by Wendy Owens
“You did,” I snarl. “But that’s not why I’m mad at you.”
He shifts from side to side, then moves over to the wooden infant swing, playing with the ropes for a moment. “Uh oh, what did I do to make you mad now?”
“You said something that caused me to make a fool of myself.”
“So you’re mad at me for something you did?” he asks, laughing softly.
I don’t look away. Instead, I twist the swing and stare directly into his eyes. “You were the one who put the thought into my head.”
“What thought?” He leans in, waiting for my answer, still holding the wooden swing.
“Never mind,” I snap, looking away. I want to unload on him. Tell him that because of him I spiraled down into a complete free fall of emotions I had only recently managed to get a handle on, but instead I clam up. I’m not angry because I’m embarrassed. I’m angry because for a short moment he had me believing I might be able to find happiness again.
He lets go of the swing and moves to stand in front of me. I’m staring at his toes sticking out from his sandals. His toes distract me. I’ve never noticed that he has the most amazing feet. The muscles in them are lean; the hierarchy of the size of toes is perfection. No freakishly long random toe. I hate him a little for this flawlessness.
“Oh, come on, you can’t be serious,” he grumbles, moving a couple steps in my direction. I dig my feet into the ground and lock my legs, moving myself away from him.
“Just forget I said anything.”
Lunging forward, he grabs the weathered ropes of the swing I’m sitting on and pulls until my face is planted only inches from his. “Tell me.”
I duck under his arm, narrowly escaping his grasp. “I don’t want to now.”
“Well, too bad. You should have thought of that before you said anything in the first place.”
A breeze whips my hair out to the side. I shiver and wrap my sweater even tighter around my body. “I can’t believe this afternoon is supposed to be in the eighties.”
He shakes his head wildly, moving into the dead space behind me. “No changing the subject. What did I do?”
“Fine! You put the thought in my head that I should go after Christian,” I blurt out at last.
“I … what—” Dean begins before quickly trailing off. He takes a step back from me, his sudden change of behavior causing me to take notice.
“What’s wrong with you?” I bark, paranoid.
“I never said that to you.” His voice is soft, and he’s not looking at me. This isn’t an act. Something is wrong with him.
“Well, no, not directly,” I begin. “But you said he’s so stuck in his past that he’s missing his chance at happiness.”
“And where in there did I say you’re his chance at happiness?” Dean is nearly yelling now. The change in his mood sours mine.
“Well, I just assumed.”
“Jesus, I didn’t mean you and him. Don’t you see, Christian is so hung up on his past it’s ruining his life?”
“Yeah, his past with Paige.”
“No!” Dean huffs, annoyed I’m not getting it. “His parents died when he was a kid. He can’t get past their death long enough to see what his grief is doing to the people around him. If he could get his head out of his ass long enough to realize he and Paige were the real deal maybe he could fix everything he has screwed up.”
“Well, I— I didn’t know that part,” I snap back, a quick swipe of my backhand to Dean’s arm.
“What in the hell am I doing? You don’t see it, do you?”
“See what?”
“It’s right in front of you.”
I bite my lip for a moment, fighting the screams of frustration inside my head.
“What is?”
Dean licks his lips, looks me in the eyes, and just when he is about to say something, he turns and takes off into a circular pacing pattern. He’s lost in thought, and in this moment I would give anything to get a glimpse into his mind.
“Say it,” I press. “What’s right in front of me?”
He continues to pace, shaking his head. He looks at me, and in the morning light, his eyes look like pools of gray water at the bottom of a well—sad and deep. “What do I have to do to make you see?”
“Jesus Christ, Dean! See what?”
“Why in the hell would I try to get you to go after Christian when I’m the one who’s hung up on you?”
“What? No, you—”
“Yeah, you really don’t see it, Macaroon?” His tone is softer.
I’m staring at him. His messed dark hair, the slight stubble on his face, his angular jaw line. He is handsome—exactly my type physically—but it never crossed my mind I could be his type. He’s a rock star, who has women throwing themselves at him every night, and I’m—I don’t even know who I am.
My heart begins to pump faster, and a tingling sensation surges throughout my body, all the way to my fingertips. He doesn’t look away from me, and I can’t seem to pry my eyes from him. I breathe out, the air shaking as it exits my mouth. My jaw clenches, and I know I should say something, but what? What do you say to something like that?
There’s an intensity in his stare, and I feel the heat growing between my thighs. My lips part, and I’m hoping the perfect words will somehow magically fall out of my mouth, but there’s nothing, only silence.
“Say something,” he whispers desperately.
“I … I don’t know what to say,” I reply honestly.
“How do you feel about me?” He closes the gap between us. His eyes widen, and he steps closer, taking one of the ropes of the swing I’m sitting on back into his hand again. He pushes on it, causing me to twist in his direction. My gaze shifts wildly, unsure where to look. Nervously, I stand, taking the other rope into my hand, facing him, only the small piece of wood between us.
“I’ve never thought about it,” I answer, our eyes drifting back to meet one another again.
