11
Dean texts me to tell me to be ready in half an hour for dinner— and that was half an hour ago. I check my lock screen, it’s 6:31 p.m.. I debate calling him, but I don’t want a repeat of the last time I couldn’t reach him. It’s not like him to be late, so I wait.
I’m waiting at the door like some kind of impatient serial killer when I hear the swooshing of a coat and the ruffling of hands. In a moment, there’s a knock at the door. I know that knock better than I know my own heartbeat by now, and I’m so glad he’s here.
When I open the door, Dean’s face is bright red and he exhales a huge breath, as if he were underwater for a minute.
“Where were you that you look like you just ran a…ran a 5k?” I ask, gesturing to his rosy cheeks. “Did you do laps in your room or something?”
“A 5k?” He asks. “Like a charity walk?”
“Well, you’re not sweaty enough for a marathon.”
“I was just out,” He clarifies. “Running an errand.”
“An errand,” I repeat.
“I had to get cash from the ATM. I hurried back here as soon as I realized the time,” Dean explains. “Are you going to let me in?” He asks
“I thought we were going out?” I ask, confused on what our plan was.
“Maybe we should order in,” He replies, shrugging off his coat. “I’m tired of being out.”
I pause to consider it. It feels like a particularly weird crossover, like Jerry Seinfeld on The Simpsons—Dean in my space? I let him in. Even though I napped a few hours after my shower, I’m also exhausted and tired of being out. I’m glad I keep a meticulous resort room, even though it’s not nearly reflective of my actual home and habits—which are admittedly, a fucking hot mess.
The suitcase is closed in the corner, my tote bag on the desk, and my medications lined up neatly in a line on the nightstand. Dean tosses his coat on the bed, and I quickly pick it up and hang it on a hanger and place it in the small closet by the doorway.
“No outside clothes on the bed.” I’m trying my best not to sound annoyed.
“Oh. I’m so sorry,” He takes note, brushing off the quilt. “I didn’t realize.”
“It’s fine, just… don’t do it again.” I feel feral and I’m ready to tear down the wallpaper with my bare fingernails, but I keep it coiled up and tucked away inside neatly.
Dean sits in the desk chair, and I sit in the sole armchair in the corner of the small room, facing the desk. He smiles at me, like he can’t believe this is happening, dimples on full display.
“What do you want for dinner?” I ask.
“I’m not sure. What’s around here?” He asks, pulling out his phone.
“Should I ask the front desk for a recommendation?”
“What is the front desk assistant going to tell me that Google can’t?” He laughs.
“Maybe she has insider knowledge,” I fidget.
“Insider knowledge? Is she a secret spy?” Dean looks up, his face lit up by his screen, his eyes glowering, a smile brewing.
“She could be. It’s not like she’d ever tell you,” I flip my hair over my shoulder.
“But she’d tell you?”
“I’m very trustworthy,” I nod.
“Do you even eat takeout?” Dean asks me sarcastically.
“What kind of question is that? Yes, I eat takeout. I’m a hypochondriac, not a picky eater.” I correct him. “I just have to wash my hands first.”
“Chinese food sound good?”
