Chapter 7
Dean sits down at the table, wrapping his hands around the cup of hot coffee waiting for him. It’s a delicious, smooth drink and I’m eager to see his reaction to it.
“Next time, I won't take milk in my coffee,” He reminds me.
“Oh, okay,” I say, remembering all of the other times I’ve seen him drink coffee black, including this morning. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s fine. I’ll still drink it.” He unzips his coat, but doesn’t take it off, like we might not stay for long. Mine is unzipped and wrapped around my shoulders like a shawl instead of a coat.
“What’s going on in that weird little head of yours?” Dean asks me.
“Want to see Andy's very first live performance?”
“As an Andy McKinney super megafan, there’s no way that my answer is anything but yes.” Dean smiles, trying to hide his grin behind his coffee cup.
“Give me your phone.” I smile back.
He hands me his phone, with the YouTube app open. In the empty search bar I type in ANDY MCKINNEY. I scroll through the few official music videos, the tens of videos taken at concerts, until I reach one that I uploaded a long, long time ago before he even hit it big.
“I recorded this,” I tell Dean. I press PLAY and turn the phone to him.
We watch the video together. It starts off with a black screen and disembodied laughter as I orient the camera, but once it’s focused on the light, a young, fresh-faced Andy holding his guitar on a small stage comes into view.
“It was a New Year’s Eve party at our hometown bar where I convinced him to perform. He said he only knew one song.”
A very young video Andy strums his guitar, coughs, and nervously begins.
Dean laughs when he realizes what the song is. “This is the only song he knew?”
“Shh, just watch,” I smile, tapping the edge of the phone.
Video Andy is hesitant at first as the crowd laughs around him. “The past and the present and the future,” Andy continues slowly, but then, he finds his groove as the crowd settles and cheers for him.
When he reaches the part of the song with the multiples, you can hear video-me cheer loudly in the background.
“Three, six, nine.” Andy sings, a wide smile plastered on his face.
“Twelve, fifteen, eighteen.” You see the joy spread across his face when he spots me in the crowd.
“I can’t hear you!” The crowd sings along with him.
“Twenty, twenty-one—” The crowd roars with laughter at his mistake “Oh, shut up!” He laughs, continuing playing the song. “Twenty-four, twenty-seven, thirty.”
Video-me cheers again, and he resumes with his classic charisma and confidence. When he repeats the multiples backwards, the crowd sings them with him, me included. The video is shaky towards the end from video-me to trying to clap and cheer.
Video-Andy finishes up, and the video cuts off.
“Sorry my voice is so bad in the video,” I apologize to Dean, I hate the way that sometimes my voice overpowers Andy's singing.
“No, no,” Dean says. “You have no need to be sorry.”
“It was nice to see that video. It’s the only one I can watch without crying or something.” I wipe my mouth on the back of my sweater sleeve.
“Why is that?” Dean asks, sipping his coffee.
“It’s from when he was just mine. Now, he belongs to everyone,” I break our eye contact and look away. “I can’t explain it well. Like, I feel like I lost him twice. Once when he got famous, and once when he died.”
“That makes sense to me,” Dean nods his head, taking his phone back from across the table and turning off the screen.
“I struggle to explain my grief sometimes,” I look to the side, out the window, anywhere but the man in front of me. “People seem to think it’s weird that I’m not a blubbering mess all the time anymore, because in a way, I grieved him as I knew him before he died, too.”
“Hypochondriasis, aside.” Dean laughs, and that gets me to look at him again. His hair is tousled from his hat, and color is returning to his face. He has a thin layer of stubble across his chin and cheeks, probably from not shaving in a day or two.
“Hypochondriasis, not included,” I purse my lips together.
I admit to myself that Dean is handsome. Before, I couldn’t pick his face out of a crowd, but now, it’s permanently branded in my mind. His dark, watchful eyes. His upturned smile lines. Even his bushy, caterpillar-like eyebrows have my attention.
“What are you looking at?” He asks me, one hand on his chin, the other on his coffee cup. “Me?”
“I’m not looking at you,” I avert my eyes and blush straight down my neck at the insinuation that I’m looking at him. “I’m looking at…you,” I sigh, resigned to my fate.
“You’re allowed to look at me, you know. Healthy eye contact is a sign of trust and respect,” Dean chuckles, draining the rest of his coffee. “Look at me.”
He’s at least a head taller than me, so I have to look up for my eyes to meet his. We stare at each other, eye to eye, just for a brief moment before I chirp awkwardly and look away again. Forced eye contact has never been my thing.
