“How do you do it? How do you live like that, not questioning every second of your mortality?” I ask. “You make it seem so easy.”
“I don’t think about life like that,” Dean says. “There is no rhyme or reason. I just don’t.”
I turn my face away from him, breaking eye contact. “My anxiety is a direct result of Andy’s death. It’s the first time I’ve ever said that out loud.” His fingers find their way into my palm. The touch sends me spiraling into an electric frenzy, and the light bulb flickers once more, as if it mimics the skip of my own heartbeat. I wrap my hand around his.
“Every funny feeling I have, any feeling like I might die or fall over, or have a heart attack, every symptom is my body’s way of signaling me to be on high alert from the thing I am so scared of. But most of the time the signals are wrong, and I have nothing to be scared of.”
“The body is a resilient thing,” Dean tells me. “You take your medications, and you go to therapy. You’re doing everything right.”
“What if I’m stuck like this forever?”
“I…” Dean starts, but nothing else comes out of his mouth. His brow is furrowed, but his knees turn towards me. “I don’t think you will be. It takes time, Madeline. It won’t happen overnight.” He tilts his head to meet my eyes once more.
“What if I’m losing my mind? It’s been five years since I've been like this.”
“Five years is nothing but a nick in your lifetime. You will get there.”
I feel my lip quiver, and every signal my body is giving me is to panic, to try, to tantrum. In response, Dean squeezes my hand, and rubs his thumb across the back of my hand.
“In another five years, you won’t even remember how this feels,” Dean tells me.
I don’t want to break our gaze, but my heart is pounding so fast. His grip on my hand tightens, and the flush on his face matches my own. I know I’ll remember this in five years. I could never forget the feeling of his hand on mine.
“You deserve to see the other side of life,” He whispers, shifting to hold our hands in my lap. “This is the other side.”
“Am I there?” I whisper and close my eyes to cut off our eye contact. His hands are so hot on mine, and while the sweat would freak me out any other time, this time, it’s all I want.
I’m startled and I gasp when I feel a hand in my hair. He pulls on my arm, and I let myself slide across the bed, straight into his chest. I feel claustrophobic in my own skin for a minute until I realize what he’s doing.
He’s hugging me.
That’s what’s happening. I breathe him in, and his warmth fills my lungs. He smells like that damn laundry soap too. Dean’s hand snakes through my hair, caressing me. He settles on the back of my head, the other hand behind my ear, breathing me in too.
I tilt my head up, so our foreheads are nearly touching. I open my eyes and find his again. They’re bright and eager, and there’s nothing hidden behind them.
“What are we doing?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“Do you feel that, Madeline?” He whispers to me.
I swallow hard. Of course I feel it, but all I want to do is deny it.
Denying it lets it stay a safe daydream. But I can’t deny it the longer Dean’s hands stay on me. His long fingers fit along my cheekbones like perfectly sized pieces of a puzzle. I’m too hopeful.
My answer is a heartbeat of silence, a wink of sleep, a tick of time, anything but the answer I wanted to say. I’m in a weightless freefall, being washed away by every second and every centimeter of space between us. It’s the warmth of his hands on both of my cheeks that anchors me back into reality. The lightbulb flickers off for good, and we are plunged into complete darkness.
My heart patters a beat, and I bump my face into his forehead, my hands removed from my lap, crawling up his chest. His thumbs rub circles in the space behind my ears.
I’m blind in the dark, and I push on him, feeling him through his shirt, firm muscles bouncing back. He groans softly when I touch the bare skin around his neck and collarbone. I touch his neck, his chin, the apples of his cheeks and he’s so darn soft, so soft everywhere. His rough and tumble exterior is only for show based on how soft the curve of his face feels.
I drag a finger across his cheek to his lips. I feel like a total weirdo feeling his face in the dark like this, but he doesn’t whisper a word or move an inch. He sits there patiently, statuesque, except for the small groans that escape his slightly parted mouth whenever I touch somewhere he likes. Which is practically everywhere.
“It’s been so long since someone has touched me like this,” He confesses, echoing my thoughts.
“Not Eliza?”
“No,” He whispers. “Not like you.”
I press my palms to his chest. I’m completely enamored by the shape of his pectoral muscles. He moves his hands from my face, and the cool air on my cheeks nearly shocks me back to reality. I feel his hands wrap around my waist, pulling me closer, and I’m about to suggest something totally inappropriate.
