“Yes,” he replies at last, and something about his reluctant agreement makes me feel lighter.
Is he… Could he possibly be… jealous? Could his strong reaction be explained by jealousy?
“Are you—”
“Put the robe on, Fallon,” he says in an impatient tone.
“Why? I’m not outside right now. I’m in your room. And you’ve seen me in my PJs lots of times.”
“That was when you were a kid,” he snaps.
I clench my thighs and I notice his gaze dropping to the tops of my bare legs before quickly moving away and up to my face. If I were smart, I’d be scared of how furious and how agitated he seems.
But I’m not smart. I’m in love and even his harsh expression and tight cheekbones can’t scare me.
“Oh, so now you admit I’m not a kid anymore. A little too convenient, isn’t it?” I prance over to the bed and plop down on it, careful not to touch any of his precious files.
Dean watches me for a few beats, standing in the middle of the room as if stranded at sea, and he doesn’t know what to do about it. “What do you want?”
“I wanted to see if you were sleeping.”
“And now that you’ve seen that I’m clearly not?” he asks with clenched teeth.
I hide my smile at his irritated tone. “You know, I’m not gonna fight with you. It’s been ages since we hung out together. And I’m mature enough to not waste my time over petty fights.”
He watches me some more before sighing and raking his fingers through his hair. “I was working.”
“Okay. Well, do you think you could take a little break?” I ask with hope. “Maybe watch a movie with me or something?”
I can see him debating the merits of watching a movie with me. Actually, the merits of watching a movie with a little-too-naked me.
Sighing again, he nods. “Okay, yeah.”
I beam at him. “Awesome. Harry Potter? Chamber of Secrets?”
As soon as Dean sits beside me and the movie starts, I crawl over to him and fit myself in the crook of his arm. He turns rigid. I don’t even think he’s breathing as I lay my face on his strong, warm chest, my body flattening against his side.
Every part of me is touching every part of him and it’s heaven. How did I not realize it before? How did it take me so long to come to the conclusion that I love him, that I’ve always loved him?
I hate that my nearness is making him uncomfortable. I hate that there’s this awkwardness between us.
Suddenly, something occurs to me—I have seen my mom do this to my dad. I wrap my arm around him, bringing it up so I can reach his dark hair. I sink my fingers into it and rake my nails along the nape of his neck and his scalp.
“Fallon—”
I knew he’d protest so I cut him off. “Please, Dean. Please let me make you feel good.”
“I don’t need—”
“You do.” I look up and into his eyes. “Please?”
Clenching his jaw, he throws me a small nod and I grin at him.
After that, he lets me play with his hair, massaging the tension in his neck and shoulders away. A few minutes into it, I feel him relaxing. His body goes liquid and I burrow into his chest even more. He even groans.
That intimate sound echoes in my chest. “See? You needed loosening up.”
He chuckles. And then, he wraps his own arm around my back and brings me even closer, plastering my soft, malleable body against his hard, unforgiving one. I bite my lip and tighten my muscles to stop a major shiver from rolling through. It feels like my body is awake in all the different ways.
We stay like that for a little bit as the movie plays on his computer. I honestly don’t know what’s going on. All I know is him and the effect his body is having on me.
“Dean?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you… Do you have a girlfriend?”
“What?”
Okay, so, I don’t know where that came from. But now it’s out there. All the warmth and intimacy of the past half hour vanishes. I reluctantly move away from him and sit up.
I stare at the five o’clock shadow on his jaw as I ask, “Girlfriend. Do you have one?”
Someone who plays with your hair. Someone to massage the knots away from your shoulders. Someone you watch movies with.
“Why?”
I shrug and tuck my hair behind my ear. “I just… was wondering. Since you never mentioned anyone.”
Dean follows my gesture with his eyes. “No.”
Oh, thank God.
“Why not?” I ask casually, trying to hide all the relief I’m feeling.
“I’m busy.”
“With work?”
“With cases, yes.”
I shake my head at him. “God, you and your work. It’s okay to relax once in a while, you know. Go out. Have fun. Meet girls. I—” I cut myself off because, what the hell am I doing? I don’t want him meeting girls. I just want him to let loose a bit.
“I mean, meet people not just girls. People. Like, you know, don’t meet girls. Because you don’t know how girls are. Especially girls in L.A. They’re not what you’re looking for, trust me. You know? Yeah. Not those girls. You want a girl who would… you know…”
“No.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. A girl who would what?”
Suddenly, I realize his eyes are hooded. Kind of sleepy but not really. More like restrained. Similar to his body. His back is against the headboard, his legs straight and almost sprawled like they were in the car.
Even relaxed and lazy, Dean looks intimidating. Authoritative. Sexy.
Everything that’s lethal to me, my heart. My love and my lust. I’m hypersensitive, tight in my skin and bursting at the seams. And all I want is for him to kiss me. Kiss this tightness, this ache away.
“Girl who would what, Fallon?” he asks again lazily, like he has all the time in the world to stare at me, to pin me down with one look.
“Uh, a girl who would…” I lick my lip, feeling a tug in my lower belly, and he lowers his gaze to my mouth. “A girl who’d do anything for you.”
