California Dreamin' Read online

  “Yup.”

  He takes a step toward it, but I stop him. I clutch the sleeve of his t-shirt and sort of barge into his space.

  Dean’s eyes are full of suspicion when I raise myself up on my tiptoes and lean in to place a soft kiss on his jaw. It ticks under my mouth and he goes completely still once again. But that doesn’t deter me. I won’t let it deter me.

  “I missed you, Dean. I missed you so much,” I whisper to the slant of his sculpted jaw, making him feel the words rather than hear them.

  Said jaw ticks again and I step away.

  Throwing me a glance that kinda looks frustrated—though I can’t be sure—he leaves to grab my luggage.

  Even though his reaction was less than enthusiastic, I beam.

  Nothing can dampen my excitement. He’s here. We’re going on a road trip and I have a plan.

  Before this week is over, I’m going to tell Dean how I feel. And I’m going to convince him we belong together.

  It doesn’t matter that he’s older—much older, and that we’ve always been just friends. We have something special and I’m gonna make him realize it, too.

  When I suggested a road trip, I didn’t know we’d be driving for ten hours on the first day.

  I didn’t know that Dean wouldn’t let me drive his precious car. Some sleek convertible I hardly know the name of.

  “You’re a fucking control freak, you know that?” I tell him at his refusal.

  “Hey, watch it, Tiny. Language,” he growls from beside me.

  He’s sprawled in the seat, his strong thighs taking up the whole space with their largeness and masculinity. As I said, he’s lucky I’m in a good mood or I’d take major offense at his high-handed tone.

  As it is, I roll my eyes. “The only reason you’re alive right now is because you’re driving.”

  “And because you like me.”

  God, why does he have to be so confident? And why do those sunglasses look so sexy on him?

  “On second thought, maybe I should kill you. That way I’ll get to drive your stupid car.”

  “No abuse on the car, either.”

  I roll my eyes again and hand him a peeled orange, his favorite. I decided since Dean’s mapping out the whole route and figuring out where we’ll stay overnight, where we’ll eat and whatnot, the least I can do is be in charge of the snacks. Somehow he let me do that, and so, I got his favorites.

  “Well, if you’re not going to let me drive, I’m gonna put on some music.”

  I lean forward and fiddle with the music system, and Lana Del Rey blasts from the speaker.

  Right on cue, Dean groans. “Ah, fuck.”

  I tsk at him. “Language.” Then, “She’s awesome, Dean. She’s the bomb.”

  He shoots me a glance and turns off the music. “Let’s keep all kinds of explosives away, all right?”

  I throw a piece of popcorn at him that collides with his chest and rolls down to settle on those sexy thighs. Smirking, he picks it up and pops it in his mouth.

  Gah.

  I can’t even be mad at him. His smiles, his relaxed posture, they kill me every time. Mostly because they are all so rare.

  Now we’re in Utah, Salt Lake City to be specific, and we’ve stopped for the night at a motel Dean had already picked out. I’m in my room, which is sadly separate from Dean’s – we share a wall though – when my phone rings. It’s Mom.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say, lying on the bed.

  “Hey, baby. How are you? Are you tired?”

  Apart from Dean, my mom’s always been my best friend. She understands me in a way that’s rare and sometimes spooky. When I was little, I used to think my mom could read minds. Turns out the only mind she can read is mine.

  “No, I’m fine,” I assure her.

  “Did you take your meds?”

  “When have I ever forgotten, Mom? I take it on time, every day.”

  And the reason she can read my mind is because she’s me. Or I’m her.

  We both suffer from clinical depression. I was medically diagnosed at thirteen. But I guess my mom always knew about it. I feel like she blames herself sometimes. Although my dad and me, we both tell her it’s not her fault.

  In fact, it’s because of her that I’m so well-adjusted about my condition. Well, as well-adjusted as I can be. You know, when my brain isn’t telling me I’m worthless and there’s no hope for me.

