“No,” I said, turning around and taking a seat on the cushioned bench under the window, moving aside some bears as I did. “Mom expects me to follow in her footsteps instead, as a real estate agent.”
“And that’s not somethin’ you wanna do?”
“I don’t have a choice. Not that I have any idea what I want to do with my life.”
He looked me over briefly. “You’re what, twenty-one?”
“Twenty-two.”
“You’ve still got your whole life ahead of you to figure it out... That being said, I know how you feel.” He dropped his arms as he pushed away from the window frame, casually picking up one of the bears on the bench and taking its place beside me.
The bay window was suddenly much smaller than I remembered.
I brought my hands to my lap. “If you don’t mind me asking, why do you fight for…him?”
He kept his eyes on the bear, so small in his hands as he brushed his thumbs over the white fur on its belly. “It pays the bills… I wouldn’t be disappointed if The Den burned to the ground though…”
There was so much more he wasn’t saying but I didn’t push it, instead choosing to move on from the subject.
“If I could do college all over again, I think I would like to study something in fine arts or design.” I let out a little sigh at my wishful thinking, happy to see it garnered another half-smile from Dean as he brought his eyes off the bear.
“Why not do it now?”
I huffed a laugh. “My parents would think it was a waste of time and money. They don’t think being an artist is a real career.”
“Remind me not to mention that to my tattooist,” he said, placing the bear back on the bench in the gap between us, taking care to make sure it was sitting up properly before he returned his hands to his lap.
“Did one artist do all of them?” I asked, nodding to his right forearm closest to me. It was tattooed completely black, the ink stopping at his wrist and merging into the crown on the back of his right hand.
“He did.” He leaned a little closer as a knowing smile played on his lips. “I’d say he’s got a pretty successful career. For an artist.”
I smiled gently and hummed, “Touché.”
Something was keeping me from moving away, but it wasn’t the same as what happened when I was uncomfortable. No, this was something curious, directed right at Dean. I wondered if I imagined the look that briefly crossed his face. When his brows drifted up and a lightness crossed his features as if he were seeing me for the first time.
We suddenly straightened at the sound of the approaching footsteps just outside the door.
Jane poked her head around the corner and grinned knowingly like the Cheshire cat. “Lunch is ready.”
There were roughly two dozen of us seated at the long row of foldable tables. At one end was my maternal grandmother, Gwen, who had spent most of her visit snoozing in a deck chair before Mom woke her for lunch. And at the other end, directly on my left, were my parents. Both failed to hide their irritation over having to make room for Dean as he took the seat on my right.
I imagined the spot was meant for Oliver, who begrudgingly took the corner opposite me, sitting beside Jane instead, who hadn’t stopped grinning at me since she found Dean and me in my room.
Knives and forks scraped on plates as laughter and steady conversation flowed between everyone. Everyone except for anyone in the vicinity of my immediate family. They remained uncomfortably silent. In a way, I was glad to be providing some sort of buffer between my parents and Dean. Even if the whole scenario was giving me heart palpitations while my right leg ticked on a nerve.
Dean shifted in his seat, all focus seemingly on his food when his left leg bumped into mine beneath the table. The subtlest of touches against my bare thigh. I wondered if it was an accident until he looked at me side-on and smiled faintly. A blush warmed my face as my mouth twisted to keep from smiling back, but my leg had stopped bouncing.
“Tell me, Oliver,” Dad began, the first words he had spoken since lunch began 20 minutes ago. “Is it true you’re studying to be an engineer?”
It piqued my mother’s interest and gave Oliver a distraction from the glares he was sending at his plate as he ate.
“Yes, that is true,” he replied, forcing a smile to his face.
“He’s a very smart boy,” Mom added.
Dad nodded, impressed, as he cut into his steak. “And you’ve got your pilot's license?”
I knew exactly where he was taking this and chewed my food just a little bit harder, grinding my jaw.
