Chapter 15
Dean feels like he slept for twenty-four hours straight.
Soft sheets and blissful silence were all it took to pass out straight through the night, past morning, and into the afternoon. The last thing he remembers is texting Ava before flopping face-first into his pillow which he’ll never take for granted again. Now, he’s wide awake and sleep-drunk, having gotten too much of a good thing. His head throbs and he needs coffee as badly as he needs his next breath. Lots and lots of coffee.
The residual exhaustion fogging him up makes it easy to pretend the past couple of months in prison were only a bad dream, a nightmare, a delusion. Ava had a starring role in what his mind conjured up behind closed lids, but he wasn’t lucky enough to see anything sexy. No, she was thrust into a nightmare instead, enduring what might have happened if he never reached the infirmary in time. His legs dragged, forcing him to limp down the hall until he saw Jaxson rush in with her and slam the door shut behind him.
He woke screaming her name, ready to beat the table lamp a foot away into pieces for touching her.
Dean runs a hand over his face, leaning on the kitchen counter, chin in his palm while coffee drips into the pot at a snail’s pace. He wants to text her. Call her. See her. Touch her. Especially that last one. The remnants of his nightmare have him needy and tactile and he’d love nothing more than to have her in his arms to reassure himself that she is safe and in one piece, and that his mind was only playing tricks on him.
It should be simple enough to initiate contact. Tradition suggests that it’s the guy’s job to keep showing interest, but he doesn’t know what the hell to say, or when to say it. Will he chase her away if he bothers her too much? It’s not even been one full day yet.
His lack of experience with relationships is often something he couldn’t give two shits about. Boone loves to give him hell, saying all he needs is to get his dick wet and everything else will fall into place, but far as Dean’s concerned he’s been fine alone and fucking women only to forget them the next day was always his brother’s game, not his.
This is the one time he sort of wishes he could ask his brother what to do, though. One thing Boone has is plenty of skill in knowing exactly how to behave around the fairer sex. When to call, where to go out, what to say, how to move. Meanwhile, Dean has been staring at his phone for the last five minutes, trying to work up the courage to send a simple line. Should he ask her out again today? To where? Text her something unrelated first? Give it another day so he’s not blowing up her phone like a weirdo or run face-first into the abyss and accept that he sucks at this and she’s already well aware of that?
People do this shit every day. It’s not as big a deal as he’s making it out to be in his head. That’s what he repeats to himself more than once while stirring milk into his coffee cup. He scrolls through the emojis on his phone looking for anything that says “Hey, I miss you already and it’s hardly been twenty four hours, wanna do something?”
Unsurprisingly, there isn’t.
There is, however, a vast array of emojis to choose from. So many that he’s bombarded by choices, like a kid in a candy store. He never had much reason to text anyone except Boone and now here he is with someone he can send tiny little pictures to. He ends up in the flower section again after a few thumb flicks. Instinct says to send her a rose, but that seems cliche so he scrolls further to that pale lavender flower he sent the night before, the one that looks a lot like the plants growing up the prison gate.
‘Good morning. How’s things?’He sends that line along with a flower, scolding himself a moment later. “Shit. Stupid. How’s things? That’s smooth as fuck.”
Her typing bubble pops up, and he’s never watched something so closely in all his life. His nerves tingle, one hand hovering over the coffee, stuck mid-reach.
‘I think you mean good afternoon. Things are good, watching that show. The kid is alive! Barb is dead :( how’s things over there?’
He snorts at the TV spoilers she offered, as if he had any clue what was going on in that show she’s so addicted to. ‘Slept forever. Just woke up. Finally, someone saved that kid.’
‘Thought you might have passed out. Good. You probably needed the rest.’
He stares at the phone for a moment, unsure how to get past the small talk and to the actual point of suggesting they make plans. He intended to ask her out again last night, but he was overwhelmed by the time they got to his house and once he kissed her his brain stopped functioning and any hope of suggesting another date was a lost cause.
Ava’s typing bubble appears again, and he freezes, watching to see what she might say, but then it’s gone again.
Then it’s back.
Then it’s gone.
He takes a deep breath and dives off a cliff, holding the air in his lungs until the message is sent and out of his control.
‘Would like to see you again. You got plans tomorrow?’
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Tomorrow is too soon. He’s doing that needy thing again. She just saw him yesterday. For the first time in forever, he doesn’t expect rejection, but it’s hard not to second guess himself and wonder what wrong move might finally turn her off. Waiting for the other shoe to drop is an ingrained habit that he can’t shuck just yet.
She is merciful as always and doesn’t make him wait long. ‘No plans. I’m free after work. :) Coffee? There’s a shop downtown that has really good mochas.’
He grins at his phone, relieved that she suggested a place and thing to do because he was searching his brain for something appropriate and coming up blank. He rarely did much at all before getting locked up. He went to work, to the store, and back home to do it all over again the next day. That was his schedule, so when it comes to knowing appropriate date locations, he is sorely lacking.
