The Best Laid Plans(30)

    Cool, confident, and experienced, remember? Don’t blow it . . . Or maybe do





Dean walks through his bedroom door and I follow him in, pocketing my phone before he can see it. His room is pretty bare, just a worn dresser and a bed in one corner, sheets unmade and rumpled. There’s a framed poster of The Bicycle Thief on one wall and a Pink Floyd poster on the other, the one with the row of naked women’s backs. A laundry basket sits in the corner, clothes piling out of it and onto the floor. He walks over to a cabinet in his closet and pulls out a bottle of whiskey. It has a seal of red wax at the top.

He holds it up for me. “I know you like whiskey.”

“Oh,” I say, surprised. I clear my throat. “Yeah, I do.” Danielle’s text is etched into my mind: cool, confident, and experienced.

“This is Maker’s Mark. Each individual bottle is sealed with wax by hand, so they’re all unique.” He moves a finger down the red wax at the top of the bottle. “Pretty cool, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“You wanna break it open?”

He hands me the bottle and I hold it gingerly, afraid I’ll drop it. I have no idea how to break open the wax seal. I reach into the purse hanging from my shoulder and dig around for my house key. Pulling it out, I run the jagged edge down the side of the wax. Dean takes the bottle from me, folding my fingers forward so the key is closed in my palm.

“There’s a tab,” he explains. “You just pull it.” He grabs ahold of the tab and the wax peels away, exposing a normal bottle top underneath. “That was a diligent effort though.” I feel my cheeks warm and stuff the key back into my bag. He brings the bottle up to his lips and takes a sip, then hands it back over to me. “Cheers, work buddy.”

I hold my breath and take a small sip. When I breathe out I feel a rush of heat flood my chest. The taste is just as bad as I remember it—sweet and chemical at the same time. Do people actually like the taste of whiskey or is everyone just pretending?

“So how was your date?” Dean asks once I swallow.

“My date?” I ask, and then remember the text Danielle sent. “Right, my date.” I take another sip of whiskey just to stall. “I mean, like I said before, it was boring.” I’m trying to think of something to say, but of course I’ve drawn a huge blank. For a second my mind flashes to Andrew, the silly comment I made to him in art class, and then the worst possible answer falls out of my mouth. “He wouldn’t stop talking about . . . cheese.”

“Cheese,” Dean says, the corner of his mouth turned up. “Really?”

“Yup. He lives on a cheese farm. I mean . . . dairy farm. I mean, cows. You know how it is around here with all the cows.” Oh my god. My brain is actually malfunctioning. Dean’s eyes are twinkling with amusement and I know he’s enjoying witnessing my slow death. I point at his chest, trying to change the subject. “So what’s the deal with your shirts?”

He looks down. “They’re all movie directors.”

“Well, obviously,” I say, glad we’ve moved past my conversational glitch. “I mean, do you make them?”

“Dress for the job you want, not the job you have,” he answers, which isn’t really an answer at all. But I get what he means.

“You should make a Hitchcock one,” I say, filled with an overwhelming desire to touch him in some way.

“He’s your favorite, right?”

“I mean, he’s kinda messed up. But brilliant.” I take another sip. It doesn’t taste as bad this time, like my senses have been dulled. “Are any of them women? I just realized you don’t wear any women.”

“Wearing women. Sounds a bit Silence of the Lambs, don’t you think?”

“I’m serious.”

“I only wear my favorites.”

I want to say something about that, but he’s standing so close to me that I can see the freshly shaved stubble on his jaw, can almost feel his warm breath. I don’t want to challenge him and ruin the fizzling magic of this moment.

“Okay, how about Collins?”

“You’re a director?” He raises his eyebrows, an expression I hope means he’s impressed.

“I might be,” I say. “Someday. And then you can put me on your shirt.”

“Well, let me know when the time comes,” he says, leaning toward me, his voice low. “Because you’ll definitely be one of my favorites.”

“Okay.” I can tell I’m smiling like crazy, but I can’t help it. I feel clumsy, alight from his words. I put the bottle down on top of the dresser and notice a pile of photographs, in disarray as if someone has carelessly dropped them there. “What are these?”

I pick up the first picture in the pile and look at it before it can cross my mind that it might be personal. It’s a woman, slim and beautiful, with long dark hair and a wide smile. She looks like someone you’d want to tell secrets to over a steaming mug of tea.

“Oh, that’s my mom,” he says, scratching the stubble on his face.

“Sorry.” I put the photograph back down on the dresser. “Are these private? I didn’t mean to look. I just—”

“It’s no big deal,” he says, picking it back up. He smiles, running a finger down the side of her glossy face. “I took these when I was home over Christmas break. I don’t get to see her much, so it’s kind of nice to have these.” He picks up another photograph, this one a German shepherd, tongue flopping out the side of its mouth. “They’re like tiny standins for my family. Sometimes when I’m, like . . . lonely or stressed or whatever, I’ll talk to them. Is that corny? Sorry, that’s pretty corny.” His face turns an adorable red color. “I’ve clearly had too much whiskey if I’m telling you these things.”