Page 36 of The Ex-Girlfriend Agreement

"Has she?" Linda tilts her head, considering me. "Because what I've seen this week is a woman who can't keep her eyes off you. Who laughs more freely when you're near. Who touches you when she doesn't need to, just because she wants the contact."

Hope flares briefly in my chest before I tamp it down. "She's a good actress."

"She's a terrible actress," Linda counters with a small laugh. "Always has been. Remember the Christmas pageant when she was ten? Worst Angel Gabriel in church history."

Despite everything, I smile at the memory Brooke shared with me years ago. "She told me about that. Said she forgot all her lines and announced 'Hey Mary, you're pregnant' instead of the proper verse."

"The point is," Linda continues, leaning forward, "Brooke isn't pretending when she looks at you like you hung the moon. That's real. What I don't understand is why you're both fighting it."

I run a hand through my hair, frustration bubbling up. "I'm not fighting anything. I told her last night that I never stopped loving her. That I'd compromise—split time between Colorado and New York, even move if that's what it took."

"And?"

"And she reminded me that this is all fake. Just pretend for her family's sake." The words taste bitter on my tongue.

Linda shakes her head, disappointment clear in her expression. "My stubborn, fearful daughter."

"She's not fearful," I find myself defending her automatically. "She's ambitious. Focused. She knows what she wants."

"Does she?" Linda's gaze is piercing. "Because from where I sit, she looks like a woman terrified of admitting what she really wants because it doesn't fit the plan she made for herself."

I don't have an answer for that. It's a perspective I hadn't considered—that Brooke's rejection might come from fear rather than indifference. But does it matter? The result is the same either way.

"You love her," Linda says, not a question but a statement. "Real love. The kind that survives two years of separation and still burns bright enough to bring you here, to play this exhausting game for her."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

"Then fight for her." Linda's voice is firm, brooking no argument. "Not with grand gestures or ultimatums. Fight by showing her there's a path where she doesn't have to choose. Where she can have her career and you."

"I tried that," I remind her. "She didn't want to hear it."

"Try again." Linda stands, moving to retrieve a box from the cooler—the boutonnières I was sent to collect. "Brooke has spent her whole life believing she has to earn love through achievement. That if she's not perfect, not successful enough, she'll lose what matters. It makes her run from anything that feels too important, too precious to risk."

She hands me the box, her hand lingering on mine. "Don't let her run this time, Dean. Not if you truly love her."

"And if she still chooses New York? Her career?" I can't quite keep the vulnerability from my voice.

Linda's smile is sad but knowing. "Then at least you'll both be choosing with your eyes open. No more pretending."

I take the boutonnières, Linda's words echoing in my mind as I head back to the groom's suite. Is she right? Is Brooke running not from me, but from the fear of having to choose at all?

The possibility changes nothing and everything. She still rejected me last night. Still made it clear this is just pretend.

But maybe—just maybe—there's more to it than I thought. Maybe beneath the carefully composed New York professional is the same Brooke who loved me once, who might love me still if she could find the courage to leap without a safety net.

The question is: am I willing to risk my heart one more time to find out?

As I rejoin the wedding party, watching the joyful chaos of the day unfold, I realize the answer is yes. Because despite everything—the hurt, the rejection, the two years apart—I do love her. Not the memory of her, but the woman she is now. The woman who still fits against me like she was made for my arms, whose laugh still makes my heart race, whose dreams I still want to see fulfilled—even if they don't include me.

I love her enough to try once more. And if she still walks away? At least this time, I'll know I fought for us with everything I had.

THIRTEEN

Dean

Weddings are strange things—celebrationsof love surrounded by people pretending to be happier and better dressed than they actually are. I stand at the edge of the reception, nursing a whiskey and watching Brooke laugh with her cousins across the room. She's breathtaking in her bridesmaid dress, a pale blue thing that brings out the gold in her hazel eyes, her dark hair swept up to expose the elegant curve of her neck. Every now and then, her gaze drifts to find me, a question in her expression that I pretend not to see. After last night's confession and rejection, I can't afford to give her more of myself without some sign she's ready to meet me halfway.

The ceremony itself was picture-perfect—sunset on the beach, Taylor radiant in white, her groom looking at her like she hung the moon. I stood with the other groomsmen, listened to vows about forever and partnership, and tried not to think about what might have been if Brooke had been brave enough to fight for us two years ago. If I had been wise enough to follow her to New York instead of stubbornly believing she'd come back to me.

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