back.
“Are you both going to sleep in the guest room?” Sierra asks. My heart pounds at the thought of Dean and I sleeping in the same room, let alone the same bed. Sierra has a huge grin on her face. “Are you going to have?—”
“No, I will sleep on the sofa. Madeline will sleep in the room. Go to bed now, please.” Dean tells Sierra. “I’ll get Madeline set up.”
“Okay, geez. I’ll go to bed,” Sierra whispers excitedly. She disappears into a dark room and quietly closes the door.
“I’m so sorry,” Dean apologizes.
“She’s something, you’re right,” I give him a grin. “Do you have something I can change into?” I ask. “I left all my clothes at the inn.”
“Um, yeah. Let me look,” Dean closes the linen closet, and hands me the sheet and towel.
We walk down the hall to another dark room. Dean flips a light switch, illuminating what must be his childhood bedroom, that looks like it’s been turned into an office, that’s been turned into temporary storage. I try to follow him to get a better look, but he tries to close the door on me.
“You, stay out here,” He closes the door.
“Yes, okay.”
“Will these work?” He comes back out with a white t-shirt, a pair of gym shorts and a white pair of socks. He lets me inspect the pile. “They’re clean.” He assures me.
“Yeah, this will work,” I nod.
“There’s the bathroom. I’ll make the bed.” He points to a closed door across the hall. “I’ll be in there.” He points to the last remaining room.
I go into the bathroom, turning on the lights, I’m greeted by a peppering of pink tiles and flower wallpaper. The sink sputters before me, spitting out water, and I scrub my face clean. I wipe my cheeks and forehead on the towel Sierra gave me, and it smells like the freshest laundry soap. I love it right away.
I remove my sweater and shirt, putting on the t-shirt Dean gave me. It smells just like the same laundry soap as the towel. The shorts are comically big on me, but I tuck the shirt into them to help them stay up. The socks were a nice touch, and really make a difference in my comfort.
I root through my tote bag and put on a new layer of deodorant and brush my teeth. I will shower in the morning, I decide. I’m too tired to go through with it now that it’s nearing three o’clock in the morning and I don’t want to risk waking up Sierra and Dean’s mother. I turn the lights off, and break into the hallway.
When I reach the doorway, Dean is fluffing a knit blanket on the double bed, and when he notices me, he looks like I’ve caught him doing something criminal instead of totally endearing. The room is painted a baby blue with white lace curtains on the only window. It’s a sparse room, but it looks awfully cozy with Dean in the center of it.
“Hi,” I say, tote bag slung over my shoulder, my dirty clothes in my arms. I enter the room and place them on the wooden dresser facing the foot of the bed, where the only light rests.
Dean finishes making the bed. Now that I look at him, he’s changed clothes too. He must have changed while I did. He’s wearing a white shirt and a pair of sweatpants now. A fresh pair of white socks adorn his feet. He sits on the edge of the mattress at the foot of the bed, staring at himself in the mirror hanging over the dresser. “Hi,” he says quietly.
I close the door and sit next to him, looking at us both in the mirror. We both look haggard and tired. I guess road tripping will do that to you. He’s got a day’s worth of stubble on his face, and he rubs his chin. The light bulb in the lamp flickers, ready to fizz out.
“How are you?” I ask gently, pressing my hands into the mattress.
“I’m fine,” Dean answers. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” I repeat back. Dean presses his own hand into the mattress, right next to mine, so close our pinkies almost touch. It takes everything in me to pretend to not notice how close his hand is to mine.
“I’m sorry about my sister,” Dean apologizes, looking at the mirror-me. “I know this is out of your routine, and she’s kind of a handful?—.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “Really, I’m fine. Thank you for the clothes.”
I break my gaze from the mirror to turn my head and look at him in the yellow lamplight. I bet we look funny in ourmatching white undershirts, but something about seeing Dean wearing something so inexplicably normal makes him all the more desirable.
“Can I ask you a question now?” I whisper to him.
“Anything.”
“Don’t you ever worry you’re going to die?”
“Sometimes,” Dean turns his gaze from the mirror to me. “But it doesn’t consume me the way it consumes you.”
