Chapter 7 #2
“Chapter 3. What if I get my penis caught in my zipper?” I laugh maniacally. “Are these real concerns men have?”
“Maybe if you’re like, ten years old,” Dean says absentmindedly, thumbing through his bin again, ignoring my giggles.
“Chapter four,” I trail off and laugh to myself at the fact the page with a cartoonishly hand-drawn penile diagram has a corner folded over, like it’s book-marked for later reference. “Look here, it says smaller penises work just as well as larger ones.”
“How would you know that?” Dean looks up.
“It says it right here.” I point to the book.
“It does not say that,” Dean looks at me incredulously.
He abandons his box of discount books to look over my shoulder.
“It says it right here,” I point to the line in the second paragraph at the top of the page.
Dean pauses while he reads the page, and then he pulls the book from my hands, refusing to believe that’s what it actually says.
“I feel like there’s a small penis joke forming in my brain right now.” I laugh, gesturing to my head, like the gears are turning. “The hamsters are running.”
“You don’t need to be looking at this.” Dean buries the book in the back of his discount bin, as if I couldn’t just pull it back up again. “You don’t need to know how well penises of any size work. Or if my balls are shriveled right now.”
“Why not?” I laugh again, returning to my bin, on the hunt for another book with dirty, anatomically correct imagery. “Would you like it better if I found a smutty novel to read instead?” I pull up a paper back with a saucy clinch cover, suggesting it to him.
He begrudgingly takes it from my hands and tosses it in his own bin. “No. I would not like that.”
“I’m a grown, modern woman. I’m allowed to read smut and look at cartoon penile diagrams if I want.” I reach over and try to pick the book back up, but Dean deflects my arm out of the way and I almost go spinning in the opposite direction.
“I don’t want you to get the wrong impression about…” He trails off, looking for a defense as to why he whacked my arm out of the way, other than he doesn’t want me reading any sexually explicit material in his presence.
“About what?”
“About how sex with pensies should be,” He decides.
“Are you trying to say I should only date women?” I raise my eyebrows and cross my arms. “It’s a book, you weirdo. Why are you acting like I’ve never had sex before? I used to bone all the time! Sex with Andy was fine.”
“Sex with Andy was fine?” The look on Dean’s face twists into something incredibly goofy, and the tips of his ears are turning red. “I don’t need to know how sex with your dead husband was.” He almost laughs, but it comes out like a scoff.
“Why? Are you jealous?” I feel a laugh bubbling up on me. My comment was not exactly a ringing endorsement of Andy—who was more than just fine, he was my husband after all.
“Jealous of a dead guy?” Dean chuckles. “Hell no. I think sex with me outranks sex with a ghost.”
I can’t help but bark out a laugh at that comment. “It’s not really a fair contest. I think anyone alive, even you, would beat a ghost.”
Dean takes the three steps to be at my bin, and whispers to me. “Have you ever had a one-night stand, Madeline?” He reaches over my shoulder to grab a book, his chest brushing up against my back.
I blush straight to my toes, and I feel butterflies forming in my stomach, ready to be coughed up and released into the air. “What kind of question is that?”
“Since Andy died,” His voice in my ear is rough and dark, instead of rough and grumpy. “Have you slept with anyone?” He clarifies.
“No,” I answer honestly.
“Then how can you say anyone alive would be better than Andy?”
“I—I don’t know.” I stammer at the implication that having sex with Dean would be better than Andy.
“Is it because you think there might be someone just as good out there, or even better?” He speaks it into existence. I swallow the lump in my throat. “Are you trying to find out?”
“No, so give me my book.”
He takes a step back, out of my personal space zone. “Fine.” He tosses the book towards me and I catch it much like a football with both arms.
“This is mine,” I announce it to anyone who will listen and return to my bin. Nothing quite catches my eye like my romance novel, so I move onto the next, and onto the next again. Before I know it, half an hour has passed, and Dean and I are at opposite ends of the store.
I keep my eyes on him from across the way, and he towers over the bins of books. He’s lean, even under the thick layer of his coat, which he refused to take off and carry around.
The more I look at him, the more he reminds me of the color navy blue and not just because his sweater is that shade of blue—he is stark and stoic instead of relaxing and calming like other shades. He is the strong and steady boat in my hurricane, my tropical storm.
I think I like Dean as a person. He is stuck in his ways, but they are mostly good ways and usually not without reason. He has a kind heart and that is where it counts. He must have noticed me starting from across the way, because he’s taking long strides towards me now.
