by Mary Frame
Jensen stands and grabs Lucy’s hand. “We should probably get going.”
“You’re not going anywhere alone until we’ve figured out who’s shooting at you and they’re safely behind bars,” Dean says to me.
Lucy pats him on the shoulder. “Good point,” she says before turning in my direction. “He’s right. You shouldn’t drive by yourself around town, let alone eight hours on the road. We don’t know who the shots were intended for, but the fact that they shot at your car provides a high indication that it was you. Plus, you probably won’t be able to replace all the windows before you have to leave, so a free ride might be a good idea.”
I hate it when she’s right.
“I could rent a car,” I say, raising my eyebrows at Dean.
Lucy sighs and rolls her eyes. “Dean, call me if you need help with this one,” she tells him before walking over to give me a hug.
I hear Jensen and Dean talking to each other, exchanging goodbyes, but I’m more focused on Lucy.
“Why are you on his side? You’re supposed to be my friend!”
“He’s concerned about your safety. That means he cares about you. Why don’t you consider letting him?”
“Fine.” There’s no point in arguing with her, especially since she’s always right. Well, almost always. “Call me at my mom’s if you find anything.”
“I will.”
Once they leave, Dean and I stare at each other for a brief moment across the living room.
“So,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking down at the ground. “We should probably stay at my place tonight.” He looks up to meet my eyes. “I have more security and since the shooting happened here, it will probably be safer there…what do you think?”
“You’re asking instead of commanding?”
He pulls one hand from his pocket to run it through his hair. “I don’t mean to be bossy. I’m just used to taking care of people.”
And with that little reminder of who he’s been taking care of and supporting for years, my anger deflates. “Fine,” I say. “Let me get a bag together.”
I move to walk past him, but he stretches out and pulls me into a hug. “I’m sorry,” he says, resting his head on top of mine.
“Me too,” I say, reaching my hands around his waist. “I don’t mean to fight with you, I think I’m just stressed and tired. And probably hungry.”
He laughs and the sound rumbles in my ear. “Probably hungry?” he asks.
“I’m like an infant. If I’m not fed and burped regularly I get cranky.”
“Duly noted. We can pick up something on the way back to my place. Your choice.”
I lean back and look up. I can’t help but smile at him. “See. This is why I lo-ike you.”
Jesus, I almost just said I love you to Dean. Out loud. And it was totally obvious that I changed it to like at the last minute. Who says I loike you? I can feel my face heating. I push away from him and turn away.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, my back to him as I’m heading into my room.
I stuff some clothes into an overnight bag and zip it up.
I really need to pull it together. I know it’s just a commonly thrown around phrase, the whole, “I totally love you man,” but after everything else that’s happened with Dean and me, the last thing we need is to complicate matters.
Friends. Dean and I can be friends.
Dean can be my friend that I’m attracted to and want to make out with all the time.
I slap myself in the forehead.
“You okay in there?” Dean calls from the living room.
I can do this. “Yeah, coming.”
Chapter Twenty
Freya
It is a curious thought, but it is only when you see people looking ridiculous that you realize just how much you love them.
―Agatha Christie
“You really don’t have to do this,” I say for probably the forty-seventh time since Dean insisted on driving with me to my mom’s house for spring break. “We’ll be gone the whole week. What about your mom?”
He takes my suitcase from me and throws it in the trunk. “She’s fine.”
“What about your sister?”
“She’s fine too.” He slams the trunk.
“What about—”
“Look, just stop fighting it. I’m not letting you drive eight hours by yourself with people shooting at you. Don’t make me call Lucy.”
He opens the passenger door to his car, parked by the curb. He’s hardly left me alone since the whole shooting thing, making me stay at his place and only dropping me off early this morning to pack before returning for me after running some errands he had to take care of before we left.
“They were probably shooting at you,” I say.
“Then why did they bust up your car?”
“Probably because I’ve been hanging out with you.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, his gaze drifting to the ground where he scuffs his foot against a bit of grass struggling to grow through the cracked pavement. “There might be some truth to that,” he says finally before looking back up at me. “But, too late now. Get in the car.”
“Ugh,” I groan. “When will you stop ordering me around?”
“Maybe when you stop fighting with me at every turn.”
I slide into the passenger seat. “I’m getting in,” I say. “But not because you told me to.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” he mutters, shutting my door for me and jogging around the front of the car to the driver’s side.
Within minutes we’re on the freeway, heading out of town.
“I gave Lucy my mom’s number, because we probably won’t have cell service at her house. She’ll let us know if she finds anything.” I plug an adaptor into the cigarette lighter hole. “I brought some music,” I say, plugging it into my iPod.
“This better not be some girly shit.”
“I don’t listen to anything that can be described as coming out of an asshole.”
He gives me a bemused smile before returning his attention to the road.
“I made you a playlist,” I say, scrolling through my music. I find what I’m looking for and hit play. “This is totally your jam.”
