“I’ve had those in my jacket for weeks.” Dean pulls out and rolls over next to me, giving me a smile and a laugh. He hands me the box of tissues from the nightstand.
“You mean to tell me we just used an old condom?” I laugh, feverish with heat.
“It’s not old,” Dean chuckles, tossing it in the bin. “I get a bunch of freebies at the pharmacy. I took a few boxes before I left. I like to leave them in bar bathrooms.” He tosses me my sweater which I gladly put on, cold without his touch. After handing me my underwear, he put his own briefs and flannel back on. He glances and types something into his phone.
Dean looks at me expectantly, like I’m the one who is supposed to know what to do next. Do we order food? Do we get in the shower? Do we just go to sleep?
“Come on, get up,” Dean offers me a hand, his phone making noise that sounds likedoo doo doo. It takes me a second to realize what’s happening. He’s put a song on.
“Huh?”
“Get up.” Dean gestures to me, holding his hand out, singing along to a tune I don’t recognize.
“What?”
“It’s my favorite song. Up!” He laughs again, interrupting his song, and I scramble to get out of bed, grabbing his hand. He pulls me into a tight hold, humming some more.
“What’s this song?” I ask. The phone crackles faintly on the dresser with steady guitar rhythm and crooning vocals. It takes me a second—he wants to dance with me. I was never really much of a dancer.
Dean waltzes me around the room, and I’m giddy with elation as he sings along to the song playing in the background.“I would beg and steal, j–u–u–st to feel your heart beating close to mine. Don’t you know this song?”
“I can’t say that I do.” I laugh timidly.
“You should. Beggin' on my knees, all I ask is please, please love me.” Dean recites, as the song ends. “It’s Elvis.”
“This is your favorite song?” I ask. We sway to the tune of the song even as it’s over.
“One of them.” He gives me a soft smile.
“Let me play you mine?” I ask.
“Sure.” He hands me the phone, and I type inHarvest Moon Neil Younginto the YouTube search bar.
Something about this song just soothes something deep in my soul. We slow dance to Harvest Moon and when the harmonica solo hits, I close my eyes, resting my head on Dean’s bare chest. I used to think of Andy during this part. But now, all I can think about is Dean.
14
For a change of pace, last night, Dean looked up cabins on Airbnb. He booked a quaint looking thing on 14 acres of farmland in St. Agatha proper, about fifteen minutes from tonight’s concert venue, The Belladonna. I was looking forward to having a full kitchen and a home-cooked meal for the first time all week.
Even though the heat in the van is blasting, I’m still chilled to the bone. It’s twenty something degrees outside, and the sky is dreadfully overcast and cloudy as if we could take any more snow. Thankfully, the drive to this cabin is the shortest leg of our trip yet—a speedy 43 minutes north. We have 38 minutes remaining according to the GPS.
Dean controls the radio this time. It seems he’s had enough of listening to NPR—so Top 40 hits it is. I let out a deep breath and try to get comfortable in my seat.
“You good?” Dean asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just a little restless.”
“Worried about tonight?” He asks.
“Yeah.” I say again—it’ll be my first time in the place where Andy was last alive. Of course I’m worried about tonight.
“Don’t be,” Dean tries to reassure me, but it’s not that simple. “I’ve got you.”
“Will you call an ambulance if I ask?”
“If that’s what you want. But try not to ask.”
“It’s what I want,” I confirm. Dean puts his right hand on my leg, settling me. I didn’t even realize I was bouncing my leg until he stilled it. “But I’ll try not to ask.”
