Chapter 3 #2
“Hold on,” Dean says, fumbling with the keys between his gloves and the banana. I pull it again for old times sake. “I said, hold on!”
I widen my eyes, willing him to unlock the door, but don’t say anything. He double clicks the key, and it finally unlocks. I get in and click my seatbelt. I contentedly peel my banana. Dean sets his banana in the cupholder, and fiddles with the map on his phone.
“Where am I taking you?”
“Portland.”
“Yes, I got that much Where in Portland?”
“Enterprise Rent-A-Car,” I remind him.
“There’s like, five of them.”
“Just pick the closest one then.”
“30 minutes,” He announces, starting the GPS and turning on the radio.
I watch the bare trees pass by on the highway.
There’s snow on the ground, but it’s one of those rare days in December where it’s not snowing.
It’s still early yet, so it may very well snow today, but the sky is a radiant blue.
We drive in silence, and it’s only broken when Dean asks me if I want the heat turned up, which I don’t.
I’m bundled in my best puffer coat, and he’s bundled up as well.
The highway is busy, but Dean drives carefully and stays in the right lane. I guess I would too with a minivan like this. I watch the GPS like a countdown clock. 15 miles, 15 minutes, till I have to hit the road myself. 10 miles, 10 minutes and then I’m going to be alone again.
Then I see it.
What looks like a diner. A shiny diamond in the rough of the brush, complete with neon sign and chrome exterior. “Can we stop? I need food,” I ask. “I’ll buy. I think I see a diner coming up.”
Dean answers in a particularly annoyed groan, but takes the next exit.
We’re .07 miles from the Enterprise Car Rental, and my heart is beating so fast it’d outpace a NASCAR race.
Dean parks the minivan smoothly in a tight parking space, as the parking lot is absolutely packed. It’s probably the only game in town.
When I step outside, tote bag on my shoulder, it’s fiercely blustery, and the cold wind nips at my already sore, pink cheeks. Dean is a couple paces ahead of me already, and he gets to the door before me. Even though he’s acting terribly grumpy, he holds the door for me again.
Is it possible for someone to stand grumpily? If it is, that’s what Dean is doing. His posture is atrocious, his shoulders slumped as he uses his whole body to hold the door open.
The inside of the diner is just as metallic and kitschy as the outside.
Teal neon lights adorn the tops of the short ceilings, and the floor is a classic black and white checkerboard pattern.
It’s like the place is shaped like one big hallway.
Red booths line the long, horizontal space with individual jukeboxes stationed at each laminate tabletop.
This whole place gives me the vibes of a liminal space somewhere between a Johnny Rockets and a trailer park, but still, a perky, cheerful hostess greets us as the checkout counter. Her name tag reads in engraved letters, Hannah.
“Table for two, please.” Dean has been nothing but gruff and grim to me, but gives Hannah a big smile.
“Of course.” Hannah takes two menus that are practically only held together by only the lamination which covers them and walks us over to a booth in between a boisterous family of three and a silent elderly couple. I sit on the side with senior citizens on my back.
We both take our jackets off simultaneously. I stuff mine into the corner of the booth, barricaded in by my full tote bag. I try to keep my eyes averted from Dean’s direction, so I pretend to dig through my bag looking for something.
But in my peripheral vision, I can see him flipping his floppy, brown hair out of his face, pushing his glasses up, rolling up the sleeves to his red checkered flannel shirt. Even I can admit he’s exceptionally handsome, even when he’s scowling.
I keep up the act and eagerly grab my tissues and spritzer hand sanitizer from my bag, and grab my menu, and begin spraying it down before perusing my options.
“What are you doing?” Dean asks. “Why are you cleaning the menu?”
“It’s probably filthy,” I say. “Want me to do yours?”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just wash your hands after instead of cleaning the whole damn menu?” He picks up his menu. “You don’t need to clean mine.” He almost cracks a smile for the first time this morning, probably at my absurdity.
He’s got me there. I don’t respond because I know he’s right and he’d surely love for me to admit that. I guess it would be easier to just wash my hands after. I put my tissues and hand sanitizer away.
Hannah takes our order: two eggs fried over hard, cooked thoroughly with extra crispy hashbrowns for me; and a short stack of pancakes with bacon and fresh fruit for Dean. She quickly brings back two glasses of water and two cups of coffee.
I keep my eyes down to avoid meeting Dean’s.
I try to focus on anything but him, the terrazzo pattern on the plastic tabletop, the crusty sugar jar and the cup of sweet n’ low and splenda, the half-filled shakers of salt and pepper, but it’s near impossible.
I’m tempted to flip through the jukebox, but I bet there’s fifty years worth of germs on that thing, so I just hold my head in my hands.
Eventually, my eyes make their way to Dean’s fingertips, holding a phone, covered in a black case, just at the edge of the table. His fingernails are perfectly manicured, his fingers long and delicate. He wears a watch with a brown leather strap and a gold and white face on his right wrist.
From there, I can see his veins and bones clearly and there’s a dusting of light brown hair on his forearms. The rest of his arms disappear into his shirt, so my eyes wander up to his neck, where his white undershirt underneath his unbuttoned flannel is slightly off-kilter showing off his collar bone.
His Adam's apple bobs while he sips his coffee, completely not paying attention to my gawking, thank god.
His neck skin is tinged pink from the heat of the diner, or from the cold of the outside.
I look away quickly, but before I can stop myself, like a greedy little kid stealing an extra cookie out of the jar, or a marshmallow from the bag, I look at his face.
He’s so handsome it hurts.
I want to squeal and bury my face in my jacket, he’s so pretty.
