Page 45 of The Ex-Girlfriend Agreement

The shower provides temporary solace, hot water washing away the sand and sweat but doing nothing for the heaviness in my chest. By the time I emerge, dressed and composed, Brooke has also changed, her public face firmly in place—makeup perfect, hair styled, a sundress that reveals nothing of the emotional turmoil from earlier.

"We should go," she says, her voice carefully neutral. "Mom will wonder where we are."

"Right behind you."

The farewell brunch is held in the same beachside pavilion as the welcome dinner, though it feels like a lifetime has passed since that first evening. Circular tables are spread across the wooden deck, laden with tropical fruits, pastries, and champagne for mimosas. The newlyweds are at the center table, Taylor radiant in her happiness, James looking at her like she's the sun his world revolves around.

It's the kind of love I thought Brooke and I might have, once upon a time.

"There they are!" Linda calls, waving us over to where she sits with Robert and several relatives. "We were beginning to think you two were enjoying a private farewell brunch of your own."

The knowing smile she sends our way makes my stomach clench with guilt. If she only knew.

"Just running late," Brooke says smoothly, sliding into an empty chair. "Dean has some ranch business to attend to, so he's heading back early."

"Early?" Linda's smile fades, concern replacing it. "But I thought you were both staying until tomorrow."

"Change of plans," I explain, taking the seat beside Brooke. "One of my hands called with an issue that needs attention. Nothing serious, but better addressed in person."

It's a plausible lie, and one that prevents any awkward questioning. Robert nods in understanding—he's always respected my commitment to the ranch—while Linda seems less convinced but doesn't press.

"Well, that's disappointing," she says after a moment. "We were hoping to have dinner with you both tonight. Our last evening in paradise."

"I'm sorry to miss it." I reach for the coffee pot in the center of the table, pouring a cup for myself and, automatically, one for Brooke with just a splash of cream. "Rain check for the next family gathering."

The words are hollow—there won't be a next gathering, not for me—but they maintain the facade we've worked so hard to preserve. Beside me, Brooke accepts the coffee with a murmured "thank you," her fingers brushing mine in a contact that sends electricity up my arm despite everything.

The brunch unfolds in a blur of food I barely taste and conversations I'll never remember. I play my part with mechanical precision—laughing at the right moments, answering questions about the ranch, keeping up the pretense that Brooke and I are just fine, that my early departure is nothing but a minor inconvenience in our otherwise solid relationship.

Through it all, I'm acutely aware of Brooke beside me, her body language a study in controlled tension. To anyone else, she appears perfectly relaxed, the picture of a supportive girlfriend sending her man off to handle business. But I see the strain in her smile, the slight tremor in her hand when she reaches for her water glass, the way she laughs a beat too late at her cousin's joke.

As the brunch winds down, I make my rounds of goodbyes—hugging Taylor and shaking James's hand, promising to visit them when they return from their honeymoon, accepting hearty backslaps from Robert and his brothers. It feels final in a way I try not to examine too closely.

"I'll walk you out," Linda says as I finish my goodbyes, linking her arm through mine in a gesture that brooks no argument.

Brooke starts to rise, but her mother waves her back down. "Stay and finish your coffee, dear. I want a moment with Dean before he goes."

Alarm flickers in Brooke's eyes, but she subsides, watching as Linda leads me toward the resort entrance where a cab waits to take me to the airport.

"So," Linda says once we're out of earshot of the others, "want to tell me what's really going on?"

I keep my expression neutral. "Just ranch business, like I said."

"Dean." She stops, facing me with the directness I've always respected in her. "I've known you for four years. I'd like to think I can tell when something's wrong. Especially between you and my daughter."

My facade cracks slightly under her scrutiny. "It's complicated, Linda."

"Love usually is." She studies me, her gaze uncomfortably perceptive. "But that doesn't mean you run from it."

"I'm not running," I protest, though the words ring hollow even to my own ears. "I'm just…accepting reality."

"Whose reality? Yours, or the one Brooke has convinced herself is inevitable?" She shakes her head, disappointment clear in her expression. "I thought you were a fighter, Dean."

The gentle admonishment stings more than I expect. "I have fought. I've laid my heart on the line twice now, and twice she's chosen the safe path over us. At some point, you have to protect yourself."

Linda's expression softens with understanding. "She's scared. She always has been—of depending on anyone, of putting her heart in someone else's hands."

"I know that," I say, frustration bleeding into my voice. "I've always known that about her. But I can't force her to be brave, Linda. I can't make her choose me."

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