by Elle Kennedy
The blunt words sting. I mean, it’s not like Dean and I are planning to mail out save-the-dates next week, but I don’t envision us breaking up anytime soon. We’re twenty-two. We’re in love. Going forward might be tough, what with me in LA or New York, and Dean in Cambridge for the next two years, but I’m certain we can make it work if we try hard at it. And once Dean finishes law school, he’ll be able to practice law wherever he wants. Wherever I am. We haven’t discussed it, but Dean hasn’t given me any indication he wants to break up after graduation.
“He could be,” I say quietly. “Long-term, I mean.”
Dad gives an adamant shake of his head. “He’s not.” His voice loses some of its hard edges. “Do you want to know the most important thing I learned after eighteen years with your mom?”
I sit on the couch beside him and wait for him to continue.
“Relationships are a fucking pain in the ass sometimes.”
I have to laugh. “Mom told me the same thing.” The thought of the last conversation I had with my mother brings an ache to my heart. “She told me you guys had problems at one point in your marriage,” I confess. I’ve never discussed this with him before. Mom had been open about their struggles, though. Not in detail, but she did make sure I knew how hard they’d worked on their marriage.
“We did,” he confirms in a pained voice. “It was the traveling. Eva gave up modeling after you were born, so she was always at home. And I was always on the road.” He gives me a fierce look. “I never touched another woman, AJ. That’s not what our issues were about.”
“I know.”
“It was goddamn hard. The long separations. The brief phone calls. I’d come home and we’d feel like strangers, have to get to know each other all over again. It took a lot of effort to work through that.” Agony flashes in his eyes. “Then she got sick, and it got even harder.”
A lump forms in my throat. I was twelve when she was diagnosed with lung cancer. I remember begging to go with them whenever Dad drove her to chemo. They never let me, and on the days where the side effects were too debilitating, when her skin was grayer than ash and she was vomiting so violently she’d cracked a rib, they would send me to my aunt in Queens. They hadn’t wanted me to see her like that. But I saw enough.
“Dean…” My father clears his throat, shifting the subject again. “I know men like him. They aren’t equipped to handle the big stuff. The life-changing setbacks. The game-changers. If you—God forbid—got sick? Or injured? Or if a recession descends on this country and bankrupts your man’s empire?” A disdainful note bites into his tone. “He’d fall apart like a cheap tent.”
“That’s not true,” I protest. “Dean is a good man. And he’s good to me. Good for me.”
“You’re fooling yourself, AJ. Yes, he’s good to you—now. He lives a perfect life. He pays other people to clean up his messes. And as long as everything keeps going his way, he’ll be the best thing that ever happened to you. But if shit goes south? He’ll be gone. He won’t stand by you, because that would entail stepping out of his perfect bubble, letting the ugly stuff in. That boy doesn’t do ugly.”
“You’re wrong,” I whisper.
He curses. “Christ, it makes me sick to say this to you, sweetheart. You think I like seeing that hurt look on your face? Rips me apart, AJ. But I want you to be prepared for when it happens.” Dad lets out a resigned breath. “Mark my words. You won’t be able to count on him. Better wrap your head around that now, before it’s too late.”
*
I don’t allow my father’s warning—and his completely unjustified opinion of Dean—to ruin the holiday for us. I get it. He’s worried. He doesn’t want me to suffer another broken heart. And I can’t even get pissed about the blunt way he’d presented his case, because blunt is my dad’s middle name.
But he’s wrong. Dean would be there for me if I needed him. He already has, rushing to my dorm the night Sean’s verbal attack ripped me to shreds. So I’m choosing not to second-guess the relationship I’m receiving so much joy from, and forcing myself to enjoy the rest of the break.
I spend Christmas Eve, which also happens to be my birthday, at home with my dad. We watch It’s a Wonderful Life, as we always do, and I bawl my eyes out, as I always do. Then we drink hot chocolate and he gives me the same present he always does—three hundred bucks, with a scribbled note telling me to buy myself something pretty. Dad sucks at gift giving. I don’t care, because I already got the only gift I wanted: my father, as healthy as he can be at the moment, alive and here with me.
