“Hell no.” I declined his suggestion immediately. I needed to pick up my pills somewhere. But in reality, I would give this man the coat off my back if it meant I could get to Kennebunkport in time. “I won’t come to the pharmacyevery day. Not entirely.”
He ponders my bargain for a moment before he stands up, eyebrows knit tightly. “Let’s go.”
I follow him to the back parking lot, lugging my suitcase through the wet, snowy slush, where there’s a singular light blue minivan waiting. He double clicks the keyfob, and the car roars to life. I pull open the door to the right back seat.
“What are you doing?” Dean asks, standing by the driver's side door. “Get in the front seat, you weirdo. I’m not a taxi driver.” He’s already getting annoyed with me.
“Give me a second.” I haul my suitcase into the back, and get into the front seat. I regret packing so many things, but lord knows I’ll need them all at some point.
“Why are you going to Kennebunkport at 9:30 on a Sunday night? What jazz band is so important?” he asks, the irritation in his voice revving up. “You can at least tell me if I’m going to take you there.” He reverses smoothly out of the parking lot even in the sleet and turns the corner. His driving is smooth and relaxed, the complete opposite of the hostile energy he’s radiating.
“Before he died, my husband was a musician,” I tell him matter-of-factly. I’ve said the first part a thousand times. The second part, I’m not so sure. I can’t believe I’m explaining this to anyone, let alone Dean from the pharmacy. “He played at this inn five years ago. The Waverly Inn. The band that opened for him is playing tonight. He wanted me to see them one day.”
“So, you’re going now?” Dean says. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, and he merges competently onto the highway on ramp.
“Yes. I just worked up the nerve about an hour ago.” It’s starting to flurry out. Small snowflakes land gently onthe window. Dean turns the wipers on right away. He’s safe. Something about it strikes me as spectacular. I shake my head— I really need to get out more often if safe driving impresses me. “I’m going to get a rental car in Kennebunkport and drive to all the places Andy played…before…” I don’t know why I’m giving a near stranger so much information, but I can’t keep it from spilling out of me. The more I talk, the less anxious I feel.
“You’re not going to find a rental car in Kennebunkport at this hour,” Dean mutters.
“Then I’ll walk.” I feel so absolutely batshit, but I’m determined. I know I won’t walk and will end up paying an arm and a leg for a taxi or Uber but what does he care anyway?
“No, you won’t,” He says confidently, suddenly.
“I won’t?” My eyes are as wide as billiard balls.
“I’ll…I’ll drive you, I guess,” Dean bristles. “I don’t want to be the last person to see you before you go missing or dead in a ditch, and the police won’t leave me alone because they think I did it.”
“No, you won’t,” I disagree. This is a week-long trip.” I’m imagining I actually stick with my plan that’s taped together with anti-anxiety medication and off-brand adhesive bandages—Dean tagging along like an unwanted middle school dance chaperone.
“Where’s your next stop?”
“Portland.”
“Then I’ll just drive you to Portland after the concert, where you can actually get a rental car. I’m not letting youwalkto Portland.” Dean shakes his head.
“You let me walk home earlier,” I remind him.
“You live across the street from the pharmacy.”
“Where are you even going anyway?” I ask, poking his massive, puffy sleeve. His pupils grow by tenfold, pissed that I dare touch him.
“That’s none of your business. You’ve got a screw loose.”
I don’t know how he can be so aloof in this situation, but despite his unhinged comment from earlier, what he’s doing for me now is the kindest thing anyone's done for me in a long time.
We ride in silence for what feels like an hour, but in reality, it is only fifteen minutes to the nearest gas station. I keep my tote bag that’s stuffed to the brim in my lap. Quickly, I take my debit card out of my wallet, and hand it to Dean who promptly gets out of the minivan to pump gas.
Twisting my head and shoulders around, I get a good look at him while he’s not paying attention. He’s tall. It’s difficult to tell under his perpetual scowl and large coat, but he’s handsome. White snowflakes catch in his dark hair, and something feral in me wants to open the window, reach out, and brush them away.
“What are you staring at?” He raps on the window. Busted.
Does he have eyes on the back of his head? Half a second ago he was facing the gas pump. Dean climbs back into the minivan. He fits so well in the seat, commanding the wheel, and it’s not at all like a frazzled suburban soccer mom vibe.
“Stop staring at me and put on your seatbelt,” He instructs, much more like a suburban soccer mom. I instinctively click it.
The car revs to life once more, and as Dean makes a left turn out of the parking lot, he blurts out something I wasn’t expecting. “I’m sorry about Andy. I read about him online.”
“It’s fine,” I say just as suddenly, looking out the opposite window. Snow has started to collect on the ground, and the highway is slick. “I’m handling it.”