‘Coffee sounds good, 7?’
‘Perfect.’She caps off her text with a coffee cup emoji that makes him smile at the phone like he’s nineteen again.
He has a date with Ava tomorrow and he can’t fucking wait.
* * *
Dean’s never spent much time downtown. He’s driven through it and gotten stuck in traffic, but that’s about it. Too much noise, too many people, too overwhelming,. Wandering around alone was never very appealing. Only now he’s sitting at an outside table on a warm night with Ava, his hands curled around the frozen mocha in front of him that tastes like chocolate heaven.
There are people everywhere, spilling out onto the sidewalks from shops and clustering in groups at seating areas. Teenagers in packs, families with kids, and couples on dates. More than a few folks walking dogs, one of which tugged its owner to their table to steal a pat on the head.
On most days, the commotion would leave him anxious, but all he cares about tonight is watching the woman across from him. Ava’s slender fingers tap against her cup while she tells him a story about how Nick ate all the creme-filled donuts at work the other day, even the one she tucked away into the back of the fridge to hide from him.
“I should have stuck a label on it,” she says with a laugh, pausing to change the subject. “So…you get all settled in back home?’
“Ain’t much to settle really. Found a thick layer of dust on everything and the milk was growing fuzz but otherwise, yeah. Feels good to be home.” That’s the understatement of the year. It feels beyond good to be back. It’s euphoric. He’s turned into someone who’s so damn happy to do normal shit like order a pizza and watch TV.
“I bet it does.” She eyes him with a hint of mischief. “You smell different…good…like pine and man soap. Not that disinfectant they use back there.”
“Pffft. Man soap, huh? Like I cut down some trees and oiled up a bike?”
She hums out an agreement, all throaty and deep, her words holding less of a tease and more of a flirt. “Something like that. I like it.”
His brain disconnects for a long moment at the revelation that she noticed how he smells and she likes it. The car isn’t far, he could take her back there and make every naughty fantasy he’s had come to life and with the way she’s looking at him, with that hooded gaze and summer-flushed skin, he suspects she’d welcome that turn of events.
He dismisses that thought. It’s too soon. He’s allowing the electric current between them to prompt his wild imagination.
“You ah, you wanna walk a little?” They’ve almost finished their coffees, but the night is young and he’ll walk laps around main street if it means she’ll walk with him.
She agrees with an eager nod and they toss their cups in the trash before filing onto the crowded sidewalk. A man speeds by on his bike and Ava edges into Dean’s space, her shoulder brushing his.
“People are so damn rude,” he growls, switching their positions so she’s on the inside away from the street, and offering his arm for her to hold on to. The gentle hook of her forearm through the bend of his elbow feels like he won the lottery.
They pass a few shops that catch his attention. Something eclectic, the type of store to sell starbursts that hang from the ceiling and hand-crafted jewelry. An art gallery with weird paintings of farm animals in the window and a clothing boutique that sells preppy stuff like pink pants and checkered sweaters.
“Oooh, mint chocolate chip. Have you ever been here?” She points to a sign outside a popcorn shop proudly displaying their daily flavors. Mint chocolate and cheddar jack cheese.
“Nah, never came downtown much. Ya want some? Could go for some of that cheese one myself.”
They emerge a few minutes later with two paper bags full of fresh popcorn, and he’s not quite sure how they escaped that place at all. The choices were a mile long once they got inside, everything from jalape?o and sriracha to cotton candy and fruit loops.
Ava’s arm curls around his bicep again as they make their way down the sidewalk, warm and reassuring. It’s only then that he realizes he hasn’t flinched away from her even once, and while not acting like a complete freak at human touch may be normal for most, it is not normal for him and he’s not most people. Contact is difficult. Always has been. It had only been their forced proximity and unusual conditions that desensitized him to her in prison.
They have done more than this already, though. They’ve hugged, they’ve kissed, but casually touching out in public without the threat of disaster looming over them is new and different and he’s playing it all by ear.
They make it three more blocks locked arm and arm before spotting a bench off to the side, tucked between a building and a hotel overlooking a man-made waterfall. They migrate toward it, sitting side by side with a view of the greenspace below. It’s getting dark, but there are kids playing at the water’s edge and people eating at little tables in the restaurant across the bridge.
“You go to that popcorn place a lot? Seemed like you’ve been there before.” He’s only looking for something to say, still unsure of how to lead a conversation when they don’t have injuries or prison drama to talk about.
She makes it easier than it otherwise would be. He knows that for sure. She is always an eager participant in whatever he brings up.
“Used to take Charlotte there on the weekends. After John would leave to play poker, we’d….” She trails off, almost startled that she responded the way she did, sadness overcoming her even as she tries to fight it off. “Anyway, a few times, yes. Haven’t been back in a while though.”