A few days later, Dean is back from St. Bart’s, looking tanned and relaxed as he picks me up at the brownstone. I’m surprised he chose to drive, since it would’ve been easier for me to hop the train and meet him in the city, but when I question him, he just grins and says, “We’re not going to Manhattan. I have a birthday surprise for you.”
“You already gave me a birthday surprise,” I remind him. He totally had too—a call from St. Bart’s and the hottest phone sex I’ve ever had in my life. I made so much noise when I was coming I had to thank my lucky stars that my dad is a heavy sleeper.
“This one is even better,” Dean promises, and then he plants a quick kiss on my lips and pulls away from the curb. “I missed you.”
I can’t fight a goofy smile. “I missed you.”
Winking, he reaches for my hand and places it directly on his crotch. Which is sporting a noticeable semi. “Little Dean missed you too.”
“I can see that.”
I rub the growing bulge, and he groans. “Keep doing that and I’ll shoot in my pants,” he warns.
My smile widens. “Is that a challenge?”
I drag down his zipper and slide my hand inside, curling my fingers around his hard, pulsing shaft. Jeez, he wasn’t kidding. Less than a minute of stroking, and he groans again, clutching the steering wheel in a death grip as he chokes out one word. “Coming.”
I don’t let him ruin his pants, because they’re probably more expensive than my college tuition. Instead, I lower my head and swallow up his release, moaning as his salty, masculine flavor coats my tongue.
“Sweet Jesus,” he mumbles, then reaches out to tenderly stroke my cheek. “I fucking love you, baby.”
“Naah, you just love road head.”
“You.” He stubbornly shakes his head. “I love you.”
Damned if my heart doesn’t soar. I settle back in my seat, gazing out the window as we cross the bridge toward New Jersey. I don’t know where the heck he’s taking me, but I’m happy to let him. I’d follow Dean Di Laurentis to the ends of the earth. To the bowels of a volcano, if he asked me to be the Meg Ryan to his Tom Hanks. To fucking Mordor, if he asked me to be the Sam to his Frodo. To—
“We’re here,” he announces.
I’m jolted out of the most ridiculous train of thought I’ve ever ridden. Dean parks the BMW in front of a small building in what seems to be an industrial area in Newark. I peer through the windshield to read the sign. Then I gasp.
My head whirls toward him. He’s grinning.
“Oh my God. Really?!”
“Yup.” He hops out of the car and rounds the front bumper to open my door. I take the hand he holds out, and I’m practically skipping all the way to the glass double doors. Excitement bubbles inside me. My chest feels hot and gooey, and the thick layer of emotion clinging to my throat makes it difficult to get a single word out.
I look around the front lobby of the dance studio, then meet Dean’s twinkling eyes. “I thought you said you didn’t want to salsa dance. And Dean Di Laurentis only does what he wants, remember?”
He shrugs. “I am doing what I want.”
My eyebrows knit together as I wait for him to clarify.
“I’m making you happy.”
Squish. That’s the noise my heart makes. Because it’s so fucking full of love it can no longer contain it all.
*
Dean
Real life is beckoning. I wa
nt to shoo it away and tell it to bother me later, but that’s not the way the world works. As much as I loved lying on the beach with my folks, and catching up with my siblings, and putting a smile on my girlfriend’s face by surprising her with dance lessons, it’s time to snap out of holiday mode and into life mode.
My first week back at campus is busier than ever, as hockey practice, classes, and coaching the Hurricanes eat up most of my time. Luckily, Allie is busy with rehearsals again, so she doesn’t complain that our sex life is pretty much a series of quickies this week.
On Saturday, the team loses another home game. Nobody is even saying the word “playoffs” anymore, because we all know it ain’t happening. Despite that, I keep working one-on-one with Hunter. No matter what happens this season (spoiler alert: nothing will happen), Hunter will still be playing for Briar next year, and hopefully serving as a team leader for the others.
