Prologue

Dean

Now

"Dean, Dean Martin!"

The pain was instant as I turned to look in the direction of the voice. It wasn't the person shouting my name that made it painful—but the memories it recalled. Rob, an old frat buddy of mine, was approaching on the street. He was far from the drunken, disheveled mess he was in college. Though he was dressed for business, he looked out of place on the streets of New York—like he didn't belong—yet he strode up to me with an air of confidence as if he owned Manhattan.

"Hey, man," I greeted with a handshake and half-hug. "Apparently, New York didn't get the memo to keep your Texan ass out."

He gave me his signature ‘I know shit you don't know' smirk with his reply. "Dean Martin, did you really think you would be the only good-looking, successful, rich man to come out of Austin?"

"No, but I knew you damn sure wouldn't make the cut—at least in the good-looks department."

"Ahhh, but what are looks when you can buy affection?" he sighed, patting me on the back in condolence. "To me, you had it the worst because they wouldn't leave you alone. When you are only semi-good-looking, it's not an issue."

We walked for a few minutes as he caught me up on my other old frat buddies and their progress. I hadn't bothered to accept their invitations to catch up on annual trips. I'd been too busy trying to finish medical school when they were starting their careers.

We stopped at a coffee vendor as Rob told me he was only in New York to pitch an idea for his ad agency back in Dallas.

"You do remember Dallas, right? The place that you fled from?"

It was an instant tear, a recognition that life hadn't stopped back home because I'd left there. His presence alone felt like a confrontation of what I'd left behind—a confrontation I'd avoided for so long, I could no longer ignore it. Though that slap in the face had already occurred twice in the last few years, having Rob in front of me shook me to my core.

"I've been back once or twice. But I had plans, bro. Unlike you, slacker. Did you say you were in advertising?"

"Nope, I said I owned a firm. It's small but growing. This campaign, I decided to land myself. It really could be a big break for me." He looked slightly winded as he spoke, and I secretly hoped it worked out for him. Rob was a good guy, always had been. He looked up at me and shook his head before looking around the crowded street.

"You know, as much as you talked about coming here, I always thought you would stay back home, marry Dallas, have kids, the dog, that kind of thing."

His words were like razor blades tearing into my resolve, provoking that sinking feeling I thought I'd rid myself of. The mention of her name paralyzed me with guilt and awareness. I shrugged my shoulders, shoving my hands in my pockets. "Yeah well, we were young, and she's probably doing all that right now." I walked faster, trying to mask the sting in my chest.

"No, she isn't," he said, throwing his cup in the trashcan beside me. "I saw her last month at a restaurant. Jesus Christ, she is fine as hell, and no band on her left hand. She's working at Memorial."

Every single fiber of my being lit up in recognition as I stared at him as though he told me Santa was, in fact, real and it was Christmas Eve.

Rob's brows lifted as he gave me his famous grin. "And I can see you weren't interested in that information at all."

"She's good, then. That's good."

Jesus, Dean, your heart is pounding.

"Yeah, man, she's really good." He gave me a careful look as I stayed motionless on the sidewalk. "So, let's go have a beer after my meeting and after your day?"

"Yeah, sounds good," I replied, knowing it wouldn't happen. My whole world had just been rocked by what he'd told me. I felt my pulse skyrocket as I pushed through a hasty goodbye, giving him my cell number, then headed toward my building. Every muscle in my body was suddenly weak, my movements were pushed and deliberate.

Unrelenting shocks of pain and recognition coursed through me as I heard her voice in a whisper through my racing thoughts.

"I'll still love you."

Those words tore through me for the hundredth time as I tried to take a calming breath. I stopped mid-stride down the corridor between patient rooms as I tried to slow my heart rate.

"Dr. Martin," Lori, my nurse, addressed me. I raised my hand in protest and averted my eyes so she could not see the panic on my face .

"Lori, cancel my next two appointments—no—" I swayed on my feet as I reached reception, feeling the cold sweat as it seeped from my every pore "—cancel my day."

