Locked Out

by Anna Chastain

  It doesn’t take long for some of the others to follow the guys over and, before I know it, there’s a whole group of folk sitting around my chair. The kids filter in and out of our group, stopping by to shake cold water on the adults, beg for more snacks, and then they’re off again. The tide has gone from high to low since we’ve been here, so there’s plenty of beach for them to run around on. At its highest, the water could reach where we’re sitting, but that would be later tonight, when I’m sure we’ll be long gone. For now, we’ve still got several hours of sunlight and a broad expanse of beach to play on.

  “I, um, need to get up a minute,” I say quietly to Dean, who’s leaned over the arm of my chair and close.

  “What’s wrong?” He immediately asks.

  “Nothing is wrong, I just need to move my legs a minute. I’ve been sitting here a long time already,” I assure him, my hand pressed to the back of his head. I’m tempted to sift the hair through my fingers; he’ll be going to San Diego for work in another week and I imagine he’ll have to shave and get a haircut before doing so. My fingers want to revel before that happens, but I fight the urge.

  “Alright, come on.” He stands up, dusts the sand from his shorts, and reaches out both hands to me. Okay, so this liftoff could easily go two ways: one, graceful and quick, up into Dean’s waiting arms, or two, slow and clumsy, down to the sand on my ass. Please be one, please be one, please be one, I chant as Dean begins to tug at my arms. Well, here goes nothing.

  Dean tugs with his arms, I push up with my legs, and I’m pleased to report we land somewhere between a one and a two. I didn’t end up on my backside, but I wasn’t exactly quick and graceful, either, after having to rock a few times on my backside to build momentum.

  “Don’t laugh at me,” I boss.

  “I’m not laughing, Mama,” he says, obviously trying not to laugh.

  “Dean, I’m serious. Don’t you laugh at me, you big, muscled, fat-free oaf.”

  “Mmm, yeah, baby.” How he manages to flex his arms while holding onto my waist, I don’t know, but he does. And, as you can imagine, it’s ridiculous and I laugh at him.

  “Come on, dork,” I pull away (hello, cleavage, meet pecs!) and he follows. Naturally, my body leads us to the food table where there are more bags of chips than in my dreams.

  “There’s a fruit salad over here that Lara brought.”

  My face says, eff off, Dean, but my mouth says, “No, thank you,” before I grab a handful of potato chips and start chucking them in my mouth one by one.

  “Mmm, chips,” I add because…well, because I can.

  “Holly, dear, would you like another cheeseburger, or a hotdog?” Lola asks, coming up to the table like the amazing hostess she is. “I’ve also got some lunchmeat in the cooler over there and cheese, I could make you a sandwich. Barney and Wendy brought a big, beautiful chocolate cake we’ll cut up in a bit.”

  I don’t hear anything past the words chocolate cake.

  “Uh-oh, I think we’ve lost her,” Dean says, snapping me out of it.

  “I love cake,” I say before I can catch the words.

  “Oh, me too, honey,” Lola concurs.

  “No, I really love it and Dean is so mean, he got rid of all my junk food.” And now I’m confiding in his mother and telling on him at the same time.

  “Dean Slade,” his mom reprimands.

  “Hey, I’m only following her doctor’s directions about what she should be eating.”

  “Don’t you dare walk away from me, young man.” She hands him a plate, then returns her hands to her hips. “You take that plate and you cut Holly an extra big piece of chocolate cake, and the next time you think of denying her something she’s craving, just remember, every time she sneezes or coughs and maybe even when she stands up, she pees a little, so get the woman her damn cake.”

  “What? No. No, I don’t-I don’t pee.” Is that panic I’m feeling? Why, yes, I do believe it is. My head is whipping back and forth between Dean and his mom. Dean’s movements have paused, his head is tilted to the side, and he’s so obviously trying not to laugh. Gah, the mortification. Meanwhile, Lola is just carrying on, business as usual, as if she didn’t just desexualize me for her son forever.

  I sit down on the bench at the picnic table, head hung, until a giant slab of chocolate cake is set in front of me and a pair of strong arms bracket my body. His back is pressed to mine and he brings his mouth right up next to my ear.