Coach O’Shea, who’s been shockingly pleasant lately, signs off on an hour of extra ice time for us on Sunday night, which Hunter and I make good use of. The solo session goes well, and I drive home from the arena in a good mood. Since I don’t have an early practice tomorrow, Allie’s spending the night and I can’t wait to fuck my girlfriend. Really fuck her. I’m talking three straight hours of balls deep heaven, instead of the hurried trips to the bone zone we’ve been taking all week.
My head is down as I wander into the kitchen. I’m so focused on the task of checking if Allie texted that it takes a second to register that my roommates are sitting around the table. Even Tucker, who’s been AWOL since the new semester started. I don’t even bother teasing him about it anymore. It’s obvious he has a girlfriend. Or maybe a boyfriend? Fuck, he’s so secretive these days that nothing would surprise me.
“What’s up?” I ask absently.
Nobody says a word.
I tuck my phone in my pocket and glance around the table. Their stricken expressions make my heart beat faster.
The moisture I glimpse in Logan’s eyes makes it stop beating altogether.
“What’s going on?” I demand.
The eerie silence drags on. Logan scrubs his fist over his eyes.
Fucking hell. Now I’m worried. No, now I’m scared.
“Seriously, if someone doesn’t tell me what’s going on right this fucking second—”
“Coach called,” Garrett interrupts. His voice is low. Somber.
I wait for him to continue. My hands feel like two blocks of ice. And now they’re starting to shake.
“He just got off the phone with Patrick Deluca, and, uh…”
Okay, this is moving in a direction I didn’t expect. Pat Deluca is the coach of the football team. What the hell would he have to say to Coach Jensen?
Garrett sees my confusion and keeps talking. “I guess Deluca called him because he knows we’re friends with Beau—”
Beau? “This is about Maxwell?” I cut in. “What about him?”
Logan averts his gaze.
So does Tucker.
The only one with the balls to meet my eyes is Garrett, who exhales in a slow, unsteady rush before speaking.
“He…ah…died.”
30
Dean
My brother and I traveled around Europe the summer after I graduated high school. France, Italy, Spain, and we finished the trip in Germany and Austria. The latter is home to a massive ice cave that Nick insisted on seeing. I’ll admit, it was pretty fucking cool. The tour only lets you walk the first mile or so, which is covered in ice. Beyond that, the interlocking chambers and endless passageways were formed of limestone. Nick and I weren’t interested in one measly mile, so badasses that we are, we broke the rules and snuck away from the tour group.
We got lost. Hopelessly fucking lost, and to this day I still remember the suffocating feeling that came over me. The echo of our voices bouncing off the impossibly high walls. The cold breeze blowing through the cave. The footsteps of the tour guide who came to our rescue—we could hear those footsteps, clear as day, but it was impossible to figure out which direction they were coming from. The echoes fucked with our ears.
That’s how I feel now. I hear Garrett talking, but I can’t see him and I can’t be sure of what he’s saying. His voice is an echo. Bouncing off the walls and off my ears and just kinda…swirling around aimlessly.
My brain still can’t comprehend the first thing he said.
Beau died.
As in, he’s dead?
Beau is dead?
Beau Maxwell?
My friend Beau Maxwell?
“…on impact.”
My head snaps up. It’s like Garrett’s words are spitballs that he’s firing at the wall, and the last two finally stick.
“What?” I ask stupidly.
His gray eyes are lined with sadness. “I said he died on impact. He didn’t suffer.”
I blink. Repeatedly. “Can you tell it to me again? What happened, I mean.”
He curses. “Goddamn it, why?”
Because I didn’t hear a word you said! I almost roar. I take a breath and say, “Because I need to hear it again.”
Garrett nods, albeit reluctantly. “Okay.”
I stagger to the counter and open the top cupboard. Good. There’s a bottle of Jack in it. I twist off the cap and take a deep swig, then join my roommates at the table. I sit next to Tuck, and the Jack Daniel’s gets passed around as Garrett starts talking again.
It’s not a very long story.
But it’s a gut-wrenching one.
Beau flew to Wisconsin this weekend for his grandmother’s birthday. I already knew this—he called me before he left. We made plans to grab beers on Tuesday night.
