TRUE TO HIS WORD, VICIOUS waited for me at the subway every day at eight p.m. sharp. That’s when I’d appear from the freezing station and join him on my street. We would walk in silence.
At first, he tried talking to me about my day, my new job, my new boss, trying to milk info out of me about my life. I was having none of it. Finally, we settled into a routine where we didn’t say a word until I got to my door. Then, he’d watch as I fished out my key and opened it. Every day, exactly a second before I closed it behind me, he’d asked the same thing.
“Hear me out? Ten minutes, that’s all I’m asking.”
I’d say no.
And that would be the end of it.
After the first couple of weeks, he changed his script from “ten minutes” to “five minutes.” I still said no. I probably should’ve been more insistent about telling him to get lost and stop following me, but the truth was, it really was a bad neighborhood, and I was grateful for him seeing me to my door every night.
It surprised me, his determination and dedication to the cause, whatever that cause might be. We’d only spent a couple of days of bliss in bed together, so the fuel to his lust was bound to run out any day now, right?
A part of me still suspected it was just another one of his games. Vicious was a terrible loser. He’d proven this over and over again. When he wanted something, he took it, leaving bridges burned and scorched-earth battlefields behind him. I could only imagine what he had planned for Josephine now that he’d read the will.
I wasn’t sure what he wanted from me. Even more, I didn’t trust myself not to give it to him again. But it soothed my sore pride that he was there every day. Especially after Georgia. Still, not enough to hear him out.
A month after we moved out, Dean came by our new apartment. He looked good, if you liked the hot-shot, all-American Bradley Cooper look. Which I thought I did, but apparently, I was more of a brooding, all-consuming-jerk Colin Farrell type of girl. It was a Saturday, and I was just getting ready to go to the corner grocery. I swung my door open, and he stood there, with his huge smile and wavy Hollywood hair.
“Sweet Jesus! Dean,” I said, clutching the door tighter, remembering the Post-It note he’d left me. “If you’re here to taunt me, don’t worry, Vicious beat you to it, and he is pretty persistent.”
“Millie,” he said in a tsking tone, pushing my door open and walking in like he owned the place.
He was wearing a white turtleneck, dark denim, a gray tweed overcoat, and that I’m-better-than-you smirk the HotHoles were probably born with. Dean stopped when he spotted Rosie sitting on the couch, reading something on the old iPad her school had provided her. His eyes narrowed at her and mine narrowed at him.
Oh, no way.
“Well, hello, Rosie. You grew up to be eye-candy.” He winked at her. I gagged.
“Well, hello, Dean. You grew up to be an arrogant bastard.” She winked back at him, wiggled her shoulders in a sassy way and added, “No, wait, you were always an arrogant bastard. My bad.”
“Why are you here?” I demanded, swiveling Dean’s shoulders so he faced me. I didn’t like it. The electricity in the air when Dean looked at Rosie. It was the same thing I felt when I was standing next to Vicious.
I thought a lot about how I’d feel if Dean walked into my life again, especially since I’d started sleeping with Vicious. I thought I’d feel shame, hurt and regret, maybe even sadness. But with him standing in my living room, all I felt was anger and a little annoyance. He looked at me like we were strangers, not exes.
To some extent, we were both.
Dean trained his gaze back at me reluctantly, like Rosie was the reason why he’d come here in the first place. “Right. I just wanted to let you know that for what it’s worth, I fully support your relationship with Vic, and I’m not saying that because he kicked me out of New York to stay here and chase you like a puppy and begged me to talk to you.”
It sounded more rehearsed than a Broadway show.
I cocked an eyebrow at him and folded my arms over my chest. “You don’t care?”
He shook his head. There was something light about him. Not just his body language, but his expression too. I believed him.
“We were kids. He was jealous, and you were…” He licked his lips, considering his next word.
He was still my first. My first lover. My first boyfriend. My first sexual partner.
Dean’s eyes dropped down as he finished softly, “And you were with the wrong guy. I never should have stepped between the two of you, but I did, and I don’t regret it for a second. We were a good couple, Millie, but Vicious and you…”
Another pause. Rosie listened closely behind us. Her face told me she was pretty sold too. Dean just had it in him. The ability to sound genuine and believable, no matter what he said.
“You were obviously meant to be together. Even if I didn’t completely believe that before, I do now, because of the sacrifices he made for you. That’s a first. And a last. Give him a chance, Millie. He deserves at least that.”
I loved the silence that followed Dean’s speech. We all processed it. Everything that had been said. Without being dramatic, Dean told me that he was okay with what Vicious and I did. With what we were, and weren’t. With what we could have been or could be, if I still wanted to.
“You should probably stay for coffee,” Rosie said then, still reading on her iPad.
“Nah.” He shrugged, jerking me by my shirt into a big suffocating hug.
It felt nice.
It felt safe.
But mostly, it felt platonic.
“If I stay, I’ll hit on your sister, and that’d be really messed up, now wouldn’t it, Millie?” he whispered into my ear.
And just like that, the touching moment was gone.
I had a blast at my new job. Brent was talented and worldly and knew everything about everything. We talked art every day and got ready to throw another event, an exhibition in which we planned to show twenty contemporary paintings about nature and love.
One of those paintings was going to be mine.
And it was going to be quite interesting, too. It wasn’t a cherry blossom tree, like I’d thought I’d paint.
But it was definitely a true definition of the word love.
Rosie had started working as a barista again. She was feeling well. We ate pasta a lot, but sometimes bought ground beef and made meatballs. She understood how much the exhibition meant to me, so she let me paint into the late hours of the night while locking herself in our bedroom. (We only had one and we happily shared it.) I opened all the windows, even though it was still cold, and hoped for the best.
There were so many questions I wanted to ask Vicious. How come he was still in New York? What happened with his father? Was he poor now? Well, not poor, obviously. More like un-rich. And what were his plans for Jo?
But I bit my tongue and said nothing every time I poured myself out of the station and saw his tall, broad frame, wrapped in a delicious suit and overcoat. He’d nod curtly and join me as I walked.
Two and a half months after he started escorting me home, it happened. The inevitable moment I’d expected, but dreaded.