I can feel Dean’s eyes burning into my back as I walk away from the elevator. My pulse is racing, my heart feels like it is bleeding, and it takes all of my strength not to collapse where I stand and cry.

He sought me out to tell me that he wanted nothing to do with me. It was like reliving that night I called him all over again. I can’t begin to make sense of the emotions that are competing for dominance inside of me.

Despondency wins and I decide I have earned a drink before I head home to my mother and Anthony. I head to Claudia’s, a new Happy Hour spot on the ground floor of the building where Definitive Artists’ offices are. I’ve never been here before and am a little self-conscious walking in by myself.

It’s a little past four thirty, and for a Monday afternoon it’s crowded. It’s all chrome and glass and red upholstered furniture. It’s so sleek and sexy and gorgeous.

I walk around to the side of the bar that lets me watch people as they come in from the K Street entrance.

I pick up one of the haphazardly placed menus and immediately know what I want. The drink Mercy Mercy, a citrus and vodka cocktail is calling my name.I order one from the very young, very cute bartender who appears almost out of nowhere as soon as I look up.

“What’s your pleasure today, beautiful?” he says, grinning at me. And I want to ask him if he’s even old enough to work here.

“I think I’ll have this Mercy drink.” I smile back, because why not? After being verbally beaten up by Dean I could use some good vibes.

“I’ll be right back.” He grins, winks, and disappears around the side of the bar.

I glance around, everyone is with someone and I'm caught up in the interactions of people. Kevin and I hadn’t been out in years. I don’t even know what it feels like to have a drink at a bar.

He drops my drink off with a warning to not drink it too quickly. I immediately pour the entire thing down my throat.

As the vodka works itself into my system, I let myself get lost in the thrill of being here alone and start to think about the benefits of being single.

It’s great Dean and I didn’t have the reunion I used to dream of. Being single is what I need to do for a while.

It doesn’t matter that being near him felt like being home. It doesn’t matter that despite the time and distance and how he treated me, the feelings I had for him when I was seventeen are magnified rather than diminished.

I start to order another drink when the air fills with a fraught energy. I feel a thrill run up my spine; I know Dean’s standing behind me. He stands there for a few seconds before he slips onto the stool next to me, the sleeves of his jacket brushing mine as he sits.

I feel a tingle all the way to the tips of my toes, which curl in my shoes. I sneak a glance at him and find myself staring into a pair of stunningly clear green eyes. Dean is looking right back at me. This time his expression isn't enigmatic at all. He looks angry and eager to let me know it.

His eyes are roaming my face, just as mine roam his and neither one of us says a word. I feel absolutely no discomfort as we look at each other. This perusal feels like my right.

When we were in high school, we would do this for hours. Lay there and stare at each other, but then our eyes were full of love and wonder. Now they are full of wariness and fear. At least mine are, I’m sure.

I don’t know why he followed me here. He just told he didn’t want to rekindle our acquaintance, has he come to pile on?

“Milly,” he says in a deep, rich voice which instantly sets my pulse to a wild cantor.

“Dean . . .” Is all I can manage in response. My eyes involuntarily fill with tears as I watch him. I see his struggle. He doesn’t want to be here, but he can’t help it. My struggle is the same. I want him to go and I hope he never, ever leaves.

He drops his head, almost in defeat, breaking our stare. A lock of his hair falls onto his forehead and my hand reaches up out of instinct to brush it back into place.

I stop myself, but before I can retract my hand he grabs my wrist, in a grip just shy of being punishing.

This is the first time I have felt his touch in so long. I want to savor it, but I also want it to stop because I don’t trust the feelings it elicits.

I need to know what’s going on. He doesn’t say anything. He just holds my wrist, his hand like a manacle around it. His head is still down, his posture completely rigid.

“Dean, what are you doing?” I ask him, my voice cracking, overwhelmed with the weight of everything that has happened today.

His head snaps up and he looks at me, the anguish and rage in his eyes steal my breath.

“You got married, Red. Four years after you left me, you fucking married someone else.” His lips are barely moving as he continues.

“I was convinced you were out there, somewhere, trying to get back to me. But instead, you gave your virginity to someone else, you pledged your life to someone else. You had another man’s child.” He practically spits the last sentence, and I flinch.

I look away, the anger in his eyes making me feel shame I know isn’t warranted.

He drops my hand and grabs my chin. “No, Milly. You can’t look away. You can’t deny me this. Look at me,” he demands. “I saw you on that television screen in November, I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since. I knew I had to find you. I have been planning this—this meeting—since then.”

“But why—”

He cuts me off asking, “Where are your rings?”

My brain gets whiplash from trying to keep up with his subject changes.

“What?” I say again, feeling like a broken record.

“Your rings. Where are they? Are you not married anymore?” he demands, grabbing my left hand and pointing to my ring finger.

I snatch my hand back.

“I’m getting a divorce,” I say curtly.

“Why?” he demands, grabbing my chin again.

This question is a fuse to the Molotov cocktail of fatigue, hurt, and alcohol.

I explode.

“It’s not any of your business!” I shout and stand up from my stool. I open my purse, grab a twenty-dollar bill from my wallet and throw it down on the bar. I snatch my jacket and walk away.

I need to get away from Dean. I don’t know what’s going on or what any of this means, but I need to get home, to feel safe again.

I am almost to the door when I feel his hand close around my bicep and stop me in my tracks.

I turn around to tell him to take his hands off me. But before I can, he says, “You are not walking away from me again. Come with me, Milly.”