Chapter 16: The Outcome

Jasmine returns to Dean's place just as the sun begins to dip, casting a warm gold across the living room. She steps inside quietly, knowing that Dean unlocked the door for her, and that she was going to come over to tell him about her day with his mom. Slipping off her shoes, Dean looks up from the couch the moment he hears her.

“There you are,” he says, standing. “How’d it go?”

I smiled at his question; my smile was soft, but undeniably real. “Good,” she says. “Better than I expected.”

Dean crosses the room in a few strides, his hands finding my waist as he searches my face. “Yeah?”

I nod, leaning into him. “She showed me everything. The fabrics, the brides she’s helped, the stories behind the dresses…it was actually really beautiful.”

Dean’s shoulders relax, relief washing over him. “I’m glad. I was hoping it would feel like a step forward.”

“It did,” I say to him. “She was…different today. Softer. Honest. She told me she wants to get to know me. Really get to know me.”

Dean lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “That means a lot coming from her.”

I nod. “I know. And I could tell she meant it.”

He brushes a thumb across my cheek. I smile kindly at his action. He looks at me with this thoughtful smile on his face and says. “How do you feel?”

I paused to reflect on his questions for a moment, my mind drifting back to the time I spent with Dean's mother in her charming wedding boutique. The air is infused with the delicate scent of fresh blooms and luxurious fabrics. We sat together, surrounded by shimmering gowns and intricate veils, engrossed in a heartfelt conversation that flowed as effortlessly as the silk draped around us. I could still recall her warm smile and the way her eyes sparkled with joy as she shared her dreams for the future, weaving her personal stories into the fabric of her craft. That intimate moment felt like a rare gift, a deep connection that transcended our initial acquaintance, making me appreciate not just her passion for her work but also the love and commitment she poured into every detail of her creations.

“Hopeful,” I admitted to him. “Still cautious. But hopeful.”

Dean pulls me into a hug, holding me close and hearing his heart beating close to my ear, as to somewhat relax me in a sense.

“You deserve that. You deserved to feel welcome.”

I melted into him, my voice muffled against his chest. “Thank you for standing by me through all of this.”

“Always,” he murmurs into my hair. “You’re my person.”

I offer him a warm smile, and for the first time in what feels like ages, the future unfolds before us—a path illuminated with possibilities, inviting and free from the shadows of doubt.

Dean decided to let Jasmine spend the night at his place, choosing instead to return to his parents' house. He felt the need to talk to his mother and get her perspective on their eventful day together. Later that evening, as Jasmine headed to Dean’s bathroom to take a shower, he slipped into his car, the engine rumbling to life beneath him. The drive was familiar, a winding path through softly lit streets that eventually led him to his parents' home.

As he pulled into the gravel driveway, the crunch of stones echoed in the stillness of the evening. He stepped out of the car and made his way to the front door, where the warm glow of lights spilled out into the night. Upon entering, he was welcomed by the family maid, who greeted him with a knowing smile and pointed him in the direction of his mother.

Dean followed the gentle hum of conversation and the soft rustle of fabric, finding his mother in the dining room, surrounded by a kaleidoscope of vibrant fabric swatches she’d chosen from the boutique. The room is filled with the scent of fresh linen and the comforting sound of his father bustling about in his study upstairs, the occasional thud of books and the whisper of papers adding a familiar soundtrack to the cozy evening.

My mother looks up when I enter and offers me a small smile.

“Hello Dean, where is Jasmine?” she asks.

“She is at my place taking a shower. I offered her to stay the night,” I say to her, leaning against the doorway. “She said she had a good time with you at the boutique.”

My mother exhales, visibly relieved. “I’m glad. I wanted it to be…meaningful.”

“It was,” I say to her. Then, after a moment, “Mom…can I ask you something?”

My mother paused, sensing the shift. “Of course.”

“Why was it so hard for you at first?” I ask gently. “With Jasmine. To not trust her or even make you react the way you did with the stalker incident?”

I watch my mother set the swatches down, her expression tightening-not with defensiveness, but with something more vulnerable. She takes a slow breath.

“Because she reminded me of myself,” she says quietly.

I blink at her response. “What do you mean?”

My mother folded her hands, staring at them as if the truth was woven into her fingers. “When I met your father, his family didn’t think I was good enough. I didn’t come from money. I didn’t have connections as I do now. I was just a girl with a sewing machine and a dream.” She laughs softly, but there’s no humor in it. “They thought I was after the family name. The wealth. The status.”

My chest tightens. “Mom,” I want to interrupt and ask why she never told me this, or Dad, for that matter, why keep this information from me to start with? But before I could even get my question out, my mom continued speaking. “I spent years trying to prove myself,” she continues. “Years trying to show them, my in-laws, I wasn’t what they assumed. And even after I built the boutique, even after I made something of myself…a part of me still remembers what it felt like to be judged before anyone even knew me.”

She looks up at me, eyes shining with regret. “When you brought Jasmine home, it triggered a memory of how I saw a younger version of me. And instead of embracing her, instead of welcoming the way I wish I had been welcomed…I project all my old fears onto her.”

I stepped closer to my mother, and my voice came out soft. “You were trying to protect me.”

“I was trying to protect myself,” my mother corrects gently. “From repeating the past. From watching you get hurt the way I was hurt. But in doing that…I hurt Jasmine. And I hurt you.”

I sit beside her, taking her hand. “Thank you for telling me.”

My mother squeezes my hand. “I’m trying, Dean. I want to do better. I want to be someone that Jasmine can trust. Someone you can be proud of.”

“You already are,” I say to her. “This..all of this.. It means more than you know.”

My mother’s eyes soften. “I just want my family to be well. And I want Jasmine to feel like she’s part of it.”

I smile at her words. “She will. You’re making that possible.”

For the first time in a long time, his mother believes him.