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After a long, draining week at work and endless hours comforting my broken sister, I needed to get away. I was burnt out. So, on a whim, I bought a random plane ticket. Mexico was my escape—until I boarded the flight… and locked eyes with him.
Him—Dean, my sister Jolene’s ex-husband. The one man I never wanted to see again.
I could barely drag myself home after my shift. Every step felt like a battle, like I was carrying a heavy weight on my back. My body was screaming for rest, but my mind was just… numb.
My eyes burned from staring at a computer screen all day, and my lower back ached like I’d been bent over for hours.
When I glanced in the mirror, what stared back wasn’t me. It was someone else—someone worn out, someone who looked like life had taken more than it had given.
My skin was pale, dull. My hair, tangled in a messy bun, stuck out in all directions. My eyes, though, told the real story. They were dark, hollow—like I hadn’t slept in ages.
“A wilted flower,” I whispered, almost laughing at myself.
I splashed cold water on my face, desperate to feel something other than exhaustion. I took a deep breath. Another. I forced myself to smile, but it didn’t reach my eyes. No time for weakness. Not now. Not when Jolene was here.
“I’m home,” I called out, loud enough to carry down the hall.
From the bedroom, I heard it—the sound I was so used to by now. Sniffling. Soft and broken, like a balloon running out of air.
Jolene appeared in the hallway, wrapped in my old flannel robe. Her eyes were red, puffed from days of crying. A crumpled tissue was still clutched in her hand.
“Hey,” I said softly.
She nodded, wiping her nose. Her voice was gone—swallowed up by sadness. For the past month, it had been like this. A month since Dean left her, with no warning, no explanation—just a note on the kitchen counter and his key beside it. He couldn’t even face her. What a coward.
Since then, Jolene hadn’t eaten, barely slept. I did everything I could—talking late into the night, making her tea, holding her when she cried. Listening to the same questions over and over: Why me? What did I do wrong? Did he ever love me? But she never got answers.
And somewhere along the way, I stopped asking myself if I had anything left to give. I was running on empty. Who was taking care of me? Who cared for the one who cared for everyone else?
That night, after dinner—me trying to get her to eat while she pushed peas around her plate—I cleaned the dishes. Jolene curled up on the couch, her eyes distant, another storm brewing inside her.
Something inside me snapped. Or maybe it didn’t snap, maybe it just bent—bent until I couldn’t figure out what I was supposed to do anymore.
By morning, I had made up my mind. I packed a bag, called a cab, and headed to the airport. I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew I had to go. I couldn’t keep being everyone’s emotional sponge.
I walked up to the counter. “Give me the first ticket out of here,” I said, desperate.
“Cancún, Mexico,” the agent replied.
Perfect.
I smiled. Not a fake, strained smile, but a real one. For the first time in weeks, it felt like the weight had lifted a little.
Then, I boarded the plane.
And there he was.
Dean.
My stomach twisted in knots. Why him? Of all the people in the world, why did I have to see him now, here, of all places?
Cancún hit me with a wall of heat as soon as I stepped off the plane. The air felt thick and salty, like the ocean had climbed into the sky.
Sweat clung to the back of my neck as I made my way through the airport. The sun was too bright, the light bouncing off the pavement, making my eyes squint. I didn’t have a plan, not really. I just knew I didn’t want to be in Iowa anymore. That was enough for now.
People rushed by, speaking in fast Spanish that sounded like a song I couldn’t quite catch. I stared at the signs, the palm trees, the rows of taxis I wasn’t even sure were real taxis.
A man approached—a friendly-looking guy in his thirties, his shirt soaked with sweat. He spoke to me in rapid Spanish, gesturing to a dusty blue car parked nearby.
I nervously laughed, pulled out my phone, and typed into my translator app: I need a hotel.
The man read it, nodded, and pointed again at the car. “Sí, sí,” he said, grinning widely.
“Wow, full service,” I muttered as I handed him my bag.
He took it easily, tossing it into the trunk before flashing me another grin. But before I could reach for the door, the engine roared to life.
“Wait!” I shouted, reaching out.
Too late.
He hit the gas and sped off, my suitcase bouncing in the trunk like an afterthought. I stood frozen. My bag—my passport, my wallet, my clothes—gone.
I still had my phone, but the SIM card didn’t work here. No service. I was stranded.
The panic hit hard. My chest tightened, and tears blurred my vision. I sank onto the steps outside the airport, shaking and gasping for air.
