What makes you feel alive?
Singing like no one’s listening. Dancing like no one’s watching. Eating like calories don’t exist.
“I CALL IT A MAYCHUP, because it’s a mix between ketchup and mayo,” I told Dean as we sat on the hood of his Volvo, eating In-N-Out in front of the ocean, on a golden hill somewhere no one could yell at me about how much of a disappointment I was. I swirled the mayo and the ketchup together into an orange dip using one fry, and nibbled on the tip of it when I was done. Dean took a bite of his burger—no fries—and watched me. I avoided looking at his face all throughout the drive. I couldn’t look at his eyes without remembering how they taunted me when he fucked the living life out of me. I couldn’t look at his lips without remembering how they sucked on my clit hungrily. I couldn’t look at his arms without remembering how they boxed and claimed me in that dirty truck. And, of course, I still felt the strings of his hot cum on my ribs, even though he wiped it off with my ex-boyfriend’s shirt, and I had taken a shower after Millie had left my room this morning.
“I still can’t believe you didn’t let me buy beer.” He swallowed his bite, staring at the ocean.
“As long as you’re around me, you’re not allowed to consume booze or smoke weed,” I said, unaffected by his deep frown. I dangled my feet from his hood and enjoyed the summer breeze on my flesh.
“You fucking suck,” he muttered.
“You wish,” I snorted, but it died in my throat when I realized this couldn’t be a joke anymore. He looked up from his burger, his face brooding and serious.
“I don’t wish for things, sweetheart. I think by now you know, when I want something, I make it happen.”
Goddammit, I was leaking again.
There was something in the air. A sizzling wire of nerves that kept bouncing between us. So many things had to be addressed, but I didn’t want to talk about any of them. I just wanted to survive this trip.
After we ate, I stuck a USB in his MacBook and shared some of my favorite bands with him. Whitney, Animal Collective, Big Ups, and The Chromatics. He seemed into it, but you could never really tell with Dean Cole, because he seemed to be into everything.
“Remember what we used to listen to when we were in high school?” Dean grinned all of a sudden. I wrinkled my nose, trying to look unimpressed when really, I was elated.
“You mean the music you used to listen to. I only tolerated it when I absolutely had to.”
“Cut the bullshit, babe. You liked pop and R&B just like everyone else.”
“I had a versatile taste,” I protested, knowing he was referring to me shaking my ass to Jennifer Lopez tunes in skimpy clothes at Vicious’s parties, even though I was hopelessly passionate about indie bands from the nineties.
He jumped down to the ground, collecting our wrappers and empty cups. “Don’t go anywhere. A blast from the past is coming your way.”
I stayed put, watching as he walked to the nearest trashcan, throwing away our leftovers. His muscles were prominent, even through his white shirt and tailored khaki pants. My eyes lingered on his biceps, scrolling down to his tight ass, before he turned around and looked at me.
Then smiled.
Then winked.
Then mouthed, “Busted.”
I looked away, feeling my face reddening. He was right, of course. I wanted to sleep with him again, and couldn’t think of anything else other than his body against mine. When he sat back next to me, he picked up his MacBook and played “Naughty Girl” by Beyoncé.
“Remember this one?” He turned to me and laughed. “First night Baby LeBlanc ever got shitfaced.”
Covering my face with both palms, the memory of dancing on Vicious’s coffee table assaulted my mind. I was so goddamn drunk I thought it would be a terrific idea to join my cheerleading friends who danced on the table. They knew what they were doing. I looked like I was swatting away a thousand imaginary flies. This resulted in me trying to mimic their movements—and failing—smacking them here and there in the process, until Vicious asked, “What the fuck is the little LeBlanc sister doing? Having a seizure on my table? Someone get her down before she hurts the other girls.” Not even a second later, I felt Dean digging his muscular shoulder into my thighs, throwing me over it and spinning me in place until I screamed for him to put me down.
“Whatever. It was hard to fit in as a junior who transferred from Virginia. I had to make sacrifices. Do you remember this song?”
I snatched the laptop from his hands and played another video. “Roses” by OutKast. Dean burst out laughing, his eyes crinkling with mirth.
“Do it,” I prompted. It was the time he was the one to dance. And dance he did at Vicious’s party, mimicking the band’s choreography from the video. It was a part of a lost bet—duh—but it was so hilarious, the memory sat in my mind eleven years later, crisp like it was yesterday. I could still smell the alcohol and hormones wafting through the air from that night. “Please, Dean.” I squeezed my palms together. “Deep down in your brain, under all the dead cells courtesy of your weed habit and the porno movies, I’m sure you still remember the dance.”
“Only because you asked so nicely.” He jumped off of the hood again and said, “Play it from the start,” pretending to gel his hair and check himself out in an invisible mirror. It was all so surreal, I couldn’t help but giggle like a schoolgirl, which only made his already-huge smile widen.
