“Do you ever listen to his songs?” Dean asks me, setting his fork down.
I avoid answering because the truth is I haven’t brought myself to listen to much of any of Andy’s music since he’s died. I can’t put my finger on any reason in particular why I haven’t listened, but it mostly all boils down to the fact I don’t want to become like his rabid fans online—constantly mourning. “Why are you asking so much about Andy?”
“He was a big part of you,” Dean replies. “I want to understand more about why you are the way you are.”
“Yes. He was, for a time,” I contemplate it. “Hewasa big part of me. He gets smaller every day.”
“Are you still in love with him?” Dean asks.
“No. It’s hard to be in love with a dead man. What does it matter to you anyway?” I put up a brick wall. I’m at a loss of what to think of Dean. Who is this man, trying to get to know me after barely putting up with me?
“I’m developing a soft spot for you,” Dean laughs, and I suddenly am developing my own soft spot for him and oddly enough, I don’t feel guilty about it.
“I think that’s the wine talking,” I laugh.
“Why are you doing this?” Dean leans in and whispers to me. “Why this road trip? Why now?”
“It was because of you,” I whisper back. “You said, ‘Go do something with your pathetic fucking life.’ and I felt the undeniable need to redeem myself. No one talks to me like that. Only I can talk to myself like that.” At least I’m self-aware.
“I didn’t curse at you,” Dean corrects me. His black sweater makes his eyes look even darker than they are and his dark hair looks almost as black as his sweater. It’s all on his eyes and his smile to light up his face, and boy, do they ever.
“No. But it felt like you meant to,” I give a small, humble laugh.
“I was having a bad day,” Dean apologizes.
“Let me ask you a question,” I say. “It’s my turn now.” I need to know more about this mysterious creature sipping wine in front of me and why he’s suddenly less of a grump. I need to know why his clock ticks.
“No.” Dean takes a sip from his glass to hide his grin. I want to kiss it right off his face, and that thought startles me to my core. Not for the fact that I want to kiss someone other than Andy, but that I want to kiss this man in particular.
“Why were you having a bad day?” I ask.
“My mother called and asked what time I’ll be home, because my ‘girlfriend’ will be here.” He does finger quotes around the word girlfriend.
“Oh?” I ask. “You have a girlfriend?”
“I broke it off with her two months ago,” Dean acknowledges. He doesn’t seem sad or angry about it, but instead seems content. He says it in a way that makes it seem like he just paid abill or made a dentist appointment or crossed an item off his to-do list. “My mother doesn’t know.”
“What was wrong with her?” I laugh.
“I didn’t like her that much. She was a fucking florist.” Dean admits.
“So, you’re going to take me to see your mother instead?” I laugh. “You’re the unhinged one.”
“I love a good project.” Dean winks, because maybe he’s trying to be playful, but I can’t help but feel a little patronized.
“Am I your charity case?” I ask him, downing the rest of my glass as our dinner arrives. I ask for a glass of water next. This piece of shit. He’s only doing this because he feels bad for me. He wants to fix me.
“No. You’re coming, like, as my friend.”
“So, we’re friends now?” I don’t believe him, not even for a second. I regret wanting to kiss him, and the fact I still do. Asswipe.
“Something like that.” Dean cuts into his steak and takes a bite. “You’re my navigator.”
“I am hardly your navigator. You have that stupid GPS app or whatever it is.”
“It’s google maps.” He corrects. He’s always smiling when he corrects me.
“You’re being an—” I’m interrupted when I hear a familiar melody coming from the stage. It’s one I haven’t heard in a long, long time. At least five years. I crane my head towards the stage, my eyes fixed on the woman holding the microphone, while a man cheers for her at the foot of the stage.
