Page 116 of Still Beating

“Thanks,” I say. “I love it. It keeps me present—in the moment, you know?”

She nods. “I’ve been thinking about getting a tattoo to honor Matthew. Maybe Hope’s name weaved into a butterfly. Butterflies make me smile.” Tabitha takes a sip of her coffee, swallowing it down and braving her next question. “Have you talked to Dean recently?”

My heart beats faster at the mere mention of him.Oy. “Here and there,” I tell her, shifting back into the booth and fidgeting with my dress belt. “He texts me sometimes to see how I’m doing. He left me a nice voicemail on my birthday in August.” I chuckle then, thinking about our last interaction on social media. “He recently tagged me in this article showcasing the world’s greatest pranks and practical jokes. He said he was taking notes.”

Tabitha grins over her cup, tickling Hope’s toes when the baby squeals beside us. “That’s great, Cora. I’m glad it hasn’t been complete radio silence.”

Me, too. I wasn’t sure what to expect in those initial months after he left—I wasn’t even sure what Iwanted. They say ‘out of sight, out of mind’ is the key to healing, but I never felt like I needed to heal from Dean. I needed to heal from myself. And I couldn’t imagine a future in which he simply didn’t exist anymore.

So, the occasional contact has been refreshing. We never let our conversations get emotional or veer into any intimate territory. He checks in. I check in. We send a funny meme here and there.

We stay connected.

Tied, but with a loose grip.

It’s enough for now.

I’m just not sure if it always will be.

Tabitha gives Hope a wafer to gum when the baby begins to fuss, and we continue our chat over coffee and giggles. Time runs away from us, as it usually does during our monthly get-togethers, and Tabitha needs to head out for a doctor’s appointment. When we hug goodbye, I feel her arms encompass me in an extra tight squeeze, her breath whispering against my ear.

“You’re such an inspiration, Cora. The true meaning of hope.”

Tears rim my eyes as we pull back, and I offer her a watery smile. “The feeling is very mutual.”

I watch the two girls depart the café, returning the wave Tabitha sends me as they disappear down the sidewalk. I grab my purse, about to follow her out, when I remember I wanted to bring home two puppuccinos for Jude and Penny—which is basically a cup filled with whipped cream.

What to know what else is whipped? Me.

I laugh at the absurdity of carrying home cups of whipped cream in my purse for my dogs, and shuffle over to the counter. I hear the door jingle behind me as I order, then I move off to the side and wait. When I collect the two cups and make sure the lids are sealed tight, I spin around and collide into a hard body.

“Oh! I’m so sorry.”

“Shit. Sorry.”

That voice.

We both look up, making eye contact, and I freeze.

Then I drop one of the two puppuccinos, sending a spattering of whipped cream all over my boot. I feel like I should probably clean it up, but I can’t seem to take my eyes off him, and moving in general is definitely out of the realm of possibility.

Dean’s face is a mask of surprise, a little bit of wonder, and a hell of a lot ofoh, shit. “You dropped something.”

I blink, registering his words very slowly. When they sink in, I can’t help but release a small smile that only brightens when his own smile begins to stretch. “Did I?” I squeak out, feeling a strange mix of disbelief, awe, confusion, and potent familiarity.

“According to my pant leg, you did.”

I glance down, my face flushing with embarrassment as I take in the whipped cream dappling the leg of his jeans. When I look back up, the humor has faded, and neither of us make any attempt to clean up the mess.

“You look amazing, Cora,” he breathes out, his eyes scanning over my healthy curves, shorter hair, and settling on the renewed sparkle in my eyes. “I didn’t even recognize you when I walked in.”

I duck my head, somewhat bashfully. “You’re just not used to seeing me in anything other than sweatpants,” I joke.

Dean is still studying me head to toe, but not in a sleazy way—it’s almost like he’s soaking me up. Reveling in all of my put-back-together pieces. “It’s not that.”

We both know it’s not that.

I swallow, trying to find the words I’ve so desperately wanted to say to him for eight long months, but now that he’s here, I feel tongue-tied. I nibble my lip, our eyes drawing back together. “You look good, too.”

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