Chapter 11
I’m waiting at the door like some kind of impatient serial killer when I hear the swooshing of a coat and the ruffling of hands. In a moment, there’s a knock at the door. I know that knock better than I know my own heartbeat by now, and I’m so glad he’s here.
When I open the door, Dean’s face is bright red and he exhales a huge breath, as if he were underwater for a minute.
“Well, you’re not sweaty enough for a marathon.”
“I was just out,” He clarifies. “Running an errand.”
“An errand,” I repeat.
“I had to get cash from the ATM. I hurried back here as soon as I realized the time,” Dean explains. “Are you going to let me in?” He asks
“I thought we were going out?” I ask, confused on what our plan was.
“Maybe we should order in,” He replies, shrugging off his coat. “I’m tired of being out.”
I pause to consider it. It feels like a particularly weird crossover, like Jerry Seinfeld on The Simpsons—Dean in my space?
I let him in. Even though I napped a few hours after my shower, I’m also exhausted and tired of being out.
I’m glad I keep a meticulous resort room, even though it’s not nearly reflective of my actual home and habits—which are admittedly, a fucking hot mess.
The suitcase is closed in the corner, my tote bag on the desk, and my medications lined up neatly in a line on the nightstand. Dean tosses his coat on the bed, and I quickly pick it up and hang it on a hanger and place it in the small closet by the doorway.
“No outside clothes on the bed.” I’m trying my best not to sound annoyed.
“Oh. I’m so sorry,” He takes note, brushing off the quilt. “I didn’t realize.”
“It’s fine, just… don’t do it again.” I feel feral and I’m ready to tear down the wallpaper with my bare fingernails, but I keep it coiled up and tucked away inside neatly.
Dean sits in the desk chair, and I sit in the sole armchair in the corner of the small room, facing the desk. He smiles at me, like he can’t believe this is happening, dimples on full display.
“What do you want for dinner?” I ask.
“I’m not sure. What’s around here?” He asks, pulling out his phone.
“Should I ask the front desk for a recommendation?”
“What is the front desk assistant going to tell me that Google can’t?” He laughs.
“Maybe she has insider knowledge,” I fidget.
“Insider knowledge? Is she a secret spy?” Dean looks up, his face lit up by his screen, his eyes glowering, a smile brewing.
“She could be. It’s not like she’d ever tell you,” I flip my hair over my shoulder.
“But she’d tell you?”
“I’m very trustworthy,” I nod.
“Do you even eat takeout?” Dean asks me sarcastically.
“What kind of question is that? Yes, I eat takeout. I’m a hypochondriac, not a picky eater.” I correct him. “I just have to wash my hands first.”
“Chinese food sound good?”
“As long as we can get noodles.”
“Is that what you want?” As if I have ever only wanted noodles.
“Yes,” I reply, standing up to pace around the room, antsy to be in such a small, enclosed space with only Dean.
He practically radiates sex-appeal akin to Marlon Brando—Dean’s dressed in a green flannel and corduroy pants, his hair floppy, glasses propped low on his nose.
He holds himself confidently, like he knows what he came here for, and right now, it’s to be the fastest, most efficient caller to the only takeout joint in town.
I glance around the room, looking for anything to distract myself when I absentmindedly pick up the complimentary pen and notepad. I sit on the foot of the bed and begin to sketch Dean.
He places the call for an order for delivery. I’m distracted by how assertive he sounds. I’m always bumbling and nervous on the phone, but Dean places the order quickly and competently. He’s polite and well-spoken.
My hands are a little stiff, and I’m overall a little rusty, but I sketch Dean sitting in the desk chair on the phone.
Then, I sketch him standing up. I sketch the curve of his nose and the jut of his glasses.
He looks prehistorically simple in my sketches compared to the real life, breathing human being in front of me.
He’s detailed and complicated sitting in front of me, with many facets and particulars—none of which I manage to capture.
Dean hangs up the phone, and places it face down on the desk.
“What are you doing over there?” He asks.
“Nothing.” I hide my sketches under my hand.
“You’re doing something.” He stands up, towering over me.
I look back up at him with wide eyes. I think I’d do everything to escape his gaze right now.
Having his undivided attention right now is too much to bear after I’ve thought too much about kissing him and then some while staring at myself in the mirror.
About the way his hands held my face. About the way he presses his lips together after.