  “Next time you want cake, Mama, just ask and I’ll get it.”

  His proximity spurs goosebumps down my right side, and when I turn to look at him, his eyes are soft.

  “I don’t pee in my pants, I swear,” is what I whisper back.

  And the next morning, when Dean returns from his run, there are two warm, gooey cinnamon rolls waiting for me on the kitchen counter. He made a stop, he says. And remember that time I said I thought I fell in love with him a little over a soft chair? I was wrong. I fall in love with him now, over a matching set of cinnamon rolls.

  Chapter 30

  Holly

  “So, what’s going on with your hair?”

  I am lounging in bed, Mr. Bubberchop splayed out next to me, belly up, sacrificing his pride for belly scratches.

  “You wanna help me shave it off?”

  Dean has been both surfing and on a run already this morning, while I have yet to even venture from my bed. He’s standing in my room, fresh from his shower, in a t-shirt (clinging tightly to his damp pecs, sigh) and shorts, barefoot. His hair has lightened from his days in the sun and is shaggier than I’ve ever seen it.

  “I didn’t say I don’t like it.”

  He turns his head to me, eyebrows lifted. I blush (curse you, pale skin!), which makes him chuckle and remove his gaze from mine.

  “I have to shave it off before I go, figured I’d let it do its thing until then,” he explains, running a hand through the topic of our discussion. I filter my fingers through Mr. Bubberchop’s fur.

  He seems restless today, and I’m not surprised. He must be bored after babysitting me all these weeks.

  “You can go do something, you know,” I say quietly, my eyes following the trail I make in my kitty’s fur. “You don’t have to hang out around here all day.”

  He wanders over to my bed and lays down on his stomach, perched on his elbows, the other side of Mr. Bubberchop. My kitty boy starts to purr.

  “You don’t want me around?” He asks with a side-eye glance at me, his own hands wandering to Bubberchop.

  “I don’t want you to be bored.”

  “I’m not bored.”

  Our eyes lift to meet each other’s and so begins a stare-down.

  He is saved by the ringing of his cell phone because I was so going to out-stare him. He pushes up to standing (and, obviously, I watch the way his arms flex as he does it with ease) and grabs his phone from off my dresser.

  Ever since the night of my bad dream, he’s been sleeping in my bed with me, and slowly, more and more of his things have filtered their way into my room. His flip flops by the door, his zipper hoodie draped over a chair, his wallet and change on my dresser. I’ve never lived with a man, but I have to admit (though, I try not to think about it too much), I like the way his stuff looks mixed with mine.

  “Yeah, man, sounds good.”

  I end my zone-out in time to catch the end of his phone call.

  “Okay, see you in an hour.”

  He sets his phone down and turns to me, but doesn’t say anything.

  “Everything okay?” I finally ask. It looked like he was working something out in his head.

  “A buddy of mine is in town, passing through, wants to get together.”

  “Oh. That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “It is. It’d be good to see him. We served together a while back and I haven’t seen him in too long.”

  “Okay.” I’m waiting to understand why his expression looks so perplexed.

  “I invited him over.”


  “Okay.”

  “Because I want him to meet you.”

  “Oh.” Well, that makes me sit up straight. What does that mean? Why does that make me smile?! “Okay. I’ll just get in the shower and get dressed in something more presentable than pajamas.”

  I give him a tentative smile and flip the covers back.

  And by the time I’ve gathered my things to take to the bathroom, he’s still standing there, his expression still thoughtful.

  “Be right back,” I mumble on my way past him.

  I take my time in the shower to think about the last few minutes. Dean is a reserved guy, sure. I’d witnessed him loosen up around family, he’d cracked a few smiles at my expense, there were even some chuckles involved. Being a zoner-outer, myself, I recognize the look on others, and while Dean responded to my question, he had obviously gone somewhere in his head. Dean Slade, who was always silently observing and assessing every moment, every person, every expression on every face, had zoned out in the middle of my bedroom.

  Now, I had to wonder why. I wrapped my hair up in a bun to let the conditioner set and squirted some body wash onto my poof while I pondered this. I came up with two possible reasons for Dean’s zone-out. One, he was feeling something (weird, glad, nervous, hesitant) about his friend coming here and meeting me. Two, this buddy of his triggered some memory (unpleasant and war-related would be my guess) and Dean was stuck in it.

