I want to wipe it away. "How did it happen?"
"She got sick when I was eight." Her lips press together. "Breast cancer. An aggressive one. She was already stage three. She did everything. Mastectomy. Chemo. Radiation. But it wasn't enough." Her eyes turn down. Her finger glides over her cup. "It didn't seem fair, for her to go through all that only to die all the same."
"It never is."
"No, it's not." Her gaze shifts to the three-tier plate. She picks up a madeleine and dunks it in her tea. "Sorry. I'm killing the mood."
I shake my head.
"This is serious. And you're not."
"I'm a lot of things."
She brings the cookie to her lips. Takes a bite. Chews. Swallows. Crumbs fall onto her plate as she breaks off another piece. "I guess it's only been two minutes."
I arch a brow.
"That you've been serious."
I can't help but laugh. "I'm developing a tolerance. Might make it to four."
"I doubt it." She smiles, but there's a sadness to it. Those heavy memories are still weighing on her. "Your parents ever get sick?"
"Yeah. My dad. When I was a kid."
"What happened?"
"He lost a ball."
She drops the cookie. "What?"
"Testicular cancer."
"Oh." Her shoulders relax. A laugh rises up in her throat. "You… you really are ridiculous."
"You think this is ridiculous? Should have seen me at twelve. I was fucking terrified it would happen to me too."
"Really?"
I nod. At the time, it was the scariest thing in the world.
"Is he okay?"
"Yeah. It's treatable, as far as cancer goes. He caught it early."
"Did he have to do chemo?"
"No. Just radiation treatment for a few weeks. He took it in stride. Acted like it never fazed him. But now… I don't know. He must have been scared."
She nods. "It's scary when someone you love is sick. Not knowing what's gonna happen. Trying to be strong for them when you're falling apart inside."
"With your mom?"
"Yeah." Her voice trails off. Her gaze shifts to the cookie on her plate. "When she looked at me, and she saw the concern in my eyes… she had to swallow all her fear to placate me. She had to hide her feelings."
"You were a kid."
"But if I wasn't?"
"Doesn't matter. You were."
"But it must have been hard for her. Feeling like she had to convince me I was okay. Like she was the one who took the weight of everyone else's grief."
She's not talking about her mom anymore.
She's talking about someone else.
But who the hell is it?
Chapter Nineteen
Chloe
Dean never quite gets back to his carefree self.
We finish our massive lunches, sip another round of tea, drive back to my place with Stone Temple Pilots filling the car.
Hug goodbye.
I push my thoughts aside. Pour myself into tattoo mock-ups. Into swimming laps. Into inking bananas.
Sunday is work. I'm officially on Dean's schedule.
I sit next to him as he tapes a stencil to a pretty girl's ribs. I watch him flirt just enough to set her at ease. But it's not the same as it was. He holds back. Keeps the conversation tame. Glances at me every few sentences to check my reaction.
I barely manage to hide my jealousy.
I barely manage to keep my hands to myself.
I barely manage to swallow all the confessions that rise into my throat.
It was me. I was the one who had to convince everyone I was okay with dying. That their preemptive grief wasn't tearing me apart.
And it might be me again.
Even though our schedule is packed, the day passes slowly. My thoughts keep turning to kissing him. Touching him. Telling him.
We finish, I head to aikido, stretch, spar, drive home, make dinner for Dad, watch sitcom reruns on the couch, hide in my room with my sketchbook.
The entire time, I think of Dean. I consider calling him. Texting him. Demanding a shoulder to cry on, or a silly joke to make me smile, or a dirty demand to make me hot.
He wants me. He does. He's holding off for me. Because he knows this will explode in my face.
I can text him another picture of my panties. Demand he reciprocate. Ask him if he's hard. If he wants to fuck himself.
If I can watch.
I can do a lot of things.
But I don't.
I text him a request to take next Thursday off. For personal reasons.
And he texts back a perfectly professional sure.
And I fall asleep with my thoughts split between him and the terrifying reality check awaiting me.
Then I wake up, and I do it again.
Our Saturday morning date (is it a date? Do I want it to be a date?) is Dean's challenge to me: a long hike starting at Los Liones Drive.
At five to eight, he pulls onto the street. He shoots me a wink as he drives past me and parks three cars up.
I push off the hood. Hit my key fob to lock my sedan. Stretch my arms over my head. It's early, but the sky is already a brilliant blue.
Dean steps out of his car. Slides his hands into the pockets of his loose running shorts. "Nice to see you, sunshine."
I tug my backpack straps. Between his shorts and my backpack, this feels too much like high school. "Miserable to see you. As usual."
He brushes his bangs from his eyes. "That's what I like to hear."
"Should I have thrown in a dick face?"
He presses his hand to his heart. "Fuck. I'm not sure I'm ready for that."
"Uh-huh."
Dean offers his hand. "You ready to go?"
"Yeah."
"Can you do me?" He pulls his t-shirt over his head then stuffs it into his bag.
My heart thuds as he brandishes a bottle of sunscreen. This is standard friend stuff. But with Dean… it's just not.
Deep breath. Slow exhale. We're coworkers hiking together. Rubbing sunscreen over his bare chest is no big deal. It's absolutely, positively not a big deal. Not even remotely.
My fingers brush his as I take the bottle.
He looks down at me as I squeeze lotion into my palm.
I bring my hand to his chest.
Soft skin. Hard muscles. Lines of ink.
Fuck, he feels good against my fingertips.
I swallow hard, but it does nothing to calm the butterflies in my stomach. I'm rubbing sunscreen into Dean's chest. And he's so… tall and broad and hot and…
He's still looking down at me with those bright blue eyes.
I force myself to focus on my work. It's like a tattoo. Skin is skin. That's what Dean says.
So what if this skin belongs to the guy I want more than I want anything?
My body ignores my logic.
Desire races through my limbs. It builds in my fingertips, my nipples, my sex.
My toes curl into my sneakers.
My fingers curl into Dean's skin.
I force my palm to flatten, but that's no good. Now I'm touching more of his broad chest.
"You okay?" He brushes a stray hair behind my ear.
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"You're red."
"I am not." I rub sunscreen into his taut stomach.
"Yeah, you are."
There. That's all his front. "Turn around."
He spins on his heels.
There. I can blush in peace. He's doing it on purpose. He's winding me up even though there's no way we can act on our desire.
He's evil.
The thought runs through my brain as I rub sunscreen into his muscular back and shoulders. But, bit by bit, my body takes over. My fingertips linger on his skin. I move closer. Inhale the scent of him.
Linen, sunscreen, and something all Dean.
He steps forward, breaking our touch. "Need me to do you?" He turns so we're face-to-face.
I shake my head. "Already done." For a second, I curse my habit of applying sunscreen every morning. But this is a good thing. If Dean starts running his fingers over my skin, I'm a goner.
He offers his hand. "I've got extra water in my trunk."
"I'm good." I press my palms into my sides. Move toward the trail. "Come on. Stop stalling. Let's do this."
He nods and follows me onto the trail.
It's all dirt and dry brush. The plants are short, waist high at most. Shade is rare.
He places his body behind mine, blocking the glare of the sun.
"Thanks." I dig my heels into the dirt, but my heels don't have enough grip. I need to keep my footsteps light.
"Need the tan anyway."
"Is that right?"
"Don't tell me it's a bad look."