I hit play, moving my eyes from the original video to Dean’s dancing, the ocean glittering behind him. He did almost everything right, from the part where he slides to his knees at the beginning of the song to the very end, barely messing up the composition. My stomach hurt from laughing, but his face was serious. And when the song ended, he stalked toward me, grabbing the laptop.
“My turn.”
I checked the time on my cell phone. “Okay, but then we have to go. It’s getting late and we need to get ready for the rehearsal.”
It was already four. I couldn’t believe we spent so much time together without even noticing. Dangerous chemistry, the words settled in my brain like thick dust. Be careful, Rosie.
“Yeah, yeah, Princess Saint and Prince Dickhead will have us right on time. Don’t worry.” He waved me off, his gaze fixated on the screen. “Drops of Jupiter” by Train started playing. My smile faded.
“I don’t remember listening to this song together.” I swallowed. He moved between my legs, his waist in a perfect position for me to wrap myself around it, but I didn’t, my eyes desperately staring at his lips. We were always a breath away from a kiss.
“We didn’t. You listened to it one time when you thought you were alone at home. I dropped by to give Millie her textbook back. The song kind of stuck in my head after that, because I kept wondering what the fuck you were looking for. I couldn’t figure you out, Rosie. When I saw other guys hitting on you, it killed me. Because whatever it was you needed, I didn’t want you to find it in them.”
Shamefully, the feeling was mutual. Every time he brushed Millie off and cancelled on her, my heart swelled a little. She is not the one, I convinced myself. I am.
“You had no right to be jealous.” I looked down at my black flip-flops. He shook his head no.
“Never claimed any differently. And you had no right to be jealous, either. Yet here we are.”
There we were.
I moved quickly, bypassing any attempt he may have had to kiss me. Hopping in the Volvo, I buckled in and pulled my knees to my chest, burying my face between them, praying like hell Dean couldn’t read my mind. The drive back to the house was wordless. The fact he hadn’t tried to sleep with me again proved that maybe Dean was a man of his word.
Then, when his tires screeched to a halt and we both got out, I said, “I think we should stop this.”
“I think we should not,” he retorted, his voice dry and resolute.
“We’re playing a risky game.” I swallowed. He opened the door for me and smirked. “Then it’s a good thing I’m the best fucking player in town.”
I wore a deep purple maxi dress Millie had gifted me to the rehearsal party, sitting pretty, sandwiched between Mama and Daddy. They, too, wore fancy clothes. The rehearsal dinner was scheduled way before the actual wedding, because half the people who were invited had an actual wedding to attend the day before. Todos Santos was small, and everyone was a someone you wanted to mingle with. Keeping up appearances was crucial.
The venue where Vicious and Millie were set to get married was in a vineyard resort that had suffered a serious identity crisis. The outside area had a Hawaiian setting, with palm trees, lush grass, and colorful flower arrangements everywhere. There was a dinner hall the size of a ballroom, swans, fountains, and other things that made it look like a cross between heaven and a Disney movie. Then we got inside and the place looked totally antique. We sat at a ripped-from-sixteenth-century-Europe type of fancy dining table under chandeliers the size of Mumbai.
Mama was nagging me about New York again, threatening to pull the plug on Vicious’s assistance with my health care. The urge to burn my bra and march the streets before she took my right to vote was strong that day.
Daddy was raving, probably to make me feel uncomfortable. Something about how Millie was such a thoughtful child. Subtle as a drunk elephant, as you can see.
My sister and Vicious sat next to each other, holding hands. He kept rubbing her back, as if consoling her. She did look a little green and a lot sick. Perhaps it was the nerves. I’d be nervous, too, if I was about to marry Satan’s spawn. Maybe I was just extending the disloyalty of Daddy to Emilia, but I suspected her, too.
If she really was pregnant, that meant everyone in her immediate environment knew. Everyone but me.
Dean waltzed in ten minutes late, accompanied by Jaime and his family—Melody and their daughter, Daria—and Trent Rexroth. Against my best intentions, my eyes clung to Dean desperately before scanning the rest. Trent looked busy with his phone, and Dean’s eyes scanned the room—looking for me, I assumed, and also foolishly hoped—so when he finally found me, my heart tumbled and stopped.
I looked away.
He turned around and greeted a man I didn’t know.
The spell was gone.
A hostess showed him to his seat, grinning way too wide for my liking and checking his left hand for a wedding band.
Since Dean sat at the far end of the table, I had to concentrate on not glancing his way all the time. Luckily, Gladys and Sydney sat opposite from me. Sydney filled me in on what happened in Todos Santos while Millie and I were gone and Gladys told us her favorite L.A. tales. We were two starters and one entrée in when the event coordinator had decided to have us start making toasts.