“Really? Because it’s all I’ve thought about since I met you,” he continues. “When you asked me the other day if I’d ever been in love, I didn’t lie. I haven’t been, but what I didn’t say was when I met you I thought maybe I could be.”
“What are you saying? You can have anyone you want.”
“Unless I can have you, that’s not true.”
I’m shaking my head. I’m not sure if I’m trying to caution myself by the action or tell him I can’t believe his words. “I can’t.”
“You can’t what? All I’m asking is you spend some time with me.”
“I know I’m twenty-four, but I’m not like most girls my age. I’m not interested in playing games and hooking up. I’ve had the real thing, and I don’t have any interest in—I don’t know … whatever it is people do.”
He laughs a little and smiles at me. “Who said I was into games? Why do you think I like you so much? It’s because you are different.”
“Please,” I huff. “You hated me when we met.”
“No, I didn’t.” He laughs again. “Wow, I’ve really made a mess of this.”
“You haven’t,” I protest. “I just don’t know what to say.”
He extends a hand in my direction, and I take it. He pulls it to his chest, and I stumble nervously to him. I can feel the electricity building between us; my eyes roam to his mouth in anticipation of his next words.
“So don’t say anything,” he whispers, and I nearly fall down where I’m standing. He releases the swing and wraps that hand around my hips, pulling me into him. He looks at me with lust, and I know I’m mirroring the same expression. In that second, the rest of the world falls away. It’s just him and me, our pasts nowhere to be found.
My chin is trembling, and I’m waiting. I know what’s coming. I want to etch every second of this into my memory. I want to be able to recall the smells, and how fast my heart is beating, and the texture of his lips. I swallow hard, wondering how much longer he is going to keep me waiting. And as if it were the most perfe
ct timing in all of the universe, right when I thought I might burst from the anticipation, his lips press against mine.
I close my eyes, and his hand that held mine to his chest releases, and I feel it sweep up, cradling the back of my head. I feel weightless, and a passing thought has me wondering how I’m still standing, but I quickly realize it’s his strong arms that keep me upright. When I feel his tongue graze against my closed lips I freely part my mouth for him, drinking in the blissfulness.
A man hasn’t tasted me in such a way for so long, but I’m not thinking about anything except Dean pressed against me. His hands tighten, one grasping a fistful of hair and the other digging into the flesh on my hip. I wrap my arms around him, clinging to his back. Our bodies tangle together—it’s easy to lose track of where he begins and I end. My tongue meets his, and I feel him exhale in delight. I quiver, knowing I can make him feel such pleasure. I feel beautiful in a way I haven’t since before the accident.
We cling to one another in an erotic ballet, but disbelief threatens to tear it all away. This can’t be real, I tell myself. You don’t get to be happy like this—you get pain. A tear escapes from the corner of my eye and rolls down to where Dean’s hand meets my cheek.
He pulls away, breathless. Tenderly, he shifts his thumb and wipes away the wet and salty trail.
“Are you okay?” he asks me.
I nod, unable to verbalize the thoughts racing through my head.
He delivers a half smile before saying, “Every morning when I wake up, all I can think about is finding you. I want to make you laugh and smile. When I make you happy it’s the most amazing feeling in the world.”
I draw in a ragged breath, then ask, “What’s a girl supposed to say to that?”
“Thank you.” He smirks, and I have to fight the urge to kiss him again. “Now that you know how I feel about you, all I can think about is making you feel wanted.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” I say at last. But he doesn’t act disappointed; instead he smiles wider.
“Macaroon, you make me feel incredible, and all I want to do is make you feel even better. You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”
My instincts tell me to pull away from him, create some distance so I can resist his charms, but I fear if I do, my legs may not be able to stand on their own. “I come with a lot of baggage.”
“I’m pretty sure I’m strong enough to carry it. Besides, everyone has baggage. If you don’t, that just means you’re boring.”
My mind is telling me to turn and run, but my heart is screaming its desire be loved again. It reminds me I didn’t die in that crash three years ago. I collapse my head into his chest and let him hold me. I feel him shudder and know he is just as terrified as I am.
“I won’t hurt you,” he groans into my hair.
I want to believe him; with everything in me, I want to believe him.
Dean has been strumming on his guitar for at least an hour. I could watch him work out new sounds, pulling them from his mind and getting them onto paper, all night. All evening he has been toying with the same song. I offer to write down the lyrics, but he informs me it doesn’t work that way for him. He will work on it for weeks, come up with various versions in his head, and then the right one will rise to the top. I can’t imagine keeping all of that straight in your mind; I can’t even go to the grocery store without a list.
He pauses, and the bus goes quiet. I look up at him and smile; he’s watching me. I feel my heart pounding faster with each passing second the beat quickens. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even smile. He’s just watching me.
Why are you looking at me? What do you want? Am I still smiling? Why in the hell are you smiling when all he’s doing is looking at you? Maybe he’s thinking about the song and he isn’t actually looking at you.
Dean moves forward on the mini bench and leans his guitar against the back of the driver’s chair. He swivels in his seat and turns to face me again. Okay, now I know he’s looking at me. I’m sitting on the narrow piece of floor, my face is turning red, and I want to look away, but don’t want to make it obvious that he’s making me uncomfortable.
