The Best Laid Plans(31)
“It’s not corny,” I say. “It’s sweet.” I want to reach a hand up and run it through his tousled hair, but I keep my arms firmly by my sides.
“To be honest, I miss Charlie the most.” He grins. “He’s the dog.”
“That’s my friend’s ex-boyfriend’s name, actually. Charlie. He’s a Death Eater.” I press my lips together as soon as I’ve said it because oh my god Dean is going to think I’m idiotic. He doesn’t seem like the type to appreciate a Harry Potter reference.
Luckily he laughs. “Really? Hmm, well, this Charlie is more of a shoe eater. And a furniture eater. And sometimes even his own shit.”
“Glad Hannah’s ex didn’t do that,” I say. I have to get us back on track. How do I keep leading us into the least sexy conversations of all time? I look back at the pictures. “What’s your mom like?” I just want to know everything about him, wrap myself up in the details of his life like a blanket.
“She’s a badass,” he says. “Raised my brother and me on her own.”
“I like her.” I pick up her picture, standing it vertically on the dresser as if it has little legs. “Hi, Dean,” I say in a high-pitched voice, wiggling the picture to make it talk. “You should clean your room. It’s a mess.” I’m surprising myself, acting silly like this. I’ve been so reserved in front of Dean so far, so nervous, like every interaction between us is a test I need to pass. Maybe it’s the sips of whiskey working their way through me, warming me from my chest to my toes. Maybe it’s the change in location. I’m so very aware of his bed only a few feet away from us. We’ve never been truly alone before, not like this. I wonder briefly if he locked the door when we came in. I didn’t notice.
“I shouldn’t be drinking in front of my mom,” he says, picking up the bottle of Maker’s Mark. “She wouldn’t approve.” He takes a sip anyway and then hands it over to me.
“Well, then I probably shouldn’t drink either. I want to make a good impression on her.”
He puts a hand over her face, shielding her eyes. “Coast is clear.”
I giggle, feeling light and airy. Then, horribly, I snort. I feel heat flood through me. Snorting in front of my friends is one thing, but this is James Dean. I have always tried so hard to limit my awkward bodily noises in front of boys.
“Did you just snort?”
“Nope,” I say, and then take a drink from the bottle. “So what do you say when you talk to them? The pictures.”
“If you don’t snort, then I don’t talk to pictures,” he answers, grinning. He runs a hand through his dark mess of hair and I watch it enviously.
“Fine,” I say. “I may have snorted. What do you say?”
“Give me another drink first.”
I hand him the bottle and he takes a sip, smacking his lips dramatically when he’s done. Then he puts it back on the dresser and picks up the picture of his mom. He clears his throat and then winks at me. Winking is usually something people do in cheesy movies, but seeing James Dean, a normal, cute, definitely-not-cheesy guy, wink at me makes it feel new, like he’s the one who invented it.
He grins, looking at me and then down at the picture of his mom. For a moment—just a flash—I’m filled with embarrassment that I asked him to do something so silly, so awkward and personal. Why did I think this was a good idea? Then he begins to speak and my anxiety melts away at the warm, easy tone in his voice. He isn’t embarrassed. Of course he isn’t.
“Mom, how’s it going?” he says to the picture. “You’re looking fantastic, really sepia-toned. Please don’t judge my behavior at the moment.” He glances away from the photo to look at me, his gaze locking on to mine. “Because I am drinking, and I have a pretty girl in my room, and I might kiss her.”
“Are you drunk?” I ask suddenly, leaning closer to him—so close I can see a fleck of gold in one of his eyes.
“Probably,” he says. “A little.” He smiles at me in an easy, relaxed way, and I feel myself drawn to him, smiling to match his.
“I think I might be,” I say.
And then he kisses me. I’ve only been kissed once before, at summer camp when I was fifteen. This kiss is nothing like that one—a kiss I now know, with certainty, didn’t count. Dean’s tongue rubs against my lips, begging permission, and so I open them and let him in, the feel of it new and wonderful. He moves his hand from my neck down my arm and then takes hold of my hand, intertwining our fingers. He tugs me over to the bed, never breaking contact. I sit down with a thunk, the bed lower than I expected it to be, and start to giggle, the tension and energy between us too much. Dean pulls away to place a light kiss on the top of my nose.
“You’re cute.”
He gently pushes me back so I’m lying on the bed, and then lies over me, his body covering mine, touching mine in all the right places. His hands roam through my hair and down the side of my waist to touch the bare skin between my jeans and top. He pulls his lips from mine and begins to press light kisses down my neck, and I tighten my grasp on his shirt. His smell is intoxicating, aftershave mixed faintly with tobacco smoke, and something about it feels so grown up. He smells like a man somehow, not like some boy from high school, and it’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.