At dawn, Rina's phone buzzed Dean's manager, frantic about something she did not really give a damn about what. She'd followed Dean last night, watched him dive in, watched him save her. Rina gave the manager a number. Dean would hate me, she thought, thumb hovering over call-back. But someone has to clean up his messes. She pocketed the phone. This was helping. It had to be.
Hours later, Dean woke in the villa's cold bedroom, nose blocked, body heavy. Damn, a cold. He groaned, sheets damp from the river.
Rina leaned in the doorway, smirking. "You look like shit."
"No doubt," he muttered, voice nasal.
"Yoh, weirdly, your therapist has a cold too. No appointment," she said, tossing tissues.
"Yey," Dean croaked, a low-energy fist pump. He wanted to see Skyler, but not like this. He texted: How's the headache?
Across London, Skyler sat hunched on her couch, blanketed, tissue box close. Netflix flickered. Chris stood in the doorway, arms crossed.
"Where'd you go last night?"
Skyler turned, eyes sharp. "You once said I don't have the right to ask you," she said, calm and cold. "So what gives you the right?"
"I'm your husband," Chris snapped.
"You wanna go there?" Skyler's smile was forced. "Was it Dean? Sweethearts back together?"
"Dean?" Skyler frowned. "Where's he come into this?"
"I saw the files," Chris muttered.
Skyler's jaw tightened. The promotion board met next month. A messy separation now she couldn't afford it. Not yet. "How many times never touch my patients' files? Last time, I nearly lost my job."
"So I should be fine with you and your ex?" Chris paced.
"He was never my ex," Skyler cut in. "We were friends."
"Right. Friends." Chris's tone dripped sarcasm.
"I never ran to anyone when he left," Skyler said, voice rising. "I went to Oxford. Alone. Stop lying."
"You're not really my husband anymore," she added, standing.
"Then take the ring off," Chris sneered. "You can't. You need me. Stop playing with Dean."
Skyler grabbed her phone and coat, leaving. In the elevator, she replied: Not just a headache full cold. You? Her phone rang.
"Sorry, but are you Dean's therapist?" a male voice barked.
"Who is this?" Skyler asked, shocked.
"Dean's sister gave me your number," he said. "Emergency contact went to voicemail, daycare called me. Tell him to come get his kid. I'm his manager, not his babysitter." The call cut. A daycare location pinged.
Skyler stared, confused. Kid? She texted Dean: Meet me here. She attached the address.
Dean stared at the daycare in West London. Wrong address? He typed, then deleted. Skyler wouldn't send him somewhere random. He pulled on a hoodie, still sniffling, and headed out.