  “I’m just saying,” Mom continues. “Mostly because I think you’re a little too happy today.”

  “Is there anything wrong with being happy?”

  “Nope. Not at all,” she says in a grave voice because she knows how hard it is for people like us to be happy. “Just don’t forget to take the pill, kiddo.”

  I chuckle. “He reminded me already, you know. Not that I would’ve forgotten but still.”

  Dean knows my schedule by heart. Even though we don’t talk to each other every day, he still manages to remind me via text or email. Initially, I thought those texts meant a segue to chatting, but no. They were simple reminders about my medication. Sometimes he won’t even look at my reply for hours. I know; I’ve checked.

  I can hear my mom’s smile. “He did, did he?”

  I nod, smiling as well, as warmth pools in my chest. “Yup. He thinks I’m still a kid. Like you guys.”

  “Well, you’re always gonna be my kid. And to be fair, compared to him you actually are a kid.”

  “I’m not,” I snap, pursing my lips. “Stop saying that.”

  Mom laughs. “Ooh! A little bit touchy there. Should I know something?”

  I bite my lip and dart my eyes around the room like I’m not alone. Like Dean can hear me. “No.”

  “Really?”

  Her tone suggests she already knows, and I get both nervous and relieved. We’ve never talked about my feelings for Dean. I mean, I only realized it two years ago myself.

  Am I slow or what?

  I’ve known the guy all my life, but I only realized I loved him when out of nowhere, he declared he was taking a job in Los Angeles.

  I’ll never forget his kiss at the airport. I was crying—sobbing really—and he hugged me so tightly I was surprised when the hug was broken, and we came apart as two different bodies, instead of one.

  “Mom,” I say, sitting up on the bed, fisting the sheet.

  “What?”

  “Don’t try to play innocent.”

  “Oh, unlike you, you mean?”

  “Mom,” I whine like a kid. She reduces me to that sometimes, and I hate it.

  She laughs harder. “All right, I know. I’ve always known.”

  “I’m not sure if we’re talking about the same thing,” I return cautiously, even as my eyes are scrunching shut and I’m crossing my fingers.

  If I wanted someone to know before Dean, it would be my mom. She’s the coolest.

  “Okay. So, we’re not talking about Dean and how you picked a college in L.A., so you can be close to him. And how you’re driving to New York just so you can spend some time together. Because apparently, he’s always working,” Mom says with a smile in her voice. “So, that’s not what we’re talking about, right?”

  See, mind reader.

  I fold my legs, crisscrossing them, and chew on my nail. “How long have you known?”

  “I’ll tell you if you stop chewing on your nails.”

  I whip my finger out of my mouth. “God, you’re spooky. Anyway, tell me. How long?”

  She sighs. “Always.”

  “How? Even I didn’t know.”

  “I’ve always known, Fallon. I guess I have a sense for these things. And if it were someone else, then I probably would have a problem with it because, well, you’re young and he’s older—much older. But it’s Dean, you know? He’s like my other son and I know him. I’ve watched him grow up.”

  It’s true. When Dean was twelve, he met my dad accidentally and since then, my dad has always tried to b
e there for Dean and his sister. Because Dean’s own father has hardly been a part of their lives. From what I hear, his dad completely checked out when Dean’s mom died, and he threw himself into his work.

  My heart hurts for Dean and Mia. When I think of how lonely they must have felt, how the responsibility of bringing Mia up must have fallen on Dean’s shoulders. Thank God for my mom and dad, stepping up and helping.

  “Do you…” I bring my knees up and sit back against the headboard. “Do you think he loves me too?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, sometimes I feel that he does but… I don’t know, Mom. What if he doesn’t?”

  “You’re never going to know if you don’t ask, honey. Besides, that’s why you came up with this insane idea anyway, right?”

  “Okay, why does everyone keep calling it an insane idea? People take road trips all the time, okay? It’s not that insane.”

  “Yeah, tell that to your dad. He’s losing his mind over here.”

