Page 77 of Dean

On the way home, I make a short detour to the hardware store where I grab a can of paint and some rollers. He did say I could after all, and why the fuck not?

After putting the groceries away, I stare around the empty house and decide I’m angrier than I want to admit. So, I take it out on the wall. It takes me nearly two hours to prep for it and move all the furniture, but I paint the shit out of the living room. And I do it well. It looks fucking awesome. Dean is going to think of me when he’s here.

But when even that doesn’t stave off the anxiety-fueled anger, I stomp outside, grabbing the hose and a bucket from the garage, and decