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It’s an uneasiness in the pit of my stomach.

That’s what makes me so aware that everything is wrong and off.

I know it when I get into the car. I’m conscious of it in every fiber of my body as I click the seatbelt into place. This unsettled feeling won’t leave. I know something bad is going to happen.

But he keeps smiling at me.

So I swallow it down and try to breathe.

It’s partly because I’m so fucking aware that I want more of him. That I’m on the verge of giving him whatever he’d want, just to keep him. That’s the crux of it. I want him. And more than that, I want him to want me.

The car engine clicks over and the radio booms to life. And I keep telling myself that I can pretend. I lie and tell myself I’ll like pretending.

I think I’ve lied so much up to this point that I’m not even sure what’s real anymore.

“This song blows,” I say, reaching for the stereo just to fuck with him and distract myself, but Dean smacks my hand away. It stings for a moment and I feign a pained expression.

“You blow,” he says deadpan, completely ignoring me.

“Seriously,” I tell him, giving up on switching the dial since he keeps thwacking me with the back of his hand. “I’m not listening to this for two hours.” My brow is raised and the most serious of expressions is on my face.

“You have to be kidding?” Dean stares at me with a look of despair in his eyes and I finally break my composure, settling back into the seat and kicking off my flip-flops so I can sit cross-legged.

“Yeah, I am. This is the only station I actually like up here.” I can’t hold back my smile as that familiar warm feeling flows through me. The one where I give a damn about how my words will be taken. If he gets me.

I’ve heard Dean laugh a few times, and usually it’s this sexy, deep and rough chuckle that seems to vibrate up his chest, but this laugh, this is different. It’s easy as he throws his head back and gives me a handsome smile.

It’s a dangerous look because it makes me smile too.

“Thank fuck,” he says and then he turns the radio down before putting the car into reverse. It’s at that volume level where you know the other person wants to talk. And right now, I don’t like that level. I’d rather blare music the whole way down.

“Hey, I like that song,” I tease him but he ignores me. The car moves easily out of the parking spot in the garage and for the first time since this trip came up, I start questioning it.

Dean clears his throat and puts the car into drive.

“You alright?” I ask him, feeling a sense of wariness grow in my chest.

“My mom’s kind of a bitch,” he tells me and as much as that sucks, I’m happy to hear that’s what’s making his face look all … uncomfortable.

“I think that’s normal maybe?” I tell him and take another look around the car. The bags are in the back seat, but he doesn’t want to stay long and assured me we’re definitely not staying at his mother’s. Which is nice because fuck staying over at someone’s mother’s house. That’s a given.

Next to my duffle bag there’s a white plastic shopping bag.

“What’s in the bag?” I ask Dean.

He glances at me and then blows out a short huff of a laugh. “I picked up a shirt. For you.” He examines my expression, watching to see how I react.

“From where?” I ask him as I reach into the back seat, taking the bag and reading the drugstore label on the bag.

“From the mall, it’s just in that bag ‘cause it was laying around.”

The wide and joyful smile on my face won’t budge. I lift the fabric out of the bag. It’s simple white cotton, but high quality. It’s not quite like the one he ruined, but it’s pretty and soft. I’m sure I could make it look dirty though.

Even as my playful banter and dirty thoughts try to shove it all down, this little feeling pricks up, making me hot and uncomfortable. A feeling I want to reject. Immediately. Or at least I would have before. Before what, I’m not sure.

“I didn’t know your size,” he says and then I cut him off before he can continue.

“I love it.” I wait for his gaze to meet mine before I lean across the console and plant a chaste kiss on his lips. “You didn’t have to, you know?” I say, slipping the shirt back into the bag and setting it down in the back seat again.

“Well, I’m happy it made you smile.”

“So, your mom?” I prod him for more information.

“She’s just,” he pauses and the sound of the turn signal, the steady clicking, fills the cabin. We come to a stop at the crosswalk and he looks at me. “We haven’t gotten along in a long time, but my,” his eyes flicker to mine and then back to the road before the car moves again, “my anger management therapist … ” he says the words slowly.

“Your shrink?” I correct him and when he quirks a brow and gauges my expression I give him a comforting smile. “What’s your shrink say about her?”

“Not much about her. He thinks I should go see her though.”

I pick at my nails and peek up at Dean. Freshly shaven. I hadn’t noticed that before. “Has it been a while?” I ask him and suddenly feel way too uncomfortable.

We’re not even ten miles from his place. We have hours to drive. And this conversation is a little too heavy for comfort.

But … I’m curious. I can’t deny that.

“A while,” he says and his answer’s short. Maybe it’s heavy for him too, but that only makes me want to push him more.

“How long’s a while?” I ask him.

“I left home when I was sixteen.”

“Sixteen is a good age for change,” I mumble, looking out of the window as he turns onto the highway and finally picks up speed. The trees blur by and I keep talking before Dean can comment. “When was the last time you saw her?”

He doesn’t look at me as he switches lanes and answers, “When I was sixteen.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah,” he says and then adds, “I probably should have told you.”

“I mean … I’d have thought it would have come up in conversation, maybe?” I say jokingly, but really… what the fuck?

“I wasn’t going to go, but then I wanted to get away after that picture. And I wanted to take you with me.”

“So you just figured it’d be fine?”

He shrugs, making the shirt that’s already tight across his shoulders look that much tighter. “It seemed like a sign, I guess.” His words come out soft and they’re nearly drowned out by the faint music and the sound of the air conditioner, but I heard them.

“Anyway, I just wanted to apologize since it may be a little weird. But you asked for this,” he adds, lightening his tone and trying to be playful.

My heart thuds and feels like it’s flipping. Like it’s trying to move inside my chest. It takes a moment for me to realize it’s because I’m not breathing. “Yeah, I did.”

“So it’s normal for moms to be bitches?” Dean asks me and I peek at him in my periphery, picking at my nails. That’s all he’s getting right now. He doesn’t let up though, eager to push the conversation. “I’m guessing mine’s going to be worse than yours.”

“I was just trying to make you feel better,” I tell him and he gets a chuckle out of it that makes me smile.

“Well shit,” he answers and then glances up at the large green sign on the side of the road.

“So?” I ask him.

“What?”

“What’d she do that made her a bitch?”

“Oh,” he replies and his tone drops again. “She just is.” I nod once, thinking he’s going to leave it there. But as I pull my book out of my bag to read, committed to sitting in silence the whole trip, Dean proves me wrong.

“I didn’t think she was when I was younger.”

“Most kids love their moms.” I think about how my mom was my hero. She was the one who was supposed to make it all better.

“She was bad with money; my parents were always fighting about it.” He glances at me and then asks, “You really want to know?”

I place my hand on the book in my lap and tell him, “Consider me the in-car shrink. Tell me everything.”

“There’s not much to tell. My mom’s a greedy bitch. My dad got sick and my mom cashed in on his insurance.”

“Is he okay?” I ask hesitantly and Dean shakes his head no.

“He died a long time ago,” he tells me and before I can even tell him I’m sorry, before I can share that my dad’s gone too, he keeps talking. I recognize the nature of his voice, how it’s like a story. Someone else’s story he’s telling. It’s so he can pretend it doesn’t affect him anymore. And that makes the wound that much deeper. “She couldn’t wait for it to come. She married a guy more well-off than my father,” he says and then lowers his voice, “who was a fucking asshole.”

I’d laugh at his tone and the way he said it, but he can’t hide the pain in his eyes.

“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 alright. 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.

He tries to shrug it off, but I feel compelled to at least reach out to him. I shift in my seat so I’m leaning close enough to him and 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 first covers my hand with his. It 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. He’s a beast of a man. A brute. And that 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 alright,” 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 alright. 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.

“So why does your anger management therapist,” I repeat 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 her since Rick died. He said she’s not handling it well.”

“So not awkward at all,” I 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 and that we had other plans.”

“What plans?” I ask him.

“Maybe we go to dinner and you tell me your story?” he asks, taking a quick peek at me.

Shaking my head and ignoring my racing heart, I tell him, “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 peeks 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 into my chest, stretching the seatbelt over them and looking out of the window.

“I’m guessing it didn’t end well?” he pries.

“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.

“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.

“You know how I just said it’s okay to let people in?” he reminds me with a smirk and then rests his hand on my thigh when I don’t respond. He rubs his fingers back and forth in soothing strokes. Like he’s comforting me. It feels like a setup.

Silence greets me, backs me into a corner. Waiting for me to make the next move.

“It’s not fair that you decided to make this trip a fucking therapy session.”

His laugh is brief before he replies, “Life’s a therapy session, Allie Cat.” He doesn’t move his hand, he just keeps it on my thigh and I find myself wanting to put my hand on top of his and run my thumb along his knuckles.

“Sam … Sam is who I let in.” I give him that small bit of information, but hearing her name makes me feel like I’ve betrayed her. Has it been that long since I’ve said her name out loud?

“What’d he do?” Dean asks and I let out a genuine laugh and pretend the tears in the corners of my eyes are from humor.

“Sam as in Samantha.”

“Oh, a chick?” Dean leans forward and then relaxes back in his seat, clearly not expecting that. “So was this like, a thing?” he asks me and the smile stays plastered on my lips.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m only into dick.”

“Got it,” Dean says. “So she was a friend?”

I just nod and look back out of the window. I remember when we met in preschool. We were so young and stupid, fighting over some rainbow eraser until the teacher took it away and made us share a simple one. Back when everything was okay and we were just kids. When “best friends for life” meant something special.

“What was she like?” he asks me. Dean isn’t getting the hint, but for some reason, I like it. Maybe it’s the memories, or the soothing sound of the engine rumbling and the wind passing by the car. Or maybe it’s just been a while since I’ve thought of Sam back before the night that changed everything happened.

It takes me a moment to think of the best way to answer him. “A lot like me,” I start, although it’s not quite right. I’m just pretending to be a lot like her.

“Big boobs. She was gifted,” I tell him humorously and I think about stopping there, but I don’t. “She had the most beautiful smile and laugh. Like seriously, she used to joke that she was going to be a dentist because everyone would pay big bucks for a smile like hers. And she laughed at everything and it was real.” I remember how happy she always was. “She was just a very confident, happy person.”

“Sounds like a good friend?” he asks me after a moment.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” I scold him when I notice he’s spending more time looking at me than he is paying attention to driving.

“What happened?” he asks me.

“My mom didn’t want us hanging out,” I tell him and then explain. “We were just girls, fourteen and fifteen at the time.”

“Why’s that?”

“People said some things. Blamed some things that happened on her and my mom said it was her fault.” My voice cracks and I feel myself breaking down so I reach for the volume on the stereo again. I turn it up, feeling guilty about so much and not wanting to deal with it.

Guilty about what happened back then.

Guilty about what’s going to happen.

“Hey,” Dean says softly and I hear him over the constant bass of whatever song this is. I glance at him, wishing I could hide, but he does that thing again, taking my hand and kissing the tips of my fingers. “You did good, Allie Cat.”

If guilt could kill someone, I’d be dead.