  Either way, I didn’t like it. Dean had come to be my “okay” guy, my constant, my (dare-I-say) rock. Seeing him like that, not the good kind of vulnerable that gave me the flutters, but torn. That’s what it was, he looked torn. And if that was because of me, ugh, I’d die a little inside, but I’d promise to do better. And if the phone call had triggered some bad memory, then, well, it would be my turn to pull him out of it.

  I rinse, dry, and fluff my way out of the bathroom and find Dean in the kitchen chopping vegetables.

  “Hi.” I say, stopping at his side and leaning against the counter.

  He grunts in reply, his focus on not chopping off a finger.

  “Is there anything I can do to help? Are you cooking for your friend?”

  He side-eyes me.

  “You could go sit down and put your feet up,” he says in that tone that’s probably meant to not be argued with. But this is me he’s talking to. So I argue.

  “I’m okay, I’ve been in bed all morning and Dr. Graysen said I’ve been doing so well. I’m sure she’d okay a few minutes on my feet to wash vegetables or something.”

  His response is to plop a bag of carrots in my hand. I smile and waddle over to the sink.

  How Dean is able to turn a bunch of chopped vegetables into, like, an actual meal, I don’t understand. But he can, and he does. We’re sitting down to our lunch of chopped veggies and quinoa (yes, I said quinoa, ugh) when his friend arrives. Our lunch was silent and awkward. I babbled for the first few minutes about I can’t even remember what, then all went silent. So even though a new person I had to meet was coming over, I found that I felt relieved to end our ill at ease meal.

  Dean gets up to get the door and I move to take our dishes to the kitchen.

  “Leave them, Mama, I’ll get them in a minute,” he says in a quiet, deep voice.

  I comply because…I just feel like being agreeable.

  I watch as Dean opens the door to a young man with jet black hair, cut short on the sides and a touch longer on top, who greets Dean with a salute, feet together, fingers pressed to his forehead, and the biggest smart-ass grin on his face.

  “Get your hand down, dumbass,” Dean orders him and the man’s hand drops immediately. So, is that what Dean’s accustomed to? People following his orders on command? It would explain a lot. What it cannot explain is why the thought of Dean being authoritative like that (to other people, let’s be clear) gives me the tingles in a silly place.

  And what happens next gives me the tingles all over. Both Dean’s and the man’s who I have yet to formally meet, faces go serious and Dean pulls the guy in for a hug. Not a bro-slap-your-back-one-armed kind of hug, but an actual, legitimate embrace. And it lasts, like, multiple seconds.

  “Get in here, meet my woman,” Dean grumbles, pulling back and making room for him to enter.

  Hold up. Say who now? I look around, side to side, because…my woman? Could he be-was he-me? I can feel a blush forming from my chest, can literally feel the burn going up my neck and into my cheeks, where I press my cold hands, praying for a hole to swallow me.

  “Holly, this is Ramirez, uh, Mark. Mark Ramirez, meet Holly O’Brian.”

  Mark Ramirez has chiseled cheekbones and black eyes to match his black hair, only his eyes twinkle. No, really.

  I put my hand in his and say, “Nice to meet you.”

  “I brought you guys something,” he says, holding up a gift bag I hadn’t noticed. “My wife, Rory, she helped me pick it out.”

  I swallow thickly and take the bag from him. “That’s so nice of you, thank you.”

  “Come in on and have a seat, man. You hungry?” Dean gestures to the living room.

  “Nah, I just ate, but some water would be good.”

  “Yup,” Dean heads towards me and the kitchen. “Go sit down, Mama.” He orders quietly, gently, as he passes by, his hand at my back.

  I comply. Again.

  “You got a nice place here, Holly,” Mark tells me as I heave my way into a corner of the couch.

  “Oh, thank you.” I huff, out of breath from the exertion of sitting.

  Once done and settled, I look over at him and smile. “Pregnancy,” I shrug.

  “Well, I’m an only child and my wife and I don’t have any kids yet, so I can’t say I know what you mean, but my mom always says every baby is a blessing, so congrats.” He looks toward the kitchen. “Your kid couldn’t be getting a better dad.”