“Why is this my song?” he asks, after the words have filled the car and it’s apparent the singer doesn’t like anything.
“Because you hate everything.”
“I do not.”
“Maybe you don’t hate everything, but you definitely hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“Right,” I scoff.
“I don’t. Who sings that, anyway?”
I switch over to the real playlist I made and Led Zeppelin’s “Going to California” filters through the speakers.
“That was Ugly Kid Joe. ‘Everything About You.’ It’s from like forever ago. And maybe hate is a strong adjective, but you definitely don’t act like you like anything, either.”
He changes lanes to pass a slow-moving vehicle and once he’s back in the other lane, he says, “I don’t hate you. I’ve never been mean to you.”
“Uh, whatever, liar. What about yelling at me this morning?”
“That wasn’t yelling, that was loudly stating my opinion that you should not be driving long distance by yourself when there’s a murderer on the loose who may or may not be trying to kill you.”
“Pshhh, whatever.”
We don’t speak for a little while, listening to Robert Plant sing about a girl with love in her eyes and flowers in her hair.
“I’m just…not good at letting people get close,” he says.
“Because of Angelica?”
He shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ve just witnessed a full history of crappy relationships.”
He doesn’t elaborate and I don’t feel like pushing it. I have a feeling, based on what his mom said at his house, that he’s talking about her relationships. I stare out the window, watching the miles pass by, listening
to the music and the hum of the tires against the road.
A few hours later, I see a familiar sign.
I sit up straighter in my seat. “Hey,” I say.
“What?”
“Can we stop at the fair?”
The sign is worn and old, the bright red color long since faded, but you can still read the words: “Orangeberry Fair! A year-round attraction! Good times two miles ahead!” I’ve always loved that sign because all the O’s have smiley faces and there’s a picture of a penguin in the corner. The penguin is completely random and has nothing to do with anything, but that’s why I love it.
“I don’t think we have time for that.”
“What? Everybody got time for that! We left at the ass crack of dawn. We can stop for a couple hours and still get to my mom’s by dinner. This is great, you’re gonna love it. It’s a year-round attraction. There’s rides and games and one of those restaurants where you can sing karaoke and drop your peanut shells on the floor. I’ve always wanted to go, but my mom wouldn’t let me because there’s no vegan alternatives available.”
He gives me a sideways glance that doesn’t bode well for my chances of convincing him to stop.
“Please? Please, please, pretty please?” I give him my best pouty look. “I’ll win you one of those giant stuffed animals,” I bribe.
“Oh, well if you’re going to give me a stuffed animal…”
“You mean we can go? We can really, really go?”
He lets out a loud, exaggerated sigh. “I guess so.”
“Yes!” I squeal and try to hug him, but since he’s driving that doesn’t work out so well and he pushes me away saying something about hugging and driving not being safe. I’m so excited I don’t even hear half the words coming out of his mouth.
He turns into a giant graveled parking lot a couple of miles later and I jump out of the car, dragging him towards the entrance after he takes about a million years locking up the car.
The park isn’t terribly crowded since it’s still fairly early in the day. Some families are wandering around, and there’s a couple groups of teenagers. We pass through a line of booths selling various items like clothes, arts and crafts, and jewelry. We get wristbands to go on as many rides as we want and I make Dean do the strongman game, where you slam a giant hammer down on a lever and try to ring the bell at the top. I take pictures because, hey, it’s Thor with a mighty hammer. He glares at my enthusiasm, but he still plays along and manages to ring the bell.
“My hero!” I exclaim when he hands me a giant stuffed armadillo.
After we’ve ridden all the twirly stuff, the droppy stuff, the Ferris wheel and the merry-go-round, it’s close enough to lunch time that I feel justified dragging him into the food establishment in the center of the fair.
The restaurant is pretty packed, with people eating and crowding around the bar, enjoying the karaoke. We have to wait a few minutes to get a seat, and during that time we listen to a young girl’s rendition of “Let it Go,” and an inebriated guy sing “Baby Got Back.”
There’s a small stage for the singers, with a small TV facing them that displays the lyrics. There’s a much larger projection screen facing the audience, which also shows the lyrics so the crowd can join in.
“Are you going to sing?” Dean asks after we’re seated.
“Nah, I don’t want to make people’s ears bleed.”
“You can’t be that bad.”
“Oh, I’m bad. I’m so bad that when I start singing, small children weep and grown men die where they stand.”
After we order our food, I go to use the bathroom and put in a request with the DJ.
Lunch is excellent: large plates full of BBQ, mac and cheese, and criss-cross cut fries. A few more people sing while we eat, and the crowd really gets into the performances, laughing, clapping, booing and generally carrying on.
After we’ve finished our meal and paid, I’m trying to pick meat out of my teeth when it happens.
“Next up,” the DJ calls on his microphone, “We’ve got Dean Collins!”
A smattering of applause flicks around the room and Dean gives me the death glare level ten.