Last night, the Maxwells celebrated Grandma’s ninetieth at a restaurant in her small town. The roads were icy. They took two cars—Beau was with his dad. His dad was driving.
Joanna told Coach Deluca that dinner was a ton of fun.
On the drive back, Beau’s father swerved to avoid hitting a deer that darted out in front of their car.
The car hit a patch of black ice. It flew off the road, flipping over twice.
Then it slammed into a tree.
Beau’s neck snapped on impact.
His father didn’t have a scratch on ’im.
I swallow another mouthful of whiskey. It burns my throat and sets my insides on fire. My eyes are on fire too. They’re hot and stinging, and when Garrett finishes speaking, I scrape my chair back and pick up the bottle.
“Going upstairs,” I mumble.
“Dean—” It’s Tucker, his voice rippling with sorrow.
Tuck barely knew Beau. Neither did Garrett, aside from chilling with him at parties. Logan was close to him, I guess. I know he went over to Beau’s place to hang out. But me…I was one of Maxwell’s best friends. He was one of mine.
Somehow, I make it up the stairs without falling over. My hand shakes so badly I nearly drop the whiskey bottle half a dozen times before I stumble into my room. I collapse on the bed and tip the bottle, pouring a stream of amber liquid into my mouth. It splashes my neck and soaks into the collar of my shirt. I don’t care. I just drink more.
So I guess Beau’s dead.
He was twenty-three.
I drink more. And some more. And then some more, until my vision is nothing but a fuzzy gray haze.
I’m wasted now. No, I’m beyond wasted. My brain don’t work so good anymore. Hands? Working? Fuggedaboutit. I try to set the bottle on the nightstand and it crashes to the floor. For some reason, that makes me laugh.
I think time passes. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it’s standing fucking still because Beau Maxwell’s neck snapped like a twig and now he’s dead. Dead. Dunzo. Dun-zo.
“Dean…?”
A voice whispers my name from far, far away. Jeez. Maybe I’m in the cave again. Maybe I never left it—how fucked up would that be? If I died in some cave in Austria but didn’t know it? If the life I’ve been leading ever since that Europe trip is really a figment
of my imagination, and my dead body is actually decomposing in an ice cave right now?
“That’s fucking trippy,” I slur.
“Dean.” Warm hands cup my cheeks. There’s a soft curse. “Jesus. You’re drunk out of your mind.”
I’m bouncing. No, the mattress is. It’s shaking because someone is climbing on the bed with me, and my stomach starts to feel queasy. Nausea sticks to my throat. I swallow. I breathe deeply. I can smell the whiskey, but there’s another fragrance in the room too. Allie’s mysterious scent.
“Baby.” I feel my head moving. She’s tugging it into her lap, threading her fingers through my damp hair. I’m sweating bullets. Why is it so hot in here? “Logan just told me what happened. I…” Her hand trembles in my hair. “I’m so sorry, sweetie.”
“Broke…his neck.” My voice sounds far away, too. It doesn’t even sound like my voice, actually. Jesus, I’m so drunk. Disgustingly, pathetically, lost-in-oblivion drunk.
“I know,” Allie whispers. “And I’m so, so sorry. I know you’re hurting right now. I…” She strokes my hot forehead. “I’m here, okay? I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”
I draw a ragged breath. “Babe,” I mumble.
“What is it?”
“I’m gonna…” I lift my head, but the simple act of doing so incites the very thing I was trying to warn her about.
The nausea spirals to the surface and I throw up on my girlfriend’s lap.
*
Allie
The memorial service for Beau is held in the football stadium. The entire team is there, along with the coaching staff, his friends, his family, hundreds of alumni, and thousands of people who probably never even met him.
One notable absence?
Dean.
Before I left the house, he was upstairs in his room, wearing a black suit and a somber expression. He told me to go on ahead with Hannah and Garrett, and that he’d meet me at the memorial.
When I get back to the house, he’s still in his room, still wearing the black suit and the somber expression. Except now he’s clutching a vodka bottle and his cheeks are flushed.