“John was your husband?”
She nods, her mood somber.
“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”
“It’s okay. The only bad ones are of him. He wasn’t good to me. Charlotte was all good memories, though. It’s been long enough now that I can think of her sometimes and smile, can picture her trying those jalapeno flavors and having a fit at how hot they are.”
He already figured her late husband wasn’t her favorite person when he was alive judging by her initial comments about him back in the infirmary, but he is curious now and wants to probe deeper, wants to know her in ways that may confirm how similar they are even if he hopes he’s wrong.
‘He wasn’t good to me.’ can mean a lot of things. Dean decides against poking old wounds, not wanting to drop the mood even further. “How old was she?”
“Nine. Almost ten. How about you? I never asked if you have any kids. I feel like that’s something I should know by now, but it never came up.”
He wants to laugh at the idea of procreating. “Nah, no kids. Not that I don’t like ‘em, they’re fine, got no problem with kids, but it wasn’t in the cards I guess. No kid deserves the Dawson genes.”
Biologically, he still could. Emotionally, he never wanted to subject a child to the temper that runs deep in his family’s blood and that won’t change.
“I see nothing wrong with your genes,” she says while stealing a few of his cheddar popcorns.
“You ain’t looked deep enough yet.”
She furrows her brows, waiting for him to continue.
“My old man was a shit person, is all. Bad temper. Violent. That kinda thing gets passed down. Wouldn’t want a kid to grow up like I did.”
“Oh. My husband, he was…like that, too. Shit person is putting it kindly.”
Her husband hurt her and if he wasn’t already dead, Dean would send him down to hell himself. “Fuck ‘em both then.”
She huffs. “Yeah.”
Everything is too heavy now, and he searches for something that doesn’t have anything to do with the husband she didn’t like, the child she lost, or the kids he never had. “Hey, you ever get that car fixed? Still leakin’?”
If anything, she looks even sadder for a split second. “It’s still burning a hole through the concrete.”
“Can take a look at it for ya now that I’m out. Maybe this weekend?” That prompts a genuine smile, and he finally feels like he did something right.
“Okay. I can hand you tools and provide iced tea. It’s a date.”
He worries his fingers against the paper of his popcorn bag, glancing at the dusting of barely there constellations across her collarbone illuminated by twinkle lights strung up in the trees. He should be excited that he has another reason to see her again, and he will be later, but all he can think of right now is how much he wants to kiss her. How soft her lips look and how she seems to be waiting for him to lean in and do just that.
His palms are sweaty and his heart races but he steels his courage, remembering that he’s already kissed her before she didn’t push him back then. She is still here.
The barest hint of a smile edges up the corners of her mouth as she waits, her attention drifting down to his lips in encouragement. When he begins to close the distance between them, she meets him halfway, removing the pressure to complete that journey alone. She tastes sweet and icy, like mint popcorn. Her tongue traces the seam of his lips until he parts them for her, allowing her in for an easy, gentle swoop before she retreats again.
He goes for her bottom lip like he had the last time because it’s so damn tempting, soft and plump, and right there waiting for him. He captures it between his lips, holding a moment before giving her a light suck, and receives a sharp inhale into his mouth for his efforts.
When they part it’s only for a moment, noses nestling and the air from their lungs mingling before he goes in for another, one hand shifting up the side of her arm and back down again to settle on her elbow, her fingers tickling the back of his neck to create a sizzle that travels up his scalp.
He is kissing a woman on a public park bench, something so out of his comfort zone he could never imagine it before and yet it’s the most natural thing with her.
The tips of her fingers run a reverent pass over her lips when he leans away, and then her shoulder finds his, prompting his arm to lift and tuck her in against his side. They spend the rest of the evening people-watching and touching in ways that skirt the line of innocence. Their fingers lace together, tracing lines across palm. Her breath ghosts his neck where she curls into him, her foot rubbing up his calf while he glides a slow pass over her back with a light touch.
When he takes her home half an hour later, they part ways quickly, as if they’re both afraid of going too far in this type of setting, when there’s easy access to the inside of a house and a soft bed. He is anxious about pleasing her with only sparse, drunken experiences to fall back on, and even more anxious about her seeing the scars covering his body in a more intimate setting instead of under the harsh lights of the prison.
He wrestles with the option of inviting her over, anyway. She could leave her car in this parking garage and drive back with him, as if the logistics are anything to be concerned about, but his pause of uncertainty prompts the same in her, and the anxiety he feels mirrors across her face.
“See you this weekend,” he says, taking the easy way out.
“This weekend. I’ll text you my address.”
They don’t kiss again, but she gives him the best smile he’s ever seen and tells him she’s looking forward to watching him crawl under her car and then she’s gone. He already misses her all over again.
He sends her that flower via text the next time he stops at a red light, not bothering to wait until he gets home.