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I’d laugh at his tone and the way he said it, but he can’t hide the pain in his eyes.
He keeps going. “And then he died, so now she’s all alone.”
“Your stepdad?”
“Yeah, his name was Rick.”
“She has bad luck with men,” I tell him in a monotone and then quickly add, “I’m sorry. “
“It’s all right. Rick was an asshole and a drunk.”
“Well, about your dad and everything. I’m really sorry.” I mean every word and that unsettled feeling that bothered me when we first got in this car comes back, but I push it down.
It’s not about me right now.That thought makes it feel better.
He tries to shrug it off but I feel compelled to at least reach out to him. Shifting in my seat so I’m leaning close enough to him, I rest my hand on his thigh. My fingers move rhythmically against the rough denim. “I really am sorry.”
A warmth spreads through every inch of me when Dean covers my hand with his, his other twisting on the steering wheel. His touch on my hand starts at the very tips of my fingers but then spreads when he picks up my hand and kisses the tips of my fingers ever so gently. His gaze never strays from the road. He’s a beast of a man. A brute. It makes the soft touches that much more meaningful.
He sets my hand back down and it’s soothing. Deep inside of me, something feels not so broken anymore. Like a kindled fire come back to life.
“I’m all right,” he says like that’s the end of it. But I want more now.
There’s something about knowing other people’s shit that comforts me. Like if they can go through all that and come out okay, then maybe I’ll be all right. It’s why I like to read thrillers and dark romances. No matter how bad it gets, when it ends, usually there’s a happily ever after. That doesn’t happen every time, though.
“Why does your anger management therapist,” I say, repeating the words like he said them but it doesn’t budge the stern expression on his face, “want you to go see her?”
“My uncle called and said I should see go her since Rick died. He said she’s not handling it well.”
“So, not awkward at all,” I say then shrug and try to bring back the playfulness.
His rough chuckle eases the tension that’s nearly suffocating me; the feeling that we’re rapidly approaching being too close. “I told her I’d just stop by but that we also had other plans.”
“What plans?” I ask him.
“Maybe we go to dinner and you tell me your story?” he suggests, taking a quick peek at me.
Shaking my head and ignoring my racing heart, I answer quickly, “So, you want to be bored to death?”
“I know there’s something there,” he says and I feel like a monster. Guilt and regret creep up my body in a slow wave.
“Nothing that’s interesting.”
“You don’t always have to brush things off. It’s okay to let someone in, you know?” As he talks, he periodically looks at me. Like he’s gauging my reaction.
“I think I’m good.”
“It took a lot for me to tell you about my mom. You could open up a little too.”
“I did that once. Like I said, I think I’m good,” I tell him as I pull my knees to my chest, stretching the seat belt over them and looking out of the window.
“I’m guessing it didn’t end well?” he says.
“Nope.” My answer is simple, my voice high pitched and peppy, but inside I’m screaming. Inside it hurts. All the pain is wound up and coiled into barbed wire, cutting me open and wishing I would spill it all. I told my mom. And it was supposed to get better. She was supposed to make it all better.
“Well, who was it you told?” He’s keeping his voice light and acting like he’s just making small talk, but I can see right through him.
“No one you know,” I tell him and feel guilty for not confiding in him. I usually don’t care if I disappoint someone, but Dean is different.