“No,” he says, shaking his head firmly. “No way.” He looks kinda pale.
“Dean, where are you buddy?” The DJ says.
He’s staring at me like he might puke, and I can’t help grinning at him before yelling, “He’s over here!” I start clapping and wooting and hollering.
Some of the crowd gets into it, whooping along with me.
He looks terrified. I can’t help but laugh.
His jaw firms and he stands. As he passes me, heading for the stage he leans down and whispers in my ear, “You will pay for this.”
In return, I smack him on the ass as he walks away. “Go get ’em, tiger!”
When he gets up to the stage, there’s a slight pause before the song I picked out for him starts playing. He stands there, an immobile giant. Then the guitar begins bumping gently in the background, and the lyrics fill the screen behind him.
When I wake up, well I know I’m gonna be,
I’m gonna be the man who wakes up next to you.
At first, Dean’s a little slow to pick up the lyrics, and then he has to speed to catch up. He sounds nervous, his voice breaks a little at one of the words, and for a second I feel bad forcing him into this, but then something changes. The crowd starts cheering him on, offering encouragement. And his voice gets stronger and more confident, and then he gets to the chorus…
But I would walk five hundred miles
And I would walk five hundred more
Just to be the man
Who walked five thousand miles to fall down at your door.
More voices join his.
I look around, speechless, at the people in the crowd, the people at the tables, the people at the bar, most of whom are singing along.
This must give him confidence because he really starts getting into it, even rocking his head and body to the beat.
Then…
Da dat da! Da dat da!
Da-da-da dun-diddle un-diddle un-diddle un da-da
And I swear to God, the entire place has joined in at this point, the da dat da’s are so loud, I can’t hear my own laughter over the crowd.
When I get ahold of myself, I join in too.
Too soon, it’s over, and the crowd gives Dean a standing ovation full of catcalls and whistles. I might be jealous, if the lady in the front row giving Dean the eye wasn’t about eighty-five years old and missing most of her teeth.
He bows formally, laughing, before exiting the stage and beelining for our table.
“Let’s get out of here,” he says.
I worry for a second that he’s mad, but his eyes are bright and he seems happy and pumped up from the adrenaline rush.
“What, you don’t want to stay and chat with all your adoring fans?” I ask. I glance behind him, but it seems the crowd has already moved onto the next act. Ah, the fleeting bliss of fame.
“I’m pretty sure the old lady in the front row was trying to take off her bra and throw it at me.” He grimaces and rubs his chest. “I feel so violated.”
“You sure? You wanna stick around and see if you have a chance? I’ll be your wingman.” I elbow him.
“Tempting…but no.” He grabs my hand and leads me out of the restaurant while random strangers high-five him on the way out.
Then we’re weaving through the throngs of people outside where the fair has gotten busier.
“Who sings that song?” he asks me as we trudge out the main entrance.
“The Proclaimers,” I tell him. “They’re Scottish.”
It takes a few minutes to get back to the car, and he keeps my hand in his the whole time, even when the crowd thins and there’s no reason to keep hanging on. Occasionally, his thumb rubs against my palm, making me catch my breath.
Once at the car, he releases my hand and opens the door for me.
I stop, standing i
n front of the open door. “That was awesome,” I tell him.
“It was,” he agrees. “I’m not sure if I should hug you or throttle you.”
“I vote for hug.”
“I don’t think you get to vote.”
I pretend pout and he shakes his head, laughing softly and looking down at his feet.
“I’m still going to get you back,” he says.
“I look forward to it,” I say, and then I slide in the car.
Chapter Twenty-One
Dean
It is important for all of us to appreciate where we come from and how that history has really shaped us in ways that we might not understand.
—Sonia Sotomayor
After leaving the fair, we drive in silence for a while. I think Freya is starting to fall asleep, but I can’t hold it in any longer. I have to find a way to get her to tell me what happened with her and that goddamn asshole. I know he did something to her, and I think if I can get her to open up about it…I don’t know, maybe I can help her somehow, the way she’s helped me.
And I don’t mean just with the murder charge. I mean, she’s helped me come alive, when I didn’t even realize that I’ve been barely living for years.
“You never told me,” I say loudly and she jerks upright in the seat next to me. I feel a momentary pang of guilt for intentionally waking her up, but I’m pretty tired too and if she falls asleep, I might join her. Which would be bad since I’m driving.
“Never told you what?” she asks.
“You were supposed to tell me about Cooper, after I told you what happened with Angelica.”
For a moment I think she considers it. She’s silent but then something shudders through her and she says, “I can’t talk about it yet.”
“Fine,” I say abruptly. “Let’s make a bet.”
“What kind of bet?”
“The stakes are this: if I win, you tell me what happened. If you win, you don’t have to tell me anything. Unless you want to.”
“Okay,” she says slowly, seemingly surprised at my suggestion. “And what are the terms?”
“Whoever initiates the next kiss loses.”