What She Wanted (7 page)

Yes, yes I could.

Heidi:
“Sam gave him my number. I gave him your number!”

I peered down the steps at my front door, imagining Dean on the other side. My feet rooted in place. I responded to Heidi.
“I think he’s at my door.”

Heidi:
“ANSWER. Answer answer answer.”

I forced my feet onto the top step and caught a glimpse of my red-striped tube socks, bike shorts, and Flash T-shirt in the hall mirror.
“I look insane.”

Unknown number.
“This is Dean. I should’ve started with that.”

“I’m not a lunatic trying to coax you outside.”

“My mom made you a tuna casserole.”

I crept down the steps and peeked out the window.

Dean waved.

I swallowed a swarm of rabid butterflies and opened the door, hoping I looked less crazy than I felt. “I hate to break it to you, but your mom lied. That’s a pizza.”

He shrugged. “Do you like tuna casserole?”

“Not really.”

“Good. I gave her casserole to a homeless guy by the pizza place.”

“Very thoughtful.” I motioned him inside and texted Heidi.
“HE’S COMING INSIDE!”

“Spill something on his shirt so he takes it off.”

“No.”

“Yes. Send pics.”

“Stop.”

“Selfish.”

Dean opened the pizza box on my coffee table and rubbed his palms together. “Napkins?”

“Mm-hmm.” I hustled into the kitchen and grabbed some paper towels. “Do you like lemonade?” I called.

“Yes, please.” His voice was closer than I’d expected. He’d followed me.

I hid behind the open refrigerator door, gathering my senses and ignoring the nut blowing up my phone with text requests for topless Dean Wells photos.

“Need any help?”

“Nope.” I shut the door and poured two glasses of lemonade.

He helped himself to one glass and carried the napkins back to the living room.

I followed, gawking openly at the view from behind.

His hair was messy and damp from a shower. A cloud of shampoo and body wash traveled around my house with him, and his shirt stuck to the planes and curves of his back and shoulders. I’d dreamed of being that shirt.

He took a seat on the couch’s middle cushion, forcing me to either sit directly beside him or choose Mark’s recliner. The worn leather recliner was Mark’s personal throne and completely off-limits, but sitting beside Dean required more life experience points than I had available.

I grabbed a slice and sat in the recliner.

Dean watched.

“Thank you for the pizza.”

“Don’t mention it. It was a shameless ploy. I wanted to see how you were doing, and I thought bringing dinner was a good excuse to come over. I had to practically crowbar the casserole from Mom’s grip. She worries about you.”

“I’m fine.”

He smiled. “Good.”

Man, I liked that smile. “How are you?”

“Good.” He wiped his mouth on a napkin and stared again, deliberating, it seemed. “Why haven’t we ever talked before now?”

“We talked yesterday.”

“Yeah, but why’d it take eighteen years?”

I bit into the pizza. All my theories were self-deprecating. I tried to pose my ideas as diplomatically as possible. “You’re older and constantly busy.”

“I’m nineteen, not thirty. I was a little busy when I lived here, but we shared a backyard.”

I chewed and swallowed slowly. “You live somewhere else now, so there’s that.”

“Don’t you think it’s strange we were never friends?”

“Not really.” I tried eating again, but coordinating the effort was difficult. What if I lifted the pizza and he saw my hand shake? What if I took a bite and the entire cheese triangle slid onto my chin then onto my shirt and lap and the floor? I trailed the imaginary cheese path with my gaze. Why was I wearing running shorts and baseball socks?

“I’m sorry about your grandpa.”

I hovered the pizza and napkins over my bare legs to cover them. “Thanks. Thank your mom for the dinner.”

He finished his piece of pizza carelessly, completely unconcerned with sauce at the corner of his mouth. “No problem. Make sure you tell her the tuna casserole was delicious.” He scanned the room with blatant curiosity and stopped on Mom’s senior picture before moving on. When he got to the mess on the dining room table, he stood. “Wow. This is a crap-ton of high school memorabilia. Are you deciding what to keep and what to store?”

I set my slice aside and slunk into the dining room behind him. “No. These are my mom’s things, actually. I found them in the shed.”