And then, I heard it.
“Susan?”
Of course. Dean.
I looked up through my blurry, tear-filled eyes.
He stood a few feet away, holding a black duffel bag. Concern etched across his face. “Are you okay?”
“I just got robbed!” I shouted, wiping my face. “He took everything! My suitcase, my passport, my money—everything!”
Dean blinked. “What? Who?”
“I thought he was a cab driver,” I choked out. “I asked him for a hotel, he smiled, and then he just took off!”
Dean didn’t say anything at first, just stood there looking at me. Then he sighed, shaking his head.
“Alright,” he said. “Come on. Let’s go report it. We’ll fix this.”
I wanted to scream at him, tell him to leave me alone. But he was the only person I knew here. And I was too exhausted, too lost to refuse him.
The police station was small, hot, and smelled like coffee and dust. A fan in the corner spun lazily, doing little to move the thick air.
I sat, clutching my phone like a lifeline, as Dean talked to the officer behind the counter. He wasn’t just talking; he was talking. His Spanish was smooth, fluent, confident. He listed every detail about the man, the car, even the small scratch on the bumper.
I was stunned. Dean was the last person I’d ever imagined being calm and competent, but here he was, piecing together everything I had missed. He even remembered the license plate number.
When he returned to me, he had a small, tired smile. “They’ll find him by tomorrow,” he said. “They’ve seen this scam before. He won’t get far.”
For the first time in ages, I didn’t feel like I had to fix everything. Someone else was doing it. Carrying the weight I always carried alone.
Dean paused before speaking again. “Listen, you can stay in my hotel room tonight.”
I stared at him. “Seriously?”
“There are two beds,” he said quickly. “You don’t have your passport or money. It’s late. You need a place to sleep.”
I crossed my arms. “Fine. But no funny business.”
“I’m not a creep, Susan.”
We didn’t talk much as we drove to the hotel. It wasn’t far—just a plain, beige building with a glowing neon sign.
His room smelled faintly of clean sheets and coconut soap. I sat stiffly on the edge of one bed, unsure of what to do or where to put my hands. Dean sat on the other bed, staring at the floor. The silence felt like a thick, tight rope between us.
Finally, Dean broke the silence. “Why are you so angry with me?”
I laughed bitterly. “Are you really asking that?”
He looked at me, searching my face. “Yeah. I want to understand.”
“You left Jolene,” I snapped. “She’s been crying into my pillow every night. You broke her.”
Dean’s gaze softened. “I didn’t leave without saying anything. I told her the truth.”
“The truth?” I repeated, my voice rising. “What truth?”
Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “That we were growing apart. That we held on because we used to love each other. But that wasn’t enough anymore.”
“So you got bored,” I said, crossing my arms. “Decided to chase someone new.”
“No,” he said quietly. “I fell for someone else.”
I froze. My heart pounded. “Who?”
Dean didn’t look away. “You.”
The air between us thickened instantly. I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t know what to say.
“Don’t joke with me,” I finally said, my voice sharp, trying to cut through the tension.
“I’m not,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t planned. I didn’t mean for it to happen. But every time I saw you… it was different. I felt seen. I could breathe around you.”
I stood up quickly, the bed creaking beneath me. “So you blow up your marriage, and now you tell me this? Like it’s some kind of rom-com?”
He shook his head. “I’m not saying this hoping for anything. I’m saying it because for once, I wanted to be honest.”
I turned away, staring at the beige hotel wall. The silence pressed down again.
But inside, I was shaking. Not just from anger, but from something else. Something I didn’t want to admit.
Because the truth is, there had always been something. Little sparks I’d never dared to feed. Small moments when we talked too long at family dinners, or when our eyes lingered for a second too long.
I hated it. And I hated myself for not hating him enough.
“I need to sleep,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “We’ll deal with this tomorrow.”
But sleep didn’t come. Only the sound of the air conditioner buzzing and the constant pounding of my heart.
The next morning, the police called. They found my stuff. I packed without a word to Dean.
I couldn’t look at him—not without feeling something I wasn’t ready to feel.
Back in Iowa, everything was colder. Quieter. Jolene was still in my guest room, offering me a cup of tea and a silent nod when I arrived.
I scrolled through my phone later, stopping at Dean’s name. I stared at it for a long time, then, against every instinct, typed:
“How about coffee sometime?”
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was selfish.
But maybe it was honest. And right now, honesty was the only thing that didn’t feel like a lie.
