Chapter 13
“What did you have in mind?” I ask.
“Well, it seems the only gin joint in town is the one we’re in now” Dean remarks, looking around at the band packing up, lights shuttering off. The crowd has dissipated substantially, and there’s sitting room at the bar for the first time all night.
We walk over to the bar and choose stools at the left-end of the bar, just under a candle lit chandelier. The bar is long, wooden and only a little sticky. Dean flags the bartender down and orders an old-fashioned for himself and a ginger ale for me.
“What did you think of the music?” I ask. He hunches over the bar, feet resting on the stool, stirring the ice in his drink around. I try to sit up straight for once in my life.
“It was very good,” Dean answers, not looking up from his small glass. He gulps down some of the brown liquor. “It was nice that they dedicated that last song to you. Madeline, right?”
“Yeah. The one the album is named after,” I confirm.
“And after you.”
I look down at my own drink, feeling flustered.
“Do you miss him?” Dean asks.
I pause a beat. This could very easily be a trick question if it were coming from anyone else. “Not like I used to.”
“No?”
“No. Not since yesterday.”
“What changed?” Dean asks, turning to face me.
I squirm on my stool for a second while I generate thoughts in my head about what changed. In reality, not much has. I’m still neurotic with health anxiety. But I’ve lived. “Exposure therapy?” I suggest to him, unable to articulate an answer to his question in a way that matters.
“You’re asking me?” He laughs.
“I’m not. I’m saying. Exposure therapy,” I decide. “I’ve done more living the last four days than I have in the last four years.”
“You haven’t gone to Martell’s Pharmacy in four days.” Dean smiles. “You should be proud.”
“I bet Craig is thrilled.” I scowl.
“Honestly,” Dean takes another swig of his drink. “Fuck Craig.”
I laugh and it sounds like BAHAHA. “What? Where is this coming from?”
“It was a real sleezeball thing for him to do. To hire me and ask me to get rid of you. He should have helped you, not enabled you. Do you want to know the real reason I wanted the bonus?”
“What?”
“To pay for Sierra’s college. It would cover her first semester. She’s graduating high school, you know, and my Mom….”
I smile. It’s sweet that he wants to take care of his sister like that.
He flashes a diabolical grin back at me.
“I thought you hated me at first,” I laugh, sipping on my drink.
“I didn’t know you at the time,” Dean defends himself.
“But you know me now?”
“I like to think I do.”
I raise an eyebrow. “How so?”
“Well, first I know you take 20 milligrams of Lexapro and 10 milligrams of Abilify every morning.”
“Hey! Don’t announce that. That’s like, a HIPPA violation,” I giggle.
He grins widely. “I know you have to have a fresh glass of water to take your pills.”
“Well, yeah. Water left out overnight can become contaminated with dust and can become an incubator for bacteria—”
“I know your favorite sweater is the green one. And you like the tie-dye socks the best.”
I give him a soft smile; he’s not wrong. “What else?”
“You don’t drink. Not because of your medications but because you don’t like the taste or the way it makes your head feels.
You’ve got a weird NPR podcast fascination because you have the need to know everything, always.
And you always have an extra mint or tissue in your tote bag for someone else,” He pauses to think.
“Your wallet is cheap leather so it’s cracking—you’re a penny pincher when it comes to stuff like that.
But you don’t mind splurging when it comes to the important things, like hotel mattresses, because you’d rather not fuck up your back. ”
“You’re good,” I give him a sheepish smile. “How’d you know all that?”
“I pay attention to what you say and what you do so I think I know what you like,” Dean tells me. “Simple as that.” He downs the rest of his drink, and the gleam in his eyes is bright in the candlelight.
“Oh, you do, now?” I grin, my feet dangling off the stool. “What else do you think I like?” I tease him.
“Madeline, you’re an open book.” He gives me a long, hard look.
“You like hot tea with lemon and honey. You like fresh peaches and strawberries in the summertime, roasted peanuts and almonds in the wintertime. You like swimming in freshwater over pools. You’re a sucker for a solo song on the acoustic guitar. ”
“That’s not all I’m a sucker for,” I admit, shaking my head.
“What else are you a sucker for?” Dean asks, drinking his melted ice.
“The free samples at Costco. Ice-cream with caramel sauce. Puppy dogs with floppy ears. Men with dark, wavy hair and glasses, who roll their sleeves up just a little bit.”