A brilliant idea enters my head. Do something that lets you look away while appearing to keep busy. I shift up onto my knees and turn toward the back of the bus. I look around and all I see is the bathroom and my bed. What in the hell am I going to do now? I can appear to be busy by taking either a shit or a nap.
“Everything okay?” he asks. I don’t turn around, but I can feel him still staring at me.
Think quickly, I tell myself. Lunging forward, I swipe an oversized pillow off my bed and return back to the seated position on the floor. I try my best to spread out and lean back. I’m totally uncomfortable, but I’m determined to make it look like this was exactly what I had planned.
“Great—just getting comfortable,” I lie.
Dean stands up and starts walking toward me. Oh, sweet baby Jesus, he is getting closer. My heart has now moved up to racing, and I wonder if he can hear the beating that is thundering in my ears. What in the hell is he doing? Is he going to—
The thoughts race through my head wildly as Dean steps over me and walks back into the small bathroom and closes the door. I take in a deep breath and expel. I feel like such an idiot. I think he’s about to make a move on me, but all he was doing was taking a bathroom break.
My face turns red as I suddenly hear, through the door, the sound of him urinating. The door might as well be a thin piece of paper. Curiosity begins to play through my mind as I think about the fact that he’s fully exposed, only feet away from me. My nose lifts as my mind shifts to the fact that he isn’t only exposed, but now I know what it sounds like when he pees. Gross! Mental note, never pee in the bus while Dean is in it, or he will hear it and your life will come to an end. I hear the faucet kick on, and I’m relieved at the notion he actually washes his hands.
The door opens and Dean emerges, but I don’t turn around to look at him, as it seems like an invasion of privacy to do so; although, on a tour bus, I’ve learned privacy is not something that actually exists. He’s doing something behind me, but I still don’t turn to see.
He steps back over me, a pillow dropping down on the floor next to me. “Think Storm will mind if I borrow her pillow?” he inquires, sitting down and leaning on it with one elbow before I even have a chance to answer.
“I won’t tell her if you don’t,” I answer. He’s grinning at me, and I can’t help but think about how much I want to kiss those lips. “Done playing?”
“Yeah, I’d much rather be talking to you.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask in my most flirtatious tone. “About what?”
“I don’t know ... everything.”
“That’s an awfully large topic,” I note.
“I want to know everything about you,” he says, but I know that would be a mistake on his part. The last thing he wants is to know everything. The more you get to know me, the more jacked up you realize I am.
“My favorite color is teal.” I grin, knowing this is not exactly what he meant.
He laughs. “All right, I’ll take it. Mine is green.”
“Of course it is,” I scoff.
“What’s wrong with green?” he asks defensively.
“I think every guy I’ve ever known has said green is their favorite color.”
“Really?” he asks, looking in the distance, thinking about my statement. “I never realized it was so popular. I like that it’s the color of life.”
“I would think red is the color of life?”
“What?” he snarls. “Red is war and strife.”
“No way,” I argue. “Red is the color of blood, and blood is life.”
“Okay, I can see that. But green is all over in nature. The grass, the trees, all of the life going on around us has green in it.”
I shrug. “I guess. I still say red is the color of life.”
He scoots closer. “I think red is the color o
f passion.”
He is totally trying to make a move on me. I am so okay with this.
“All right, what’s your favorite movie?” I ask, suddenly feeling a flood of panic rush over me.
Dean leans back, placing his hands behind his head and extending his legs, crossing his feet. I have to fight the urge to climb on top of him. “Hmm ... favorite movie? That’s tough. I’m not sure. I’d have to think about it. What about you?”
“That’s easy. ‘We elves try to stick to the four main food groups: candy, candy cane, candy corn, and syrup.’”
I’m grinning wide, waiting eagerly for his response. He furrows his brow. “I don’t get it.”
“What?” I gasp. “You really don’t know what that’s from?”
“Should I?”
“It’s only the best Christmas movie of all time.”
“Seriously? A Christmas movie is your favorite movie of all time?”
“It’s not just any Christmas movie! It’s Elf with Will Ferrell,” I explain.
“If you say so.” He laughs.
“Okay,” I begin, shaking my head wildly. “I’m not sure if I can have a boyfriend who doesn’t know the movie Elf.”
“Boyfriend, huh?” he interjects, his eyes locked onto mine so I can’t look away.
“I mean—”
“No, I like it,” he continues. “It’s been a couple weeks, and I wasn’t really sure what you were thinking about us.”
I shift, allowing one of my legs to brush up against his legs. I feel him stiffen and then relax. My stomach is fluttering. “Your turn … favorite movie.”
“Oh geez,” he huffs. “I guess if I had to pick one it would be...”
He’s quiet for a second, staring at the ceiling. I can’t quit thinking about what just went on between us. It was one thing for Dean to say how he felt about me, but now we’ve somehow actually defined what we are. I have a boyfriend. I am someone’s girlfriend. I feel like I might puke.