“Give me your porn if you still have it,” Dean holds out his hand as we approach the cashier.
“What? No.” I refuse. “You probably won’t give it back.”
“I’m buying it for you, dummy.” Dean shakes his hand again.
“I thought you didn’t want me to learn how penises work,” I snark.
“I’d rather you learn it through literature than on the street.”
“Har-har. Very funny.” I shake my head disapprovingly.
“And you bought me a record.”
“It’s only fair, I guess.” I produce the romance book out from under the crook of my arm, and he takes it gingerly like it might send him to hell for even thinking about extramarital sex. “It’s not going to hurt you,” I laugh.
“I know that. But you might.”
“I won’t.”
Dean blinks slowly, as if to signal a peaceful truce. “If you say so.”
I nod. “Let’s go.”
Dean handles the transaction, so I don’t have to sanitize my hands again just before going into the cold. We walk towards the car, and I accidentally brush against the door, so I pull out my sanitizer to clean my hands anyway.
“You know, you can touch the door and other surfaces without having to sanitize every time,” Dean says, his breath producing a cloud of smoke in the cold air. “Your skin is there to protect you from germs, and so is your immune system.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “But it makes me feel better. So I do it. It’s harmless in the long run. The worst thing anybody got from too much hand sanitizer was just dry, cracked skin.”
“Dry, cracked skin makes it easier for germs to enter.” Dean remarks.
“Good thing I don’t use too much then, huh?
” I put my sanitizer back in my bag. “The brand I use has vitamin E and aloe in it. Some studies say that nurses who cleaned their hands by using an alcohol-based hand rub had less skin irritation and dryness than people who washed their hands with soap and water.” I recite from my memory.
Dean laughs. “I was just trying to say, you’ll survive if you touch things.”
“I know. And I do touch things.” I force him to recall. “I’m just careful about it and always wash or sanitize my hands afterwards. Hence the medical supply tote bag.” I shake my bag, now very full between my items, Dean’s record and our books.
“I don’t understand you,” Dean remarks.
“I never claimed to be logical,” I laugh.
We walk hurriedly back to the minivan, with a minute left to spare on the meter. I climb
into the front seat, shivering, clutching my bag in my lap. Dean turns the van on, and it sputters but doesn’t start.
He tries again. “Ah, come on,” He whispers, his breath fogging in the cold air.
“Let me try,” I say after the third failure to start.
“What are you going to do that I’m not?” Dean says.
“I don’t know, but it can’t hurt, right?” I say.
“Give it your best shot,” He says, and I reach over and turn the key as quickly as I can. It does not start.
“Well, shit,” I whisper. “What are we going to do?”
“Well, for starters, you’re gonna put more time on the meter.” Dean picks out quarters from the ashtray.
“Then what? Are we just stuck here?”
“And then, I’m going to call the car rental place.
We’re not stuck here.” Dean puts his phone up to his ear while I step back outside.
I walk over to the meter in my big coat and put the quarters in one by one.
I settle on approximately an hour, hoping it doesn’t take that long to get the car up and running again.
When I get back in the car, Dean is still on the phone.
“I’m on hold,” He tells me, and puts the phone on speaker for me to hear the jazz muzak, signaling that he is in fact, on hold. “Be quiet in case they can hear us.”
“That’s not a thing,” I say, settling back into my seat, bundling my scarf back around my face to try to keep the warmth in. I rub my hands on my jeans, warming up my thighs, and then I suck my arms back up into my coat, not to expose my fingers.
The speaker on Dean’s phone muffles with a “Hello?” and Dean turns the speaker off and puts the phone back up to his ear.
“Yeah…we’re here in Camden, and the van isn’t starting…” Dean explains to the other end of the line.
“Yeah, I know the next closest one isn't for another 20 miles…”
“The next closest what? Dealership? Auto Body shop?” I ask, only for Dean to shush me by waving his hand at me.
“Uh-huh…can you—” Dean rolls his eyes at the operator of the other end of the line. “If you can’t get us another van, I want a full refund, here.”
“Yeah!” I agree.
“I’m not trying to be difficult, sir—” Dean argues with the customer service representative. “I would be fine with a tow truck and getting it fixed but—”
“But we’re not paying for it.” I say.
“Madeline, be quiet.” Dean says, removing his mouth from the receiver end of the phone. “Sir. Okay, sir—” Dean keeps getting cut off by the other end of the line, and then all of the sudden he hangs up.