Page 72 of When We Crash

On the terrible days, my thoughts were full of Dexter Andrews. After all the time spent away from him, convincing myself it was for the best, I could still remember—with heated skin—the night I lost my innocence.

He’d likely be back home, coming in from a day at the office, some blonde Stepford wife rubbing his shoulders and taking his coat. Two angelic children running in to greet him. All four of them bowing their heads in prayer before eating a perfectly moist chicken.

Moist. Gross.

Who makes a perfect chicken?

She would, I thought with envy, hating the woman I was sure existed.

I set my book down and headed to my kitchen, opening the fridge. I knew it was as empty as my growling stomach.

And I imagined that moist fucking chicken that was probably delicious. With a groan, I slammed the fridge shut and stormed toward my closet.

As I buttoned up a previously discarded blouse, I requested an Uber. My driver was only a minute away and I yanked my coat from the rack I’d also gotten from the vintage shop around the corner, pulling it on as I locked up my apartment.

When the elevator stopped on my floor, I lifted the first set of doors from the ground and then slammed the second set across. While it was wonderful to live in a loft apartment, the elevator was annoying.

I hummed quietly to myself as it made its way down and grunted when I had to open the damn contraption again.

The city was bustling, and when my ride pulled up not a moment too soon, I sagged with relief. I looked out the window as we made our way. The bright lights still dazzled me, as did the many lives I ran into daily. Everyone was alive here. This was where I should’ve been from the beginning. Not as busy as New York but just as intense.

I thanked the driver and got out, standing outside my favorite restaurant. They’d be busy, but I was a regular.

Sure enough, the maître d’ smiled when he saw me, beckoning me forward, ahead of those waiting for a table. “Oh, Ms. Cruz. I thought you might be here tonight. I saved your table.”

“Thanks, Jorge. You’re the best,” I said with a smile.

“Anything for that beautiful mural you painted for my daughter’s bedroom. Head back. I’ll send Antonio your way.”

I nodded, still smiling. Maybe I couldn’t make the perfect chicken. But in one of the most prominent restaurants in my beautiful city, I was a regular.

I smiled smugly, having won at leastthatbattle with the blonde bimbo. I was busy envisioning us circling each other in a boxing ring when I bumped into someone. Apologies came profusely before I looked up.

The eyes that had seen me naked a little more than half a decade ago stared back at me.

And I felt naked all over again.

I crossed my arms over my chest and his eyebrows rose.

“Noa.” He didn’t bother asking where I’d been or even how I was. Didn’t bother sounding surprised.

None of that mattered in that moment, really. Dexter wasn’t a man of too many words. He dished them out like they were currency, only ever giving you what you needed, only ever affording that. But with me, he’d been the richest man. Full of explanations and words to soothe, words to make my heart ache.

That he only said my name now was both soothing and aching.

“Dexter Andrews.” I had the awful habit of referring to him by full name in my mind.

And in my memories.

I would never call him Dex. Not for my whole life.

Someone that beautiful deserved his entire name spoken, deserved the extra effort it took to say both syllables.

The rest of the world knew Dex. I knew Dexter. Dexter Andrews.

And I’d been hopeful enough to think I’d been the only one to know him that way.

“Dex—” a female voice started, then stopped when she noticed he hadn’t moved. She stepped from behind him, her smile at the ready. She was blonde, but my imagination hadn’t done her justice. “Oh, hello.”

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