He fingered a pile of snapshots and lifted an eyebrow. “Found them? You didn’t know they were there?”

“Mark knew.”

Recognition lit in his eyes. “Ah.” He bobbed his head. “Gotcha. So, did you find anything good?” He pushed a photograph of her in a ponytail and baggy hoodie with his fingertips. “Wow. She was gorgeous.”

“Yeah.” The picture had been taken at night with a bonfire blazing behind her. Her smile was contagious.

He lifted the picture and poised it near my head. “You look just like her. Do you have a picture like this of you? You could put them in a frame together.”

My cheeks flamed, idiotically, as if no one had ever paid me a compliment. “I’ve never gone to the bonfires.”

He squinted but powered on. “Did you guys have other things in common? You didn’t cheer. I would’ve remembered that. What about her other clubs?” He walked the table’s perimeter. “Drama. Spanish. Student Council. Jeez. When did she have time to study?”

“She was super girl. I took photos for the yearbook committee.” I lifted my thumb and first finger in a pinch. “I have a small life.”

“Okay. There’s nothing wrong with small. Pretty awesome things come in little packages. Skittles, for example. M&Ms. Chapstick. Memory sticks.”

“Chapstick?” I suppressed a smile. “Seriously?”

“What? Lip care is important.” He pressed his lips together and rubbed them back and forth.

I looked away. “Can’t argue with that.”

He went back to the couch and made himself at home.

I blew out a breath. Interesting as his visit had been, I didn’t get it. “Why are you really here?”

His easy smile faded. “What do you mean?” He gestured to the pizza.

“Your mom could’ve brought dinner. You didn’t have to do it. I could’ve even managed to make something myself.”

“I told you. I wanted to see you.”

“Why?”

He shook his head and dropped his chin. A moment later, he raised clear blue eyes to mine. “Why were you at Ray’s yesterday?”

A mix of shock and embarrassment ran through me. “I’m moving out in a couple weeks, and there’s an apartment upstairs.”

He frowned. “What about college?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Yeah, but why move out then move again in a month?”

“It’s complicated.”

Dean stretched his legs in front of him, apparently mulling it over. “Ray’s isn’t a nice place, you know? They’ve had some serious bar fights. People have been hospitalized. There are rumors he allows prostitution, probably in the room you’re about to rent. Mom’s tried to close it a bunch of times for good reasons.”

“I know.”

“Why not stay here for the summer? What’s the rush?”

I gritted my teeth against the stress of the day. “What’s your major this year? Criminal justice?”

“Funny.” He repositioned himself, elbows on knees, and relented. “My major’s actually undecided. Mom wants pre-med, but I’m studying agriculture.”

“Farming?”

“Not just farming. I’m looking for better ways to utilize our resources.”

I struggled to unite my ideas of Dean with what he’d confessed. Farming? “Elaborate.”

He clasped his big hands together and braced them on his head. “Okay, for example, there has to be a more efficient, cost-effective way to grow produce. There are too many regions in the world where farming, like we know it, is impossible. I feel like there has to be a work around. Something feasible, not science fiction.” He sat straighter and dropped his hands to his lap. “Distribution is key right now. Did you know we have enough produce rotting on vines in areas like ours to end hunger for thousands of people? We just can’t get it to them.”

His sad little smile looked a lot like embarrassment. “Sorry. That sounded like a rant, didn’t it? I’m supposed to be distracting you from your worries about Mark, not burdening you with world hunger.”

I repeated his monologue internally. Who was this guy? Honestly, I’d figured him for a life in underwear modeling or reality television. The fact he had a brain and a heart was ridiculously endearing and one hundred percent dangerous. When I’d assumed he was hot and dumb, I had no problem forgetting him periodically. I didn’t need another reason to crush on Dean.
He should go
. I braced my feet to stand, but my body ignored the request.

He dared a look in my direction.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Even if farmers donated the portion of their crops they anticipated going to waste, and you set up a solid distribution network for the free resources, there’d be the issue of how to pay the workers moving the product, plus gas for trucks and planes, customs issues, refrigeration, etc.”

A smile spread across his handsome face. “All true.”

I settled back in Mark’s chair. “How’d you get my number?”

