After weeks of exhaustion—caring for my shattered sister Jolene and surviving endless work shifts—I snapped. I booked a flight to Mexico with no plan, just a desperate need to escape.

But fate had its own cruel itinerary.

At the airport, I boarded the plane—and locked eyes with Dean. Jolene’s husband. The man who left her with nothing but a note.

Cancún was chaos. I got scammed the minute I landed—robbed by a fake cab driver. As I broke down on the curb, Dean appeared again like some twisted lifeline. He helped me file a report, translated everything fluently, and offered me a place to sleep. I was too lost to say no.

That night, in a hotel room filled with silence and tension, he said it.

“I left Jolene because I was in love… with you.”

The room spun. I hated him—and hated myself for not hating him enough.

By morning, my stolen things were found. I flew home, my mind still tangled. Jolene handed me tea, unaware of what had happened.

Later, I stared at Dean’s number, thumb hovering.

Then I typed: “How about coffee sometime?”

Maybe it’s wrong. But it’s the first honest thing I’ve felt in a long time.