Daddy made the first toast to the happy couple. He raised his champagne glass to his eye level and talked about what an amazing couple Millie and Vicious were, leaving out the part where he couldn’t stand his soon-to-be son-in-law up until the moment the latter slipped a ring with a diamond the size of his mansion on his daughter’s finger. Then Vicious raised a toast, followed by the leading best man—Jaime—who toasted the bride. When it was my time to toast the groom, I stood and smiled, clutching the champagne glass in a death grip. My knuckles were snow-white.
“Don’t mess it up,” Mama gritted through a toothy smile. My grin didn’t falter, but something snapped inside me. Another petal fell down in my heart. Millie’s eyes shone as she looked at me, and my heart picked up speed.
Screw them. This is for Millie. I will not let her down.
“Those of you who know me know that I’m a huge fan of my sister. She’s my rock, my soul mate, and the reason that I’m still standing here, alive and well. When her heart beats for someone, mine falls in line and thumps for them too. Baron, there’s one thing I cannot take from you—you make her happy. Glowing, even.” I scanned his face for a reaction, but there was none. Maybe my sister wasn’t pregnant. Maybe I was losing my goddamn mind. “Some loves are old, and sure, others are new and frantic. Yours is both, and that’s what made your feelings toward one another outsoar everything. Even the past.” I swallowed, realizing that I, too, wanted to erase my past with a brand new future. “I wish you joy, freedom, health, and wealth, though I think you’re all covered with the last one,” I trailed off, and the room burst out laughing. A few people clapped. I suppressed a desperate cough before I continued. “So I guess I would like to make a toast to two of my favorite people. To the woman I love more than life itself, and to the man who spends his life making her happy. Baron and Millie, you don’t need my words to make it work. You have this thing covered. But just in case, I wish you everything you wish for yourself and more. Now down these glasses and have some fun.”
Taking a sip from my drink, my eyes wandered to Dean for reassurance. Some people cheered me on, but it was Dean I wanted to impress. He raised his glass to his lips, staring at me from across the room, and I shook my head, the gesture almost invisible. No drinking.
He put his drink down and licked his lower lip, his eyes saying, but yes to fucking.
I was going to take care of him. The thought was as irrational as the idea itself. Why would I want to, and why would he let me? But at the same time, I couldn’t see him throw his health away like this. Not when I truly knew what health meant.
Sitting back down, Mama flung an arm over my shoulder and squeezed me into her chest in half-a-hug I was quick to return. I was melting back into my former, happy self before she whispered into my ear, “Thank you for not ruining this, sweetheart. Daddy and I were worried.”
Pale, I sank into the silky chair, my throat paper-dry. My phone flashed with a text, and I grabbed it like it was my lifeline.
Dean
I need to kiss you again.
Rosie
You can’t kiss me again.
Dean
It’s all I fucking think about.
It’s all I think about too, I wanted to scream.
Rosie
Tell me something interesting. Something about stars.
Dean
Mars is covered with rust, and your tits will soon be covered with my cum. Tell me something about music.
Rosie
Slash once auditioned for the band Poison but didn’t want to join them because they wanted him to wear makeup.
Dean
This game sucks. I still want to kiss you.
Dammit, my heart. I don’t think it was equipped to deal with a guy like him.
I looked up and watched him. His phone was by his side, but he was engaged in a casual conversation with a beautiful brunette. My chest tightened. At the same time, I reminded myself that Dean could do whatever the hell he wanted.
I looked away, even though my eyes kept begging for me to steal another glance. The rehearsal went smoothly until this point, and I wanted to get it over with and go back home, preferably to a corner in the mansion where my parents couldn’t find me.
It was Trent’s turn to make a toast. At that point, it seemed like every living member in SoCal was required to wish something to the happy couple. I wondered if it was because Vicious didn’t have any parents to toast for him. His father died a little over a year ago, and his stepmother wasn’t in the picture. At least I had an excuse to let my eyes roam toward Dean and the mystery brunette. They were no longer talking, and my phone vibrated next to my plate.
Dean
If looks could stab, this chick would be dead now. This is happening. We are happening. We can take the long, frustrating route—but you will be punished for that. In bed. Or we can make it pain-free. Your call.
I didn’t answer his text. Again. My eyes rose to Trent Rexroth, who flashed a shallow smile and started talking. He was mid-sentence when his phone chimed and he looked down to read a text message, frowning.
The champagne glass slipped between his fingers before he caught it midair—killer reflexes, but I wasn’t surprised—and placed it down on the table. He then picked up the phone, turned around, and rushed to the entrance door.
Dean immediately followed him, and before I knew it, Jaime and Vicious were gone, too.
Murmurs bubbled from every corner of the table, and Daddy tried to calm the storm by yelling louder than necessary for everyone to stay cool.
Interesting approach.
I looked down and texted Dean.
Rosie
What happened?