  I gasp. “Mom, please don’t tell Dad. Please don’t tell him I love Dean. Please? He’ll lose his shit.”

  “Language,” she chastises. “And no. I’m not saying anything to your dad. Believe it or not, I’m kind of scared of him too.”

  “Oh please. Dad worships you. He can never be mad at you, like, ever.”

  “Well, yeah. Your dad does worship me.”

  She giggles at that. Apparently, Dad’s the only person who can make her giggle.

  They met in the unlikeliest of places: a psychiatric ward. When my mom was eighteen, she went through a major depressive episode that led to her attempting suicide. So she was sent to Heartstone Psychiatric Hospital, where my dad worked as a lead psychiatrist.

  I, for one, love their love story. I love how my silent, seemingly unemotional dad fell in love with my quirky, cute mom. I love how my dad, who hardly ever smiles, laughs when my mom is around. I can see it in his eyes, how much he loves her, how much he admires her.

  Sometimes I feel like Dean looks at me that way but maybe it could be the imaginings of a lovesick girl.

  “Mom? Everything’s gonna be okay, right?”

  “Yes. You know why? Because life’s full of possibilities.”

  “Even for people like us?”

  “Yes. Even for people like us.”

  I have tears in my eyes and I know she has them too. But then I hear my dad’s voice in the background—he must have just come into the room—asking who my mom is talking to.

  “Fallon?” My dad says when Mom passes the phone to him.

  “Dad. Hey.”

  “Hey, kiddo. How are you?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Did you eat?”

  “Yup.”

  “Meds?”

  I laugh. “I took them. I’m fine, I promise.”

  He sighs. I can imagine him straightening his glasses. “Where you’re staying… Dean sent me the location. Is it a good place? I’ve been looking at it online—”

  “Dad, I’m fine. I told you. Stop worrying. I’m having fun.”

  “Next time have fun on a plane, you understand? We’ve been worried. Five days, Fallon. That’s not a joke. Especially when you can be here in six hours.”

  I go to say something, but I hear my mom reprimanding him. Stop being such a hardass, Simon. Let her have fun.

  She can have just as much fun on a plane. Why does she have to drive three thousand miles to have fun? Do you have any idea the things that could happen on a road trip? I was reading this article online—

  Gosh, you’re such a nerd. Stop. It’s fine.

  Did you just call me a nerd, Willow?

  Yes.

  Yeah. I don’t think I like that very much.

  What’re you gonna do about it?

  You don’t want to know.

  I’m not afraid of you…

  I can’t hear anything after that because the phone’s snatched by my brother, Brendan, who’s four years younger than me. Brendan means ‘son of a king,’ and apparently my mom used to call my dad, her psychiatrist, Ice King. So, she picked his name with that thought in mind.

  “Ugh, Mom and Dad are being gross again,” he says, forgoing his greeting.

  I laugh. “When are they not being gross? But it’s better than having parents who fight all the time.”

  “I guess…”

  We talk for a little bit before I hang up and hug myself. Gosh, I miss my family. Moving to California was an easy decision for me. I was doing it for Dean. But actually living there, so far from the other people I love, is hard.

  The only person who can make it better is on the other side of this wall and I can’t wait another second to be with him.

  Mom’s right. I’m never gonna know if I don’t ask.

  I’m going to go ask Dean. Although first, I need appropriate clothes. Giggling because apparently, Dean makes me a giggler too, I get to work.

  He’s not going to know what hit him.

  He’s awake.

  Good.

  There’s light under his door so I knock on it, trying to tamp down my excitement.

  A few seconds later, Dean opens it and there’s no use even trying to control my heartbeats. They’re not going to slow down, no matter what I do. My heart isn’t mine. It’s his. It belongs to this man in front of me.

  “Fallon?” Dean asks with a frown and a concerned voice.

  “Hey,” I breathe.