I slink to the floor, sliding down the duvet, landing straight on my ass. I crumple the drawing and kick it across the floor while Dean watches me act like a child. He sits down next to me, our shoulders touching. “Were you drawing?”
“Trying to,” I answer truthfully, dropping the charade. The paper rests like a stalled tumbleweed a few feet away. “But it was really bad and I don’t want you to see it.”
He stretches his legs out, and taps the paper with his gargantuan foot, drawing it closer to him. I lean back against the foot of the bed. Dean unfurls the paper that I’ve tossed.
“It’s not that bad,” Dean analyzes the drawing, holding it every which way.
“It’s not what I used to be.”
“I like you as you are now.”
“I was talking about my drawing skills.”
The remaining blue light from the start of dusk is reflecting off the snow and streaming in from the window. It makes Dean look mysterious and dark, even though I know he’s anything but. Our eye contact is intense, but we both seem to know what’s inevitably coming.
“You should draw more often,” He tells me, inspecting the fine lines in the crumpled sketch. “Why’d you stop?”
“I wanted to be a children’s book illustrator once,” I say, ignoring his question.
“But not anymore?”
“I still could be. Drawing is just like anything else. It takes practice, but you don’t forget once you learn,” I lean my head back. “But I think I want to try something else.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Farming. Owning chickens.”
“Chickens, are like, full of diseases,” Dean laughs.
“Maybe not chickens,” I shrug. “Maybe just farming.”
“Is that really what you want to do?” He asks.
“No,” I confide. “I don’t mind being a virtual assistant. It gives me enough money to pay the bills.”
“But?” Dean toes his shoes off, and I start untying mine.
“It’s not fulfilling,” I ponder. “I think I want to make music.”
“In what way?”
“I want to write it. I want to do what Andy did. I saw what he did for people. I want to have that kind of impact on the world.”
“And you think it’s through music for you?”
“I think it could be,” I sigh. “How hard could it be to write a song?”
“You’re asking the wrong guy.” Dean mimics my sigh.
“Maybe I should reach out to some of Andy’s old bandmates. I think they’re still making music.”
“You should,” Dean agrees. “It might be good for you.”
I turn my body towards him. “Have you ever lost someone important to you?”
“Who hasn’t?”
“When you lose someone like I lost Andy…so publicly, so suddenly. I never dreamt I could lose him. You spend the rest of your life scared it is going to happen again,” I explain.
Anxiety is overwhelming me suddenly. My heart races and pitter-patters quickly.
“It happened once. Who is to say it couldn’t happen again? ” I whisper.
Dean nods. He entertains my thinking for once.
“Realistically, I know that’s anxiety talking. It would really be a freak of nature for it to happen to me twice, right?”
“Yes. It would.”
“That’s not a thing that happens, right? A woman who loses two?”
“Ludicrous,” Dean assures me.
“It’s like a living hell thinking it might happen again,” I confess. I’m an unstable building, teetering towards disaster. Any amount of movement would send me into collapse. Dean props me up, beam by beam. He pulls me into his arms, pressing me back together, board by board.
The moment our lips touch, it’s undeniable bursts of electricity.
His tongue slides and slices around my lips, looking for my tongue, and when we finally collide, his hands come up to angle my jaw.
This kiss makes me lose myself for a minute or two, and when I come back around, I’ve become a whole new person, some person who isn’t so worried.
He’s assured me that he’s here. I hear it like a song in the back of my head—piano keys tinkling, strings swelling, horns blaring.
This song and dance of ours has just begun.
I’m stiff while he seems immeasurably flexible, but he hauls me up in one swift motion.
He’s propping me up, and I’m climbing him like a vine wrapped around a garden trellis.
My hands are touching every plane of available skin I can—his neck, his cheeks, his temples.
My forehead keeps bumping his glasses, and my bangs are getting caught in the hinges.
“Can I take these off?” I ask, tapping the wire frame on the side of his face.
He gently untangles my hair from them, stepping away from me, and places the glasses on the desk. I feel completely naked without his hands on me, even though I’m wearing several layers, including my socks.
He undoes the top two buttons on his flannel, revealing a white undershirt and a few inches of pale, freckled skin.
I’m completely fascinated by the way his fingers bend and curve.
It’s only when I take a few steps closer to reach and undo them for him, that I’m noticing he’s at least a head taller than I am.