He didn’t answer.
Panic ran marathons in my veins, and my thoughts wandered to the worst place possible. Did something happen to Luna, Trent’s daughter?
“Go see what’s going on.” Mama read my mind, elbowing my ribs. “Your sister is worried. I don’t want her upset.”
I rose to my feet and light-jogged to the entrance. I didn’t particularly feel like snooping around, but I felt like arguing with Mama even less. Besides, someone had to check on them. It was just unfortunate that I was the nosy one.
The outside area was vast, with a white, soft aisle that was ready for the weekend, a wild garden, two vineyards from each side, and artificial waterfalls enveloping the picturesque scenery.
And there, on a stairway leading to the ballroom, sat Trent Rexroth. He looked pale and shaky and nothing like his strong, poised self. An empty shell of the football hero turned self-made millionaire hottie. His eyes glittered with unshed tears, and he kept repeating himself, his face buried in his hands.
“She can’t fucking do this to me. What the fuck!”
“What are you doing here?” Vicious asked when he saw me, his hand on Trent’s back, squatting down next to Dean and Jaime. “Get back inside.”
“Don’t fucking talk to her like that.” Dean bared his teeth, lashing at Vicious more aggressively than necessary.
Rooted in place, I said, “Millie’s worried. I came to check that everything is okay.”
“Nothing is okay.” Jaime paced, his body radiating rage, but refrained from adding any more information. Dean stood up to his full height and sauntered toward me, clasping my arm in his warm hand and ushering me back to the empty hall leading to the ballroom.
“Mama and Daddy sent me to investigate.” A blush crawled up my cheeks, and who the hell was this girl and what had she done to my old self? I wanted the latter back. She wouldn’t take any of Vicious’s crap, either.
“Ignore that idiot. You haven’t done anything wrong.” Dean ran his palm up and down my arm, making my flesh sizzle. “Tell Millie that everything is fine.”
“Is it?” I lifted my eyebrows, tilting my head to the side.
“No,” he admitted, his jaw flexed. He looked so breakable at that moment, I wasn’t entirely sure it was him I was looking at. He normally carried himself with an invincible halo, the kind of self-assurance him and his friends exhibited like an American Express black card.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, leaning into him without even meaning to.
“Val left,” he said, his head hanging down as he twisted his fingers inside his hair and tugged, his skull probably stinging with the force of his hand. “She fucking left, Rosie. The babysitter found Luna all by herself, in an empty apartment. No clothes or shoes or mother anywhere around. Sitting in an overflowing diaper, crying her fucking lungs out. Fuck knows how long it’s been since she ate something. She was crying so hard she lost her voice. The sitter took her to the hospital to get checked. Trent’s boarding a plane in an hour to bring her here.”
“Jesus.” I slapped a hand over my mouth. His cut cheekbones were tainted red, and he looked wary. For a second, I thought he would say something else. Or maybe even cry. Even if one, lonely tear that would fall from his eyelash, as if jumping off a cliff. But he did neither, squaring his shoulders, fixing his halo and clearing his throat.
“Honestly? It’s for the best,” he said, mentally knocking me on my ass. What? “Not everyone was born to be parents. Good on Luna. It would have hurt more if Val fucked off when she was six or seven. Bet she won’t even be mad at her when she grows up.”
I took a second to look at him—really look at him—trying to read whatever it was that was written on his face, but it was gibberish. A mixture of too many feelings, too many regrets, too much everything, crammed into one, tortured expression.
“Don’t give me that look, Rosie. Trust me. Luna doesn’t need Val.”
“Okay.” I pushed his head to the crook of my neck in a hug. Pain seeped through his strong body, and I willingly gulped it, the need to feel him overwhelming. “It’s okay, Dean.”
“She’s better off,” he repeated, his voice strangled with agony.
I was blinded. Gone for. Torn apart and thrown to the floor like confetti.
I wanted to take what he was feeling and swallow it like a bitter pill. It didn’t suit him. Even with the alcohol, weed, and empty fucks, Dean Cole didn’t do sadness.
He wasn’t Sirius.
He was planet Earth.
He was oxygen.
He was everything.
I allowed his face to disappear inside my shoulder and embraced him until there was no more space between us. We melted into each other, his heartbeats against my skin, my hair in his nose, his fingers on my waist. Our bodies joined together, even more so than in the red truck.
Dean didn’t produce any tears, but that didn’t mean he didn’t cry. He did, and I cried with him. For Luna, who was only a year old, and was already going through something more traumatic than most people experience in a lifetime. For Trent, who was always somehow being forced to grow up, always the one to get screwed over. And I cried for me, because I knew, right there and then, that a part of me was already his despite my best efforts. I never stopped loving Dean Cole. Not even for one damn moment. I just convinced myself that I stopped caring.
Until I didn’t.
Until now.