"Dean," she questioned in alarm as I gripped the counter, "are you okay?"

"I'll still love you in a week, in a month, and in three years. I'll still love you for the rest of my life."

"Yes," I gritted out as my chest constricted.

Fuck, was I having a heart attack?

Without thinking, I looked to her in question as if she knew my racing thoughts.

"Oh, God, Dean. You are white as a sheet. Sit down right now." Unable to get it together, I let her lead me to one of our patient rooms.

I felt the squeeze on my arm as she took my vitals.

"Jesus, Dean, your BP is off the charts. Look at me," she commanded. "Any pain?"

"No, I mean, not really," I answered as cold sweat covered me.

"Yes or no? Let's get you to Dr.—"

I shook my head before she had a chance to finish. "No, it's not a heart attack."

She looked at me with her jaw set. "You don't know what it is."

"Yes, I do. I'll be fine. Just give me a few minutes, and please just cancel the appointments."

She looked me over as I began to come down, then eyed me with concern.

We both knew it was a panic attack, but she wanted to save my dignity. I rewarded her by ordering her to leave the room.

When my heart slowed faintly—and I was able to walk—I stumbled out of the building and out into the unforgiving streets of New York. My shoulder met with another, then another, as I tried and failed to find stable footing. The pedestrians I crashed into gave me gracious ‘fuck yous' with their glares in lieu of concern.

Racing across a sea of concrete and crossing into Central Park, I kept walking until I was finally close to alone. I had no destination, and that was the problem. I had done everything I had set out to do. I no longer had a compass.

Wandering aimlessly through the park, I was flooded with memories I could not process—words, whispers, smiles, and touches that rocked me with every desperate gulp of air. I had been working toward this last year of my career my whole life. It had come and gone, yet nothing had changed. The emptiness I'd felt for years suddenly resurfaced with aggressive vengeance, determined to take every single sense of accomplishment away from me.

I'd lived the last few years of my life buried in regret. My purpose had been simple, my goals were singular in nature, and I'd gotten it all wrong. Exhausted and perplexed, I sat on a park bench, watching the world shift as I sat still in my torment.

I'd done nothing… nothing to deserve her loyalty, yet in my racing heart, she still belonged to me. In my mind, she was still there, reminding me to breathe and that I still breathed for her.

Could she still feel me the way I still felt her? In my bones, in my blood, in the very depths of who I was, she remained.

My dad always used to tell me he didn't remember his twenties. He'd said that he'd been so damn busy trying to prove himself to a world that didn't give a shit about him that he'd forgotten to live, to look around him. I had lived my twenties the same damn way. Even with his warning, I'd foolishly followed his path, and now I was drowning in a similar fate. I ripped my tie from my neck and pocketed it as I ran my hands through my hair .

You cannot go back, Dean.

"Fuck," I muttered as I fisted the sides of my head, wishing for one more minute with my dad. Just a gesture, a knowing smile, something, I needed…anything.

But it really wasn't my dad's words that I needed—it was her words I needed to believe.

"I'll still love you."

It was her, had always been her, and would always be her.

You cannot go back, Dean.

Hours passed as I sat in the freezing park, welcoming the cold into my lifeless bones to numb me. I had the world I wanted. The world I'd worked so fucking hard for. It was all there. The career I'd dreamt of was waiting for me just a few blocks away, and yet I couldn't move to get back to it. I couldn't shake the thought that it meant absolutely nothing.

This was empty. This was nothing.

Ignoring my vibrating phone, I mindlessly watched the faces of those who walked by, wondering if they were happy. How much could you tell about a person by watching them in a park?

When they glanced back at me, did they see the successful lie I had become? Or did they see the broken shell of a man who no longer had any desire at all—not in my career, my life, or in love?

No, it was a craving that fueled me now. I had to know. My whole being wouldn't let me rest another minute until I had the answer to the question I so desperately needed to ask.

But I was going back.

I had to know for her, for me, for my sanity.

"I'll still love you."