“Twenty, twenty-one—” The crowd roars with laughter at his mistake “Oh, shut up!” He laughs, continuing playing the song. “Twenty-four, twenty-seven, thirty.”
Video-me cheers again, and he resumes with his classic charisma and confidence. When he repeats the multiples backwards, the crowd sings them with him, me included. The video is shaky towards the end from video-me to trying to clap and cheer.
Video-Andy finishes up, and the video cuts off.
“Sorry my voice is so bad in the video,” I apologize to Dean, I hate the way that sometimes my voice overpowers Andy's singing.
“No, no,” Dean says. “You have no need to be sorry.”
“It was nice to see that video. It’s the only one I can watch without crying or something.” I wipe my mouth on the back of my sweater sleeve.
“Why is that?” Dean asks, sipping his coffee.
“It’s from when he was just mine. Now, he belongs to everyone,” I break our eye contact and look away. “I can’t explain it well. Like, I feel like I lost him twice. Once when he got famous, and once when he died.”
“That makes sense to me,” Dean nods his head, taking his phone back from across the table and turning off the screen.
“I struggle to explain my grief sometimes,” I look to the side, out the window, anywhere but the man in front of me. “People seem to think it’s weird that I’m not a blubbering mess all the time anymore, because in a way, I grieved him as I knew him before he died, too.”
“Hypochondriasis, aside.” Dean laughs, and that gets me to look at him again. His hair is tousled from his hat, and color is returning to his face. He has a thin layer of stubble across his chin and cheeks, probably from not shaving in a day or two.
“Hypochondriasis, not included,” I purse my lips together.
I admit to myself that Deanishandsome. Before, I couldn’t pick his face out of a crowd, but now, it’s permanently branded in my mind. His dark, watchful eyes. His upturned smile lines. Even his bushy, caterpillar-like eyebrows have my attention.
“What are you looking at?” He asks me, one hand on his chin, the other on his coffee cup. “Me?”
“I’m not looking atyou,” I avert my eyes and blush straight down my neck at the insinuation that I’m looking at him. “I’m looking at…you,” I sigh, resigned to my fate.
“You’re allowed to look at me, you know. Healthy eye contact is a sign of trust and respect,” Dean chuckles, draining the rest of his coffee. “Look at me.”
He’s at least a head taller than me, so I have to look up for my eyes to meet his. We stare at each other, eye to eye, just for a brief moment before I chirp awkwardly and look away again. Forced eye contact has never been my thing.
“Madeline. Look at me. Take it seriously,” Dean reaches across the table and grabs my hand, jolting me into looking at him. “What are you so afraid of?”
I stare into his round, brown eyes, searching for something to say but all I find is the reflection of myself in his pupils. There are a million answers to his questions, but all of them point to one thing. Everything. Living, dying, I’m afraid of it.
“I’m afraid of everything.”
“But why are you afraid of looking at me? Are you afraid I’ll hurt you?”
“Yes,” I say, I won’t deny it, and it’s almost torture to keep looking in his eyes, but the fact he has a grip on my hand makes it torture to look away. “Not physically.”
“I won’t hurt you again.” Dean squeezes my balled-up fist in his hand and lets it go. “Not if I can help it. You are my friend.”
“A real friend?” I ask.
“A real friend,” He confirms. “I’ve grown quite accustomed to you.”
“Ha-ha.” I fake laugh, he thinks he’s so funny.
“Seriously. The carrying the tote-bag everywhere, the massive puffer coat, the incessant use of over-the-counter medication. It’s really quite charming.”
“You’re kidding,” I blush again and finish my own drink, already on edge from all the eye contact, this is sure to set me off sooner or later.
“I’m not,” Dean reassures me. “How can I prove it to you?”
I have the upperhand now. “Come with me to the concert tonight, then. And act like my friend.”