“Your friend Heidi’s cousin goes to my school. We ran into each other after a game, and I bribed him for her number. I’m surprised she didn’t tell you.”

“She did. I wanted to know if you’d lie.”

“Why would I lie?”

“Excellent question.”

He laughed.

I finished my pizza and my lemonade, thankful for the easy conversation and curious how it would end.

My phone erupted with a fresh round of texts from Heidi.

“Is he still there?”

“What happened?”

“Tell me everything.”

“What was he wearing?”

Dean stretched onto his feet. “I’d better get going.”

“Okay.” I walked him to the door, wishing for a reason to keep him longer. “Thanks again for the pizza.”

“Anytime.” He stepped onto the front porch and turned back. “How about tomorrow?”

“What do you mean?”

“I can bring dinner again tomorrow if you don’t have plans.”

I stared. That would definitely give Heidi something to freak about. “I have conditions. You have to let me cook, and you have to thank your mom for the casserole.”

“Deal.” He stretched a hand in my direction.

I slid my fingers over his huge palm and sighed. “Deal.” The roughness of his hand stirred heat in my core. Images of those broad palms grazing my ribs made my toes curl.

The landline rang, and I dropped his hand. “I’d better get that. It might be the hospital.”

“You want me to stay?”

Yes.
“No. I’m fine.”

I waved good-bye and dashed to the phone. “Hello?”

“Miss Reese? This is Dr. Ashband at Wetzel County Hospital. I’m afraid your grandfather has slipped into a coma.”

I walked to the hospital early the next morning. Dew and fog clung to the ground. A haze of water thickened the air. The world was silent, save a handful of farmers on tractors and livestock grazing behind stubby fences.

I slipped between the sliding glass doors and made my way to the third floor. The hospital was eerily still. The overpowering stench of cleansers seemed almost normal this time. Was it like that for Mom at the end? Did she live someplace like this before she died? Did she get used to the masked scents of sickness? My stomach churned at the idea of her suffering.

“You’re back.” The nurse from yesterday smiled at me.

“Is he still in a coma?” It was the only thing I’d thought about since I’d climbed into bed at one thirty.

“Yes.” She slid a hand onto my shoulder and turned me in the opposite direction. “He’s right down here.”

I followed her down the hallway to a set of double doors that swung open as we approached. The little sign on the wall said “Coma Ward.”

“Almost there,” she prompted.

A woman in patterned scrubs stacked files on a giant round desk. She glanced our way without speaking.

“This is it.” We stopped outside a room with normal walls and a standard obligatory window.

Mark’s new room wasn’t as scary as the one in recovery.

“Thanks.”

The scene was movie-like. He didn’t look real. He was grayer. Vulnerable. Wires and tubes protruded from him, attached to a bouquet of machines with purposes I didn’t understand.

I gripped my camera bag and planned my retreat. I wouldn’t stay long. How long was long enough? I didn’t want to seem rude to the nurses. Mark wouldn’t care. He didn’t want me there, so why was I compelled to come?

Guilt saddled me to a chair at his bedside. Like it or not, Mark was all I had, and I didn’t want to be alone.

The nurse hung casually in the doorway. “Can I get you some coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

She sauntered to his bedside and checked the monitors. “You should talk to him. Research suggests coma patients retain sensory perception.” She stoked his arm. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Reese?”

“Um. I don’t think he would want that.”

“I think you’re wrong.” She moved away on silent feet and pulled the door partially shut as she left.

My throat thickened.

I dug into my bag and extricated a picture of Mark and Mom when she was young. Their heads were tilted in on one another, mouths open in laughter. Grandma had probably taken the picture. Whatever they’d been up to that day, they’d been happy. I leaned the snapshot against a lamp on his nightstand. He’d see it if he woke.

Traitorous tears stung my eyes. I shouldn’t care if Mark died. I didn’t even know him. He didn’t want me. So, why did the idea of losing him shred my heart into pieces? Why did I need him so much?

Tears dripped off the end of my nose and onto my lap. I scrubbed a hand over my face, capturing renegade drops on the pads of my fingers. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Mark was supposed to get old, retire, and see me make something of myself. I was going to be something he could be proud of, and one day he’d look at me like I mattered.