This is the first time I’ve looked at him without him scowling at me or bossing me around.
His eyes are so brown. They’re like perfectly round, exquisite chocolate truffles and it takes everything in me not to open my mouth to compliment them.
His eyes are tracking his phone screen from left to right, and I see the reflection of a news article in his square glasses. I’m trying to read the reflection when he breaks the pattern, shifting his eyes to meet my own.
“What?” He asks, his voice stern.
“Nothing,” I say, stunned like a little kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
He places his phone face down on the table. “So, what’s your plan here, exactly?” Way to get straight to the point. My face turns red, darker than the red of the booths. I’m perpetually embarrassed around this man.
“What plan?” Maybe I can play it dumb and he won’t make me say it aloud.
“The whole plan about road tripping to dive bars.” He drums his longer fingers on the table.
“Oh, yeah, that plan.”
“Do you even have a license?” He looks at me expectantly, but like he already knows the answer.
“Yes, but I think it’s expired,” I admit. My plan is falling apart at the seams. I’m a smart person, I don’t know how I thought this would end. “I’m deluded,” I say aloud.
“You know you can’t rent a car without a license. The laws still apply even here in Vacationland.” Dean gulps down half of his glass of water, as if he isn’t the nervous one. “I might have a proposition for you then.”
“What?” I clasp my hands together, anxious for what he might say.
“I’ll drive you. But on the condition that you pay for all of the gas, pay my hourly wage for the work that I’m missing, and that we go to Allagash by next Sunday. And then we drive home in one shot.” I’m considering it because it’s an exceptional deal for me.
“What’s in Allagash?” I ask. It’s a tiny town near the Canadian border, not big, but with amazing views of rolling hills, wide open plains and the Allagash waterway.
“My mother’s house.” Something flickers in his eyes that tells me not to ask unnecessary questions. Allagash is certainly not on the route, but if that’s what it takes, that’s what it takes. It’s not like I have anywhere else to be. And I wouldn’t be alone.
“How much do you get paid an hour?”
“$45.” He says flatly. “I take Zelle or cash.” I think I could swing it if I sell one of Andy’s guitars.
“Fine.”
“You have a deal.”
Our food arrives shortly after. Dean slices his pancakes into four equal parts, and pours syrup on the side. I pick at my food.
“When is the next concert?” Dean asks me.
“Tuesday.”
“What were you going to do all day today then?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. I shovel a bite of eggs into my mouth so I don’t have to answer his questions.
“Where's the concert?” He flips over his phone, and opens the maps app.
“The Monarch Resort in Camden,” I answer. I pull out a small sheet of notebook paper with my notes of my trip written on it.
“The Waverly Inn, Kennebunkport. The Monarch Resort, Camden. The Pic–a-Lilli Pub, Caribou. The Belladonna, St. Agatha.” Dean reads my handwriting aloud. He plugs it into the GPS, and a suggested route pops up.
“That’s not that far. Only about an hour and a half. Do you have a room to stay in booked?”
“No.”
“Call, then,” He directs me. “Book two. We’ll leave today.”
I feel like I should put up a fight, but I’m compelled to do as he says—he’s so bossy. He gives me the phone number from the map listing, and I nervously make the call and book two rooms at the Monarch Resort under my credit card. He finishes his breakfast without another word.
“Why are you visiting your mother?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
“Because she’s my mother?” Dean retorts. “Why wouldn’t I visit her?”
“Yeah. I guess that makes sense.”
“Of course it makes sense.” What doesn’t make sense is that he left a week early to visit his mother or he’s delaying his visit by a week, but I don’t dare ask that.
Hannah brings the bill to our table, and Dean pays it completely in cash and tips 25% without me asking. I raise my eyes to meet his eyes for the first time since he snapped at me earlier. I can’t help but give him a grin because what we’re doing is absolutely wild.
“What?” He asks, his voice serious as ever. I think it would kill this man to lighten up.
“Nothing,” I say. I know I’m a neurotic landslide, bowling down the side of a mountain.
“You should be institutionalized.” Dean remarks, he looks down to zip up his coat, but when he looks back at me again, I’m dazzled.
His lips are upturned, and I can see his white teeth.
It’s the first time he’s actually smiled at me.
At me. Even if he thinks I’m sick, it has melted my heart to earn his smile. I beam back at him.
I bundle up in my coat, zipping it all the way to my chin, slinging my trusty tote bag over my shoulder.
We leave in a hurry, eager to get out of the bustling diner that’s now truly bursting with patrons; the line is out the door.
I take my place as a passenger princess and try not to let it ruin my tiny, tiny ego that Dean smiled at me.
We get onto Route 295 in no time, and soon enough Route 295 turns into Route 1.
The pines are dancing along the road, with NPR on the radio, Dean relaxed in the driver’s seat.
I’m at ease for once, and I don’t feel ill.
I don’t feel the need to take medicine, and I don’t feel the need to reach for my inhaler.
I feel in control.
When they diagnose you with hypochondriasis, they reframe it as health anxiety. Anxiety is all about feeling out of control. I’ve always been an anxious, neurotic person. After Andy’s death I really spiraled, afraid that his sudden health crisis could soon become my own. I was so afraid.
Andy was like an extension of my own body. If he could die at any minute, so could I—and that was my own personal brand of hell. Not knowing if it was coming, being out of control of something. I was never so worried about my own health before.
After my accident, I made the decision to see a doctor and I’ve been getting better, taking my medication regularly. But still, I have my bad streaks of being anxious. Part of me feels nervous for what is about to come, but part of me is proud for making it this far. Andy would be proud of me.
But then again, Andy never knew that I could be this person that I am now.