  By the time I realize I should respond, Dean is handing Mark a glass of water and sitting kitty corner to me, his knee brushing mine, his arm splayed against the back of the couch in my direction.

  “Open the gift, Holly, I can’t wait to see what kind of baby stuff Ramirez picked out.”

  “I told you, my wife helped,” Mark reiterates.

  “This is my first baby gift,” I mumble, flicking my eyes up at both men. “Thank you.”

  Dean looks at me with that appraising stare of his, but I don’t hold back. I reach my hands into the bag and pull out the first bundle. Unwrapping the tissue paper, I find the tiniest dove gray, crocheted booties with tiny pink flowers on the toe, the next bundle has a matching crocheted cap with a big, pink flower on the front and to the side.

  “So cute,” I breathe out, laying them gently on my knee and reaching back in for the last bundle.

  “My wife made them,” Mark says and I run my hand over them affectionately, trying to imagine the tiny little person that will soon be wearing those. I can’t even look at Dean because, what if he has a horrified, deer in the headlights look on his face; that would crush me, at this point.

  I unwrap the last tissue paper bundle to find a black onesie rolled up and tied with a pink bow.

  “That one, I picked out. Rory wanted me to be sure and tell you that.”

  My hands pause, eyes glancing up to his in question.

  “Oh, shit,” Dean mutters. “Well?”

  I unroll the tiny t-shirt and see, spelled out in white letters, “Marines Never Pull Out.”

  The room goes quiet. I roll my lips between my teeth and hold my breath, not sure if I am even allowed to laugh at that.

  “What the fuck, Ramirez, that’s not funny.”

  The first giggle bursts through my close-lipped fortress and Dean’s head whips to mine, causing my eyes to go wide and more giggles to follow suit.

  “It’s a little bit funny,” I cackle, tipping over onto my side, crashing into some pillows and Dean’s arm. I shove my face into the pillows and continue to laugh, while grabbing onto Dean’s arm.

  “It’s not funn
y,” he continues to mumble. “Our daughter is never wearing that.”

  He lifts a pillow to better see my face. “You hear me, Mama?”

  I tuck my lips back in to curb the snickers that have taken over my body and nod my understanding. After taking a couple of deep breaths, Dean’s eyes steady on my own, I am able to lift myself up onto an elbow.

  “Oh, big guy,” I whisper with a smile, patting his cheek (and taking a millisecond to appreciate the feel of his scruff on his too-handsome face against my palm).

  “Well, at least one of you will have a sense of humor to pass onto this kid,” Mark pipes up. “My father-in-law says having a sense of humor in regards to parenting will save your life, and probably that of your children.”

  “Shut up, Ramirez,” Dean commands, shooting Mark the good ol’ side-eye.

  I push myself back to sitting, with Dean’s hand at my shoulder helping me along, and sigh. “Well, Mark, I’ll admit, I’d love to hear everything you’re willing to tell me about this guy, but I think I’m going to head to my room to do some work and let you guys gab it out.”

  I’d like to say, at that point, I pushed myself to standing and gracefully exited the room, but no. As I teeter back and forth on my bottom, Dean rises from the couch and holds out his hands to me. Guys, he really is the most okayest person in the world, and that’s the only reason I can give for what happens next. After he pulls me up to stand on my own two feet, I lean in and kiss him. Sigh, I know. I don’t even know what came over me; I just tipped forward (that’s it, I’ll blame it on the physics) and mwaa, right on the lip area. Like, my lips couldn’t even land fully on his, just in the general area.

  And then I waddle out of the room on pins and needles (literally, because my legs and feet had fallen asleep while sitting cross-legged on the couch, of course) in complete and utter embarrassment. We don’t kiss, we aren’t kissing friends; we don’t even hug each other. I mean, sure, we spoon and cuddle a bit at night, but what happens when you’re asleep stays under the covers, not to be acknowledged. Look, I was just overcome by feelings. I’d witnessed Dean and Mark’s genuine hug, been given my first baby gift, and laughed harder (without peeing, thank you very much) than I had in months; I’d just been overcome, is all. No biggie.