“Madeline. Look at me. Take it seriously,” Dean reaches across the table and grabs my hand, jolting me into looking at him. “What are you so afraid of?”
I stare into his round, brown eyes, searching for something to say but all I find is the reflection of myself in his pupils. There are a million answers to his questions, but all of them point to one thing. Everything. Living, dying, I’m afraid of it.
“I’m afraid of everything.”
“But why are you afraid of looking at me? Are you afraid I’ll hurt you?”
“Yes,” I say, I won’t deny it, and it’s almost torture to keep looking in his eyes, but the fact he has a grip on my hand makes it torture to look away. “Not physically.”
“I won’t hurt you again.” Dean squeezes my balled-up fist in his hand and lets it go. “Not if I can help it. You are my friend.”
“A real friend?” I ask.
“A real friend,” He confirms. “I’ve grown quite accustomed to you.”
“Ha-ha.” I fake laugh, he thinks he’s so funny.
“Seriously. The carrying the tote-bag everywhere, the massive puffer coat, the incessant use of over-the-counter medication. It’s really quite charming.”
“You’re kidding,” I blush again and finish my own drink, already on edge from all the eye contact, this is sure to set me off sooner or later.
“I’m not,” Dean reassures me. “How can I prove it to you?”
I have the upperhand now. “Come with me to the concert tonight, then. And act like my friend.”
“I was already planning on going with you.” Dean tells me, a confused look on his face. “Why wouldn’t I go?”
“You got shit-faced at the first one.”
“That’s because I was anticipating seeing my ex-girlfriend at my mother’s house the next day. I can keep it together this time around.”
“Promise?”
“I promise,” Dean assures me.
“Now let’s get out of here,” I announce, shoving my arms into my coat sleeves. Dean and I return our mugs to the front counter before leaving back into the cold. The bookstore is a good ten-minute walk away, and it’s certain to feel longer because of how cold it is.
When we step back outside, I can’t help but shiver.
“Oh, lord, fuck, it’s cold.” I whisper to myself, trying to tie my scarf tighter around my face, but my fingers are already so cold it’s hard to do. The wind has certainly picked up from the last time we were outside, and the scarf gets whipped around. It nearly escapes my grip. “And windy.”
“Here, let me.” Dean turns to stand in front of me, catching both ends of the scarf in his gloved hands.
He stretches it out and wraps it tightly around my mouth and nose, which is already starting to run, tying it in a perfect knot in the front.
I say thank you, but it comes out muffled because of the layers of fabric now around my face.
He nods back politely, like this isn’t the kindest thing he’s ever done for me.
We walk briskly, and I’m thankful the sidewalks are shoveled widely and ice-free.
The bookstore isn’t so much a bookstore as it is a discount book warehouse.
When we enter, we’re greeted with rows of shelves and bins filled to the brim with books of all kinds—picture books, chapter books, periodicals, encyclopedias, trade paperbacks, you name it, it’s here.
I’m instantly overwhelmed by the smell of old and damp paper, but Dean seems to be in his happy place once more.
He walks ahead of me, settling in front of a large cardboard box labeled “40% off”.
I wander up and down the aisles, not particularly enthralled or interested with my choices, until I settle back by Dean, digging through another discount bin labeled “40% off” for perhaps any hidden treasure.
Dean roots through the discount bin, and suddenly stops to pick up a book with a cartoon man on the cover, clutching his head.
“Hey, this is perfect for you,” He shows me the book. “Help me, I’m a hypochondriac.” Dean reads aloud for me.
“Very fitting,” I roll my eyes, rooting through my own bin, looking for something I can dunk on him with. Then, I find it. “Ah, here. You might want this,” I giggle, holding up a book about puberty aimed at preteen boys.
“I need help with what’s going on down there?” He laughs reading from the cover, and takes it from my hands, squinting to read the back cover. “I think I know what’s going on down there.”
“Are you sure about that?” I laugh. “You look like you might need some help.”
Dean flips through the book, skimming the pages.
“No, I think I’m good.” He says shortly, and hands the book to me.
I open it, skimming through the pages as well.
It takes everything in me not to laugh, because while the drawings might seem silly to me now, I know this is a very serious topic for preteen boys.
“Chapter 2. Why do my balls shrivel up and get smaller when I’m cold?” I ask, reading from a Q&A section. “It’s cold, yes? Are your balls shriveled right now, Dean?”
“Put that back,” Dean says to me. “I’m getting second-hand embarrassment from you.”