Dean glances down at his bare forearms, grinning. “Oh, so you have a type? Do tell me more.”
“Oh, yeah, totally. Men in uniform, for sure. Firefighters, baseball players, postal carriers, doctors, nurses….”
“Pharmacists?”
“Only when they wear the white coats.”
“I can go get it. I have it in my duffel.”
“But then I won’t be able to see your forearms.” I smirk. “And I like your forearms.”
Dean blushes, and I glance at his arms in the dim light. They’re positively scrumptious. A wristwatch with a brown leather strap and a small white face adorns his left wrist.
“Where did you get your watch?” I ask.
“It was my father’s,” He says quietly. “I got the watch. Sierra got his class ring…I don’t go anywhere without it.”
I look down at my own wristwatch—the latest smart watch that monitors your heart rate for arrhythmias. It was nothing special and didn’t mean anything in particular. “It’s sweet how people carry around these little physical reminders of the ones they love.” I say.
“Did you have anything for Andy?” Dean asks me. “What about your wedding rings?”
“I have mine, of course. It’s at home. I’m too scared to lose it somewhere. But Andy was buried with his on.”
“You didn’t want to keep it?” He asks.
“No. I was adamant that it was his, and he should take it with him wherever he goes next. I wanted him to have it in the afterlife or heaven or the void or wherever the hell he ended up. He’ll always be married to me. Even if I marry someone else.”
Dean laughs at my self-admitted petulance. “So, you would get married again?”
“It depends if somebody asks me or not,” I give him a smirk, and sip my drink. “Would you?” I ask.
“Sure.” He nods. “She’d have to be my type though.”
“What’s your type?” I ask, indulging him further, curious to see how much he’ll divulge.
“Short. Snappy. With a screw loose.”
“I think I know—” He cuts me off with a swift, open-mouthed kiss, pulling me to the edge of my barstool, right hand in the space behind my ear. “Hey, what was that for?” Dean quiets me with a second kiss.
Then a third.
I’m going in for a fourth when the bartender ahems in front of us.
Dean pulls away from me and puts out a twenty dollar bill, leaving it as a tip.
He takes my hand, pulling me off the bar stool completely.
I match his pace as we walk quickly to exit the pub, through hoards of bar hoppers and late night drinkers, and the 5-minute walk back to Ralph’s Motel is the most brisk walk I’ve ever had by far—Dean never let go of my hand so I could zip my coat.
Despite that, by the time we reach Room 106, we’re both panting, out of breath from speed walking the whole way here.
I’m fumbling for the key, my back to the door, when Dean grabs me by the waist, scooping me in towards him, placing a rather uncivilized kiss on my lips. He leans on the door, his arm above my head, eyes locked on mine.
“I must be your type or something,” I say.
“You have no fucking idea how much my type you are.” Dean agrees, his hair flopping onto his forehead, getting caught in his glasses. He pushes my coat down and off my shoulder to suck on a small patch of my exposed neck, holding my hair off to the side.
Our subsequent kisses are primitive and primal.
I groan and reach around his waist, tucking a finger through an empty belt loop to bring his hips closer to mine.
His left hand disappears into my hair, caressing the side of my head.
The other hand guides the small of my back closer and closer until we’re practically smashing up against one another.
It isn’t until I bonk my head on the front of the door with a disruptive OW that Dean produces his own room key, and swiftly unlocks the door.
I turn around and push on the door handle and jiggle the lock open.
The room, a tad cold and a little damp, is still illuminated by a small table lamp in the corner by the armchair.
My pills aligned on the dresser just where I left them.
I’m inspecting the room while Dean removes his shoes and jacket.
“Oh!” I’m startled as I’m being lifted into the air, coat still on, carried bridal-style. I place my arms around his neck, cocooned by his warmth. I turn my head to get a better look at him as he carries me over to the double-sized mattress in the center of the room.
Dean places me tenderly in the center of the foot of the bed. He kneels. My heart flutters a thousand times faster than it ever has previously, twisting and bending at the anticipation of his next move and where his physical touch might land next.
He looks down and undoes my sneaker shoelaces, carefully removing them and aligning them by the base of the dresser next to his.
After taking my socks off, he rubs each of my feet, gently massaging my skin.
I watch his fingers work their way up to my shoulders to peel off my coat.
Once my coat is hanging on the rack next to his, he stands before me, red checkered flannel with the sleeves still rolled up.