the same thing toward my mother over the years—I’m overcome by the need to keep him out of it, to prove to both him and myself that I can handle it.
I have a sudden flashback to the times I’ve witnessed Dean’s rage toward people he views as a threat—his brother, Tyler Wilkes—and how everything leading up to those encounters and their aftermath almost broke us apart.
Fear stabs through me. Somehow, I manage to get myself between Dean and the door. I put my hands on his chest to keep him from pushing past me.
“Look, I’m going back upstairs,” I tell him. “You go back to the hotel. It’s getting late, so she might stay for one night, but that’s it. I promise, I’ll find a place for her to stay tomorrow.”
His jaw clenches. “I’m coming home tomorrow.”
Of course he is. He’s going to swoop down and spread his eagle wings around me, even if I don’t want to hide behind them anymore.
I’m struck by an unpleasant sense that how we both approach this new situation is critical. I curl my fingers into the lapels of Dean’s coat and yank him toward me.
“Dean.” My voice is stern and unwavering. “Look at me.”
He does. His eyes are still glittering with anger and determination, his mouth compressed into a line. I use all my strength to give him a hard shake.
“Stop it,” I snap. “Just stop it. I’m not a child anymore, and she can’t hurt me the way she once did. Have you forgotten that I walked away from her when I was thirteen years old? I did that by myself. And you sure as hell are not coming home just because she’s here, just so you can stand guard.”