Page 117 of Still Beating

Well, he does. Hereallydoes. He’s wearing a crisp, black button-down over a white band t-shirt with dark jeans. His hair is mussed and slightly overgrown, and a light stubble shadows his jaw. And I think his eyes are even bluer—is that possible?

I clear my throat when he doesn’t reply and attempt more words. “What are you doing back in town?”

Dean finally seems to be swept from whatever daydream he was lost in, and he scratches the back of his head, shuffling from one foot to the other. “I was visiting my mom. Also, my buddy, Reid… he had something he wanted to talk to me about, so I’m on my way over to meet him.”

I hate that I wish his answer had simply been…you.

I flick my fingers through my hair, brushing it over to the opposite side. I have a feeling I know what Reid wants to talk to him about, but it’s not my place to tell, so I just nod and stand there in awkward silence. I seem to have run out of words.

“I wanted to see you, Cora.” Dean presses his lips together, his cheek ticking as he lets out a low breath. “A lot. I just… I didn’t know if you wanted to see me, and I didn’t want to disrupt your life. I didn’t want to pass through and shake you up, only to walk away again. It seemed easier to keep my distance.”

“I get it,” I quickly nod, forcing an agreeable smile as my hand clings to the surviving puppuccino cup. My sweater sleeve slips to my elbow, catching Dean’s attention, and he stares at the small tattoo along my wrist. I don’t miss the sharp intake of air he sucks in when he spots it. I hold it out to him, proudly displaying my new piece of art. “Do you like it?”

Dean seems to drift for a moment, somewhere far away, and I wonder if it’s the same place I go to sometimes. He clears his throat through a nod. “Yeah. I like it a lot.”

I can tell he wants to touch it. He wants to reach out and press his thumb to the sensitive underside of my wrist, tracing the little design, sending goosebumps up my spine. I see it in his eyes. But he resists the temptation and slides his hands into his pockets instead.

“Well, I won’t keep you. I’m sure you’re not in town long,” I blurt.

Those were literally the last words I wanted to say to him, but they just spilled out.

Judging by the tensing of his jaw and the shift in his gaze, I think they were the last words Dean wanted to hear, too.

“Right,” he says, tousling his dark hair with one hand and dipping his chin to his chest. “I should get going.”

“Okay.” I chomp down on my lip, keeping it from releasing more lies.

He strains a smile. “This was a nice surprise. You really do look good.”

“You, too.”

This isn’t us. We’re more than trivial conversation and superficial dialogue.

Dammit.

But then he starts walking away with his whipped cream jeans and eyes full of missed opportunity, and my feet stay glued to the coffee shop floor, unable to do much more than watch. I feel helpless. Stuck. Conflicted.

Dean glances over his shoulder at me before he steps out the door. So many unsaid words pass between us with that one, striking look. It’s brief. It’s here and gone within a blink, and yet, it clenches my heart like a tight fist.

I let out a hard breath and lean down to pick up the fallen cup, reaching for a napkin to swipe the mess off the tile. I toss the garbage into the trash can near the door, watching Dean saunter down the sidewalk, pausing just once. He stands there for a moment, faltering, his hand massaging the back of his neck as he glances down at his boots. Then he keeps on walking.

I close my eyes.

I take a deep breath.

Then I say,screw it.

I force my feet into action and push through the doors, jogging down the busy sidewalk with my hair and my inhibitions trailing behind me. “Dean!”

He stops in his tracks, spinning around, his mouth tipping up into a grin when he sees me running towards him. There is a distinct relief mingling with his surprise.

I come to a slow stop in front of him, fluffing my hair back and laughing lightly. “Can we do that over?”

“Please,” he chuckles, his hands on his hips, his eyes twinkling beneath the autumn sun.

“Should I drop the whipped cream again?”

Dean pretends to ponder this, scratching his jaw. “I think we can skip that part.”

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