Rachel + Dean | a short story

The Story

Springtime in Paris. It was Rachel's favorite time, other than Christmas, in the city she called home. The sweetness of the bakeries nearby filled her bedroom as she readied for the morning and she couldn't help the nerves within her. Today's the day she'd agreed to a date. 8 months ― that's how long it's been since she'd given up on love, real love that is. She'd even expressed this to the man who asked her to a few hours of coffee and conversation, yet he didn't waver in his desire to make this happen. His gentle persistence eventually charmed her and she agreed, much to his delight and her hesitance. Now, with her modest, white cardigan covering the red dress she bought precisely for this occasion, she looked herself in the eye.
It's only coffee, don't get your hopes up, she thought with a certain amount of determination. It only brought her a broken heart before. She pushed away thoughts of that night and slipped on her shoes. Marc didn't like it when you wore these shoes, did he? Instead of immediately finding something he would found suitable, she kept them on and stood confidently in them, even for a moment. Walking down the narrow stairway to her front door, Rachel played simple show tunes in her ears. Marc never got why you loved this music so much, did he? Instead of playing the music he liked, she continued outside to her bike and began her ride. The bakeries still sang their sweet morning song and filled her lungs with an atmosphere only the smell of fresh bread and croissants can bring. Store doors rang their bell and indistinct conversations began in the park benches and pedestrians she rode past.
The cafe she'd agreed to meet her date wasn't too far off and butterflies began their dance within her. He's probably late you know. Marc was late all the time. With the pristine pastel colors of their agreed meeting place coming in sight, Rachel was surprised to find him standing right outside by the bike rack, looking for her. When their eyes met, his small grin widened and heat rose in her chest. She slowed to park her bike, trying to gather her thoughts. He waved briefly before walking towards her, his smile remaining present on his freshly shaved face. She struggled to look him in the eyes as she couldn't figure out what this was, so she looked to his clothes, only finding herself more flustered. He wore brown leather shoes that look expensive yet well worn with blue striped socks peeking from slim khaki pants. His baby blue button up fit his arms in a way that made her blush. He noticed and laughed a little, hoping to catch her attention.

"Rachel?" She finally looked up to his eyes and resisted the urge to run for the hills or melt right onto the sidewalk. Dean, with eyes greener than the perfect summer hillside and hair almost as crisp blond as hers, he looked at her with a look she'd never thought a man could give her. She was almost convinced such a look only existed in romance movies. Almost.
"Dean," she only spoke his name before bashfully looking away and biting her lip, "sorry."
"No need for apologies," she knew he was still smiling, so she managed the strength to look him in the face again. It was easier this time, "I'm really happy you came."
"Did you think I'd stand you up?" She asked with a bit of boldness.
"I wouldn't blame you if you did." He told her genuinely. "I've known you for so long, I can understand why you weren't so keen on this for a while." She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, almost embarrassed. Again, he noticed. "Don't feel bad."

After a few more words, they were greeted by the sights and sounds of Petite Maison de Café. Of all the coffee shops and cafes in Paris, this tiny, family-owned place was their shared favorite. He guides her to a corner table and insists on getting her drink for her, which, after some resistance, she agreed to. He didn't leave without pulling out her seat for her, and she sat with a familiar notion ringing in her ears. He doesn't even know how nice it is to have someone pull out your chair for you. Her chest lingered with warmth as she watched him at the counter, biting her lip to hold back the blushing in her cheeks.
As she had this moment to herself she reminisced on time she's known the man buying her drink. He was her first point of contact when arriving in Paris what seems like a century ago, and she can still remember the moment like it was yesterday. She was the newest hire at the company Dean worked for and he was told to get her from the airport. He was respectful and formal, as to be expected, but she couldn't dismiss how welcoming he came across. To this day he hasn't changed. It would make sense he is the one who comes in contact with clients whenever they work with the company because he's so people-minded. Little did she know she'd become one he would treat with a different kindness.
He returned with her drink and his grin widened with them making eye contact. Her heart practically skipped a beat. She gently reached for the cup and looked up, seeing that look on his face again. She couldn't help but laugh as she took a sip. It still blew her mind that someone could look at someone this way, and she secretly hoped she'd never get used to it.

