Page 42 of The Ex-Girlfriend Agreement

The realization isn't really a surprise after last night, but in the clear light of morning, it lands with the weight of absolute certainty. This isn't nostalgia or convenience or the magic of a Hawaiian vacation. This is real and enduring, a love that survived two years of deliberate neglect, that rekindled from the smallest spark into something consuming.

I move quietly to the balcony, sliding the door closed behind me to avoid waking him. The morning air is warm, heavy with salt and the sweet scent of tropical flowers from the gardens below. The ocean stretches to the horizon, vast and unchanging, while inside me, everything shifts and realigns around one central truth: I love Dean McAllister.

And I'm terrified of what that means.

Because loving Dean isn't simple. It never has been. It means reconciling two lives that exist on opposite sides of the country. It means compromise—a word that has always felt like surrender to me, like giving up pieces of myself I've fought too hard to claim.

What would it look like, practically speaking? Dean on his ranch in Colorado, me in my Manhattan apartment with the view I worked sixty-hour weeks to afford? Weekend visits spent in airports and goodbyes that never get easier? That's not sustainable. One of us would have to bend, eventually. One of us would have to give up the life we've built.

And despite what I said last night, despite the love coursing through me, I'm not sure I'm ready to be that person.

My job is finally where I want it to be—senior enough to lead projects, to have real input, to see my ideas realized. I've built a network in New York, professional relationships that took two years to cultivate. My apartment, small as it is, feels like mine in a way no place has since I left home for college. I have routines, favorite coffee shops, a yoga studio where the instructor knows my name.

Could I give all that up for Colorado? For a life on Dean's ranch, miles from the nearest city, surrounded by open space that once felt freeing but now seems isolating?

Would Dean really move to New York, as he suggested? And if he did, wouldn't he grow to resent the crowded streets, the constant noise, the absence of the land that is as much a part of him as his own heartbeat?

The questions swirl in my mind, each leading to another with no clear answers in sight. This is why I ran two years ago. Not because I didn't love him enough, but because I couldn't see a path forward that didn't require one of us to sacrifice too much.

"You're thinking too loud."

I turn to find Dean leaning against the balcony doorframe, wearing only his jeans from last night, hair mussed from sleep. His expression is guarded, as if he can read the doubt written across my face.

"Sorry," I say, hugging my arms around myself despite the warm morning. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't." He steps onto the balcony, keeping a deliberate distance between us. "But waking up to an empty bed after last night wasn't exactly what I was hoping for."

Guilt flushes through me. "I just needed some air. To think."

"About us," he says, not a question.

I nod, unable to lie to him now. "About what happens next. About how we make this work in the real world."

Dean leans against the railing, eyes on the ocean rather than me. "And what conclusions have you reached in your early morning crisis session?"

There's a hint of bitterness in his tone that I can't blame him for. How many times have I pulled away after getting close? How many times has he opened himself up only for me to retreat?

"I meant what I said last night," I start, needing him to know that much at least. "I do love you, Dean."

"I hear a 'but' coming."

"Not a 'but.' More like…questions. Concerns." I move to stand beside him at the railing, our shoulders not quite touching. "I don't know how to reconcile our lives. Your ranch, my job. Colorado, New York. They're so far apart, in every sense."

He's quiet for a long moment, the only sound the distant crash of waves and birdsong from the gardens below. When he finally speaks, his voice is measured, controlled. "We've been here before, Brooke. Two years ago. Same concerns, same fears. Nothing's changed."

"That's not true," I protest. "I've changed. You've changed. We both have lives we've built, identities separate from each other."

"And that's the problem?" He turns to face me now, eyes searching mine. "That we've grown independently? Most people would see that as a strength, not an obstacle."

"It's not about—" I stop, frustrated by my inability to articulate the tangled mess of emotions inside me. "I just don't see how we fit these pieces together without one of us giving up too much. Without resentment building over time."

Dean runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration I remember well. "This is why you left the first time. Because you couldn't imagine a solution that didn't require sacrifice."

"Can you?" I challenge. "Honestly, Dean, can you see a way forward that doesn't end with one of us compromising what matters?"

"Yes," he says without hesitation. "Because what matters most to me is you, Brooke. Everything else—the ranch, Colorado, the life I've built there—it's important, but it's not essential. Not like you are."

His words hit me with unexpected force, the simple truth of them cutting through my complicated fears. "I can't ask you to give up your ranch," I say softly. "It's your dream. Your father's legacy."

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