“Anything, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Like what?”
“Like…” I fist the bedsheet and try to ground myself in the moment, and not completely drown in his eyes or this heavy, thick feeling. “Anything to just be close to you. Just to… just to be able to touch you. To smell you. Anything to look into your eyes when you smile, because they shine. A girl who’d do anything to be able to say to you that she l—loves you.”
Love.
Gosh, I used the L word, didn’t I? I fucking used the L word when I don’t even know if he feels the same way.
Great going, Fallon.
Worse, he isn’t saying anything. He’s simply watching me.
I wring my hands together, breaking his gaze. Maybe it was too soon. I mean, we just reconnected. Maybe I should give it a few more days before I get to the main part. Namely, telling him I’m that girl. The girl who would do anything for him.
“I didn’t mean love —”
“You don’t have to worry about me meeting a girl, Tiny,” he cuts me off.
“I don’t?”
“No. Because I’m not interested in girls. They’re a little too young for me. I’d rather be with a woman.”
He’s talking to her, the waitress.
I guess you could call her a woman. She’s tall and busty. Her face is made up and her blonde hair’s shiny. She’s wearing her uniform, a pair of black shorts and a white t-shirt. But even so, she’s got a type of body that suggests she’ll look good in a nice, sophisticated dress as well. So basically, the complete opposite of my sneakers, Harry Potter t-shirts, and messy buns.
Ever since Dean said he likes women, not little girls, I’ve been a little pissed at him. We drove for hours in more or less complete silence. He let me pick the music and I had half a m
ind to force him to listen to Lana Del Rey. But I didn’t. Because I’m mature enough not to.
We’re three days into our journey, and the easy silences and comfortable conversation from day one have vanished. We’ve just reached Des Moines, Iowa. The land of corn and broad fields. Although you can’t see that right now because it’s winter and everything is bare and frosty.
Kind of like my heart because he’s talking—flirting—with the waitress.
I just came out of my room and was planning to ask him out to dinner. I even put on a nice pink dress to look more like a grown-up. Although I’m not liking the length of it. It barely drops down to mid-thigh.
Anyway, I figured we could go eat at a decent place and we can get back to being friends. And I can get back to convincing him we belong together. I’ve already wasted a lot of time being pissed.
But it’s not gonna happen. He’s super engrossed in his conversation with the waitress, and that pisses me off so much I can barely handle it. She has her notepad out but instead of writing on it, she’s laughing at what he’s saying like he’s the most hilarious guy ever.
Oh, please. He’s not.
The guy has no sense of humor. You actually have to tell him, Dean, this is the part where you laugh. It’s a joke.
A moment later though, Dean laughs as well and I’m done.
I can’t take it.
He used to laugh with me like that. Before. Way before he left for L.A., and I didn’t know the meaning of the things I felt for him. Now, it’s too painful. He has hardly smiled since we started this road trip.
I whirl around, getting out of the dining area, and follow the hallway back to where our rooms are located. I stumble along the way but there’s no one to save me except the colorless wall I clash with; somehow, I manage to stay upright.
I have no idea how long I’ve been inside my room, trying not to cry but crying anyway, when a knock sounds. It’s loud and confident. It can only belong to one person.
“Fallon,” Dean calls out, confirming my guess. “You in there?”
Sighing, I wipe stray tears off my cheeks and get up to open the door to reveal an angry Dean.
“What’s going on? I thought you said you were going to be down soon. I ordered for you,” he says, all irritated and pissed off.
“Did you?” I can’t stop myself from saying.
Was that what he was doing, just ordering?
“What?”
I let go of the death grip on the door and sigh. “Nothing. I’m just not—”
“Are you crying?”
Damn it.
I move away from the door, hiding my face from him. “No.”
“Why are you crying? What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine. I’m not hungry though. So you should go eat.”
Turning away from him, I walk to the bathroom, or at least try to. But Dean grabs my hand, his fingers circling around my wrist. His touch is so hot I forget to breathe. I forget to do anything but feel his grip on my hand.
“What’s going on, Fallon?” he asks, his chest awfully close to my back. To my trembling back, actually. Because I can’t contain the things inside of me anymore. I can’t take his nearness, his voice, his smell and be unaffected.
I face him, my eyes stinging with miserable tears. I compare how Dean looks now—tense, concerned, his jaw tight—with how he looked with that waitress—carefree, laughing. Happy.
“You were flirting with her,” I whisper.
“With who?”
“The waitress.”
I’m met with silence and I don’t know if he’s heard me. In his defense, I did say it very softly. I was embarrassed. I am embarrassed. I don’t do jealousy; I never have. Well, apparently not until him.
At last, Dean lets go of my wrist and draws away from me. The earlier tightness of his frame has nothing on how he looks now, aloof and cold.
“So?”
Like me, he speaks softly but I flinch all the same. His casually-asked question hits me somewhere deep in my gut. My soul, even.
“So…” I fist my hands before admitting, “I didn’t like that. In fact, I hated it.”
A pulse runs through his face. “Why?”
“Are you really asking me that?”
