I think I might (I think I might)
Oh, I think I might for the last time
10
I’m woken up by the creak of the door without a knock. Dean slips into the room, dressed. “What time is it?” I croak, there isn’t much light in the room. The sun must be on the other side of the house.
“Eight o’clock,” He whispers. “Let’s go before they wake up.” He must be referring to his mother and sister. I scramble out of bed, and it lightly creaks beneath my stirring movements. I pull on my sweater, and give a look to Dean, urging him with my eyes to step back out so I can change.
“Ahem,” I whisper. “I need to change.” Even after last night, I’m too shy to let him see these parts of me.
“Oh,” He averts his eyes. “I’ll see you downstairs.” He closes the door just as quietly, and I quickly pull my jeans on, stuffing the shorts into my tote bag. I would leave no evidence that I was here—except for the stolen pair of shorts.
I silently, swiftly move through the hall, careful not to step too hard on any creaky floorboards. When I get downstairs, I’m welcomed into a small, tight kitchen by warm, morning light. The walls are sponge-painted a seafoam green color, and there is pink square tile above the sink. A small, round table coveredin mail, flowers and an assortment of used dishes rest in a breakfast nook.
Dean is leaning on a pale green, laminate counter, looking at his phone. He hands me a granola bar, and ushers me into the foyer, through the screened-in porch and straight into the van.
The van roars to life with the turn of a key, and he books it out of the driveway.
“I’m sorry for rushing you and waking you early. I wanted to get out of there before my mother woke up,” He apologizes.
I release a long breath. We’re driving down a long, windy road and the windshield wipers are brushing off the small, fine snowflakes that are falling from the overcast sky. “It’s okay. We’ll be back this weekend, right? Did you sleep enough to drive?” I ask.
He lets out a laugh that sounds likeBAH. “I’m not sure. But with a cup of coffee, I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’ll find some when we get into town, don’t worry.”
“I wasn’t worried.”
He handles the minivan on the curves of this country road like he knows them by heart. I don’t realize how far out into the woods the house really was until ten minutes of silence pass, and we’re still in the sticks. I’m antsy in my gut, wondering if he’s going to bring up last night.
“How far is town?” I ask, curious about where we’re headed exactly.
“About ten more minutes,” he answers.
I’m silently digesting what actually happened last night while he drives us another ten minutes to a small family restaurant where the two rivers in the township meet, aptly named Two Rivers Restaurant. It’s a small brick building with a green roof surrounded by a wooded area that backs up one of the rivers, I don’t know which. Even as it’s nearing nine on a weekday, the gravel parking lot is nearly full and we park round the back.
Inside, the small building is bustling with elderly folks and mothers with young kids. The linoleum floors are peeling a bit, and the paint on the walls is chipping, but the happy, bright energy inside is infectious.
A middle-aged waitress with gray hair and sun spots hustles across the floor toting a tray full of orange juice and coffee. Dean waves to her, and she nods at him. He grabs two menus off of the hostess stand and leads us to an empty table—seemingly the only empty table— in a corner. Dean takes the seat against the wall, and I sit with my back towards an older, burly gentleman with suspenders. I set my tote bag on the floor.
The waitress pops up next to Dean suddenly, and I’m greeted with the scent of perfume covering cigarette smoke. “Hey honey, how’ve you been? It’s been a while since I’ve seen you,” She says.
“Hi Tracy, I’m well, how are you?” Dean replies to her, batting his big, brown eyes.
“I’m good, sweetheart, are you gonna introduce me to your little friend?” Tracy drawls.
“This is Madeline,” He enunciates my name like he’s sayingPrincess Diana.
“Hi,” I say, my voice cracking as I try to sound cheerful.
“Well, aren’t you just a pretty little thing?” Tracy coos, giving me a warm introduction.
“Madeline, this is Tracy,” Dean offers. I nod my head at the both of them, wondering how Dean managed to befriend this sweetheart of a woman.
“I’ve known Dean here since he was a little boy—he used to be so cute. What happened to him?” Tracy laughs, squeezing Dean’s shoulder while he scowls with his signature expression.
“Pharmaceutical school happened,” Dean deadpans. “Life happened.”
“Oh, yes, that poor boy. He was here studying even during the summer,” Tracy remembers. “That’s what you get for not studying in high school.”
