"For some reason I only tell this stuff to you."
"What stuff?"
"The stuff about my dad and how much he hurts me, and how I'm worried he'll have more kids and forget about me. Everyone knows I'm mad at him for leaving but they don't know all the other stuff. Like how devastated I am that he left. How sad I am. And disappointed. And how him leaving has made me question if I can ever trust a man enough to get married someday. I'm terrified to tell people that, even my mom, but I'm able to tell you. I don't know why."
"Probably because we just met. Sometimes it's easier to tell a stranger stuff than people you already know."
"It's not that. You don't feel like a stranger." I sit back. "I think you're just easy to talk to."
He stands up, which I take as a sign he's uncomfortable talking about this. "Let's see what you have to eat."
We go in the kitchen and I open the fridge. "My mom just went shopping. She got ground beef. Want to make tacos?"
"Takes too long." Dean stands beside me. "How about the ham? Would she care if we ate it?"
"Not at all," I say, taking out the ham slices. "Want to make a sandwich?"
"Or two," he says with a smile.
I bring him a plate and the bread, then take out the butter and mayo and some slices of cheese.
"I don't need all that," he says. "The ham is enough."
"I'll leave it out in case you change your mind." I go to the sink and get him a glass of water, setting it in front of him.
Grabbing a plate, I sit beside Dean at the counter and make myself half a sandwich while he makes two.
Chad wouldn't even eat a sandwich. He doesn't eat bread. He said it makes you fat, hoping that little fact would make me stop eating it too. It didn't. I love bread too much to not eat it. And it hasn't made me fat.
When I finish my sandwich I go to the cupboard and take out a box of chocolate cookies with cream filling, another thing Chad wouldn't eat. He refused to eat anything from a box, saying it wasn't fresh.
I pour the cookies in a bowl. "Dessert."
"Haven't had those in a while," Dean says, taking one and popping it in his mouth.
"They're my favorite." I stand across from him as he sits at the counter, helping himself to more cookies. I twist the top cookie off mine and slowly lick the cream from the bottom.
When I look up at Dean I see him staring at me, specifically my tongue as I lick off the cream. I've never seen him look at me this way, or if he has, I never noticed. It's a look of desire, the same desire I feel when I sneak a peek at his body, or when I get close to him. I'm feeling it now as he continues to watch me.
When the cream is gone I bite into the cookie, waking Dean from whatever he was thinking, his eyes darting away from me and down to his plate. He picks it up and brings it to the sink, reaching down to open the dishwasher.
"It's broken," I tell him. "The landlord had to order a part. It won't be here until next week." I come up beside him, reaching across him for the scrubby thing we use for washing dishes.
"I could've washed it," he says as I scrub his plate.
"You can dry." I reach for the towel that hangs under the counter and accidentally brush against Dean. I thought he'd move back when I reached in front of him but he didn't and the back of my hand touched the front of his jeans. I could be imagining it, but I swear I felt something hard.
"Here." I toss the towel at him, then hand him the plate.
He's quiet as he dries it. I furiously scrub the remaining plate, trying to clean my mind of all the dirty thoughts I'm having of Dean and what he might do to me if we ever crossed over the friend line.
Dean chuckles. "I think it's clean."
Shit. How long have I been scrubbing this plate? Long enough that Dean noticed and said something. I hand him the plate and grab a paper towel to dry my hands.
"Where do they go?" he asks, holding the plates.
"Over here." I take the plates and reach up to put them in the cupboard.