“Yes. Because from where I’m standing it doesn’t look like it’s any of your business who I flirt with.”
Anger bubbles up inside me. Anger and something very close to despair. So far, I’ve been holding onto the hope maybe Dean feels the same for me. Maybe he hasn’t realized it yet. It took me years as well, to come to the conclusion that I love him. So I can’t really blame him for his ignorance.
But maybe I was deluding myself. Even so, I can’t stop the words coming out of my mouth.
“Not my business?”
“Yes.”
“God, you’re so…” I grit my teeth and practically vibrate with fury while he appears to be unruffled, watching me with a blank face. “You’re such an idiot. I love you, Dean. I’m in love with you. Don’t you know that? I’ve been in love with you all my life.”
My words sound like a gunshot. An explosion, even. They are probably louder than any other words I’ve spoken in my entire life. They have rattled me, quickened my breaths, my heartbeats. But apparently, they have had no effect whatsoever on this man in front of me.
“No, you don’t,” he says, a dangerous, angry glint in his eyes.
I’m not afraid of it, though. I’m not afraid of the danger lurking in his gaze. All my secrets are out. I’m exposed. I’ve got nothing to fear or lose.
“What?”
“You don’t love me.”
“Wh… What the hell are you talking about?”
“You don’t love me,” he repeats, though this time his mouth seems pinched. “You think you love me. There’s a difference.”
“Oh yeah? Why don’t you enlighten me? Tell me about this difference.”
Contrary to the ruckus inside my body, I sound so calm to my ears. So put together, like I’m not falling apart with every second he simply stands there, looking like none of this matters to him. Like I don’t matter to him.
He sighs impatiently and runs his fingers through his gorgeous hair—typical Dean. The hair I was playing with the other night when we were watching a movie. The night he told me he’s into women, not little girls.
“I’ve always been there, Fallon,” he begins, almost lashing out, like it’s a bad thing.
“What?”
“I’ve always been there for you. With you. I’ve been there for every one of your scrapes and tantrums and achievements. Every single thing. I was there when you first got bullied in school. I was there when you kicked those bullies’ asses. I was there when you failed math in third grade. I was the one who tutored you after that. Helped you with homework the rest of the year. I was there when you started high school. I drove you to school because you wouldn’t go with anyone else. I’ve been there. Always. I’ve been the one you turn to for everything. So what you feel for me, Fallon,” he takes a deep breath and says slowly, like he’s explaining it to a child, “is not love. It might be a strong affection. Infatuation. Which will probably go away when you meet the right guy. So yeah, there’s the difference. You think you love me because you don’t know what love is yet.”
“I don’t know what love is yet?”
His jaw clenches. “No. Because believe it or not, you’re still young.”
“So young people don’t know what love is? Is that what you’re saying?”
“What I’m saying is that it’s ridiculous. The thought of you and me together.”
I swallow. Once, twice, thrice. Four times.
“Ridiculous,” I choke out the words. “Right. Thanks so much, Dean. Thanks for educating me. For telling me that the thought of us being together is ridiculous. And what I feel for you is not love. Thanks a lot.” I nod and keep going against the expanding heart in my chest.
&n
bsp; It’s pressing on my throat, stealing away my voice but I don’t care. Either I talk or I break down. And I refuse to break down in front of this… this heartless man who I thought was my friend.
“I’m so dumb, right? That I can’t figure it out for myself. I can’t figure my own feelings out. I can’t understand why my heart races when you’re close. Why I can’t see anyone else but you. I can’t understand why the hell I can’t stop dreaming about you at night. I’m too dumb to figure out why…”
It hurt when you left...
It more than hurt when he left.
It almost destroyed me. It’s a time in my life I don’t like to think about. I don’t like to revisit the first few months after he left.
And I’m not going to do that now either.
“Why what?”
“Why I moved across the country for you. I’m too dumb to understand that, aren’t I? Why I chose to come to California, and even though I’m here, why it hurts when you hang up on me or when you refuse to see me. I’m too dumb to understand why, despite being mad at you for ignoring me, I can’t stop myself from worrying about you. About how all you ever do is work, how you’ve distanced yourself from everyone. Of course, I can’t understand any of that, can I? Because I’m just so fucking dumb.”
“Language. Watch it.” He grits his teeth, somehow angrier than before. Livid, even.
“I’m not a fucking kid,” I almost shriek. “Do you understand that, Dean? I just told you I moved across the country for you. That I uprooted my life so I could be close to you, and this is what you say to me?” I shake my head and cross my arms, hugging myself, protecting myself against him. “Just because you’re older doesn’t mean you get to boss me around like you’re my dad.”
I take a step back when he closes the distance between us. All I can see is the wide expanse of his carved chest, his massive shoulders in the crisp white shirt. My breath hitches when he bends down to look me in the eyes. Like a pathetic fool, I admire his long, curled lashes. Instead of turning away from him, I breathe deep, so I can capture his citrusy smell, like I’ll never get to do that again. I probably won’t.
“And just because you wear dresses that barely cover your ass, doesn’t mean you get to throw tantrums like a little girl.”
California Dreamin' Page 3