  He looks up and down the brown-carpeted corridor. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

  For some strange reason, I’ve forgotten all my reasons for being here. All I can do is simply stare at him. At his rumpled hair and faded t-shirt. His bare feet with a sprinkling of dark hair on the toes, which makes them all the sexier. And his checkered pajamas.

  Dean’s always worn them. They make him look very strait-laced and mature. And now I realize, super sexy too.

  “You still wear checkered pants?” I say, chuckling.

  Dean’s frown takes on a sort of offended turn. He looks down at himself, seemingly put out, and that only makes me laugh harder.

  A second later though, I’m not laughing. He’s stolen my laughter, my breaths even as he drags his gaze up and down my body, reminding me what I’m wearing.

  It’s my usual nightclothes—a pair of shorts and a tank top—but a little shorter and a lot lacier. And black in color. Dean’s favorite.

  He runs his eyes from my feet, up my bare calves and thighs, to my stomach and up to my chest. He lingers in places, making those spots burn with longing. Making my stomach buzz and my nipples bead inside my top.

  I rub my feet together, feeling jittery and hot, wondering if he can see how his careful study is affecting me. If he can tell I picked this outfit just for him.

  All my musings evaporate when his gaze clashes with mine. There’s so much heat in them that his brown pupils seem burnt.

  The silence is too much to take so I whisper his name. “Dean…”

  Without saying a single word to me, Dean grabs hold of my wrist and pulls me inside the room, making me squeak. I jump when he shuts the door behind me, still staring at me like he’ll never stop.

  “At least it’s better than what you’re wearing,” he says at last, letting go of me.

  I freeze in my spot. Does he not like them, my clothes?

  “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I ask carefully.

  Dean steps back from me without answering and strides over to the bathroom.

  Um… what was that?

  I don’t know what to think. I mean, I didn’t expect him to jump my bones as soon as he saw me in these clothes, but I didn’t expect him to literally leave the room, either. I was going for a little sexual tension here and I thought I got that. Right?

  I go further into the room and notice his bed is messy and almost covered with files and documents and his computer. He must be working, as always
. Maybe I interrupted something and now he’s mad at me.

  But damn it. When is he not working?

  Dean comes out of the bathroom, looking like a man on a mission. “Nothing’s wrong with what you’re wearing except it shows more than it hides,” he almost snaps, before throwing something fluffy and white toward me. “Put this on.”

  I pull the fabric off my face and realize it’s a bathrobe. “What?”

  “Put it on.”

  I look at the bathrobe and then at him, all rigid and stern. I’m starting to feel a little self-conscious. I tug on the hem of my lacy tank top. “You’re acting crazy.”

  “I’m serious.”

  I tug at my hem again but then stop. Even though he clearly doesn’t like my outfit because he looks super offended right now, I like it. I think it makes me look sexy. So screw him. Although I know I’ll probably agonize over it later in my room, I still hold my ground. “There’s nothing wrong with my clothes. It’s what I wear when I’m sleeping.”

  “Are you sleeping right now?”

  “Well, no but—”

  He tips his chin to the bathrobe in my hand. “So put it on.”

  Dean’s eyebrows are arched and he’s got this arrogant and authoritative look on his face. That look messes with my head, I swear. I can’t decide if I want to tell him to cut it out or ask him why he doesn’t like what I’m wearing. Or—yes, there’s a third choice—kiss that soft mouth of his and shock the fuck out of him.

  As it is, I cross my arms and let the robe fall on the ground. “No. I think you’re being stupid.”

  “I think you’re being a little too naked.”

  “What?”

  He grits his teeth, all angry and bothered. “You walked over to my room wearing that.”

  “Uh, yes…”

  “Anyone could’ve seen you in…” He trails off, waving his hand in the general direction of me.

  “That…” I open and close my mouth before saying, “That would bother you? Someone seeing me like this?”

  Dean takes a few seconds to answer and I rub my foot against the calf of my other leg. His angry eyes are making my skin buzz with an odd electricity.