"I'm sorry I'm not saying much," Dean says, "I just can't stop looking at you." She placed her cup back on the table, only watching her hands in fear of her face growing red again.
"Dean..."
"I-I know it's typical to say but, you," he sighs, "you're extraordinary." He looked like a little boy admiring his hero, so clear she placed it instantly.
"Oh, I don't know." Rachel tried to sound falsely modest, but it was hard to hide her disbelief. I'm just Rachel. What's so special about me?
"Rachel Diane Dyer, there is no one on the entire planet like you." He then states. "And I'm glad," he looks down briefly, "because I'm the only one blessed to share this moment with you."
"Dean, please." She breathes, biting her lip to hold back a sudden rush of emotion. "You're too sweet," She's always known him to be this way, yet when she's on the receiving end, it's hard to fathom.
"I only speak what I know to be true. I'd hope you've come to know that about me," This is true. He's not one to lie to anyone, whether friend or client. It's simply not his way.
"Oh, I know. It's just, um," It's as if the words melted from her tongue into the heat of her drink, leaving her subconscious entirely. He then sat back slightly, taking a deep breath. The look on his face changed. Dean adjusts his composure and looks at her again.
"I know what you've been through." This fact hit strangely her within her as if she didn't fully understand this until this moment. "I mean, I saw the way he treated you." The thought of it made his face twinge with disgust. Her stomach practically jumped through her skin. "You told me the things you've dreamt of for your life, and he didn't seem to fit into any of them."

She looked at her hands, taking it all in. Why would he want to be around me when I allowed such a toxic person to rule my life for so long? She could still remember every piercing dig he cut her soul with. He tore her to shreds and picked up her pieces to say he owned her, telling her that she would never do any better than him, even going as far as to say they'd treat her worse. And Rachel believed every word until that day. She shook off the memory in hopes of ignoring it, but the sensation caused a familiar hollowness to remain. Even 8 months after it all, she still had to remind herself she wasn't his anymore; his "truth" wasn't the truth. His curses and insults would ring so loud in her ears she had to scream to drown them out. Only recently have they quieted enough for her to hear someone tell her the truth, one she wasn't fully convinced of yet. And he sat right in front of her.

"Rachel."

He said her name in a way that made the hollowness lessen, even for a moment, and she finally looked back into his eyes. They didn't hold contempt, hatred, or a desire to use her for his gain, his satisfaction. They held something she hadn't seen in a long time, if ever at all. It was terrifying and wonderful and extraordinary to feel this way. What is this feeling?

"I see hope in your eyes." He said as if the question were written clear as day. "It looks good on you."

Then something remarkable happened at that moment, something he hadn't seen in years: she smiled. And not one of the forced, half-effort smiles you give to a stranger you make eye contact with. It wasn't one that covered a life falling apart behind the eyes. No, it was real. It was real and beautiful and... hopeful. His heart practically stopped entirely at the sight of it. In an act of bravery, he placed his hand on hers ever so gently. She only looked away to see it, and her smile only widened.
The rest of their time together seemed to fly by, and the end came far too soon for both of them. He insisted on walking her home, and she accepted after some internal hesitation, but one look into his eyes dissolved it instantly. What is this man doing to me? They walked the street to the tune of afternoon birds and bakeries still breathing their irresistible smell into her lungs. During their conversations, she was tempted to bring up the man who was determined to scar her from every experiencing something good again. It felt natural to self-sabotage something like this. You'll never do better than Marc. He was everything to you. Yet Dean told her about his family, and what they watched every year during the holidays, and she swallowed that urge in order to listen. She even managed to dream of being apart of the festivities with them.
After a sweet goodbye, and watching him walk away for a moment, she went inside pondering the words that stuck with her the most. "I see hope in your eyes. It looks good on you." She made it up the stairs before warmth rose in her chest. Hope, she pondered, it's nice to have it again.

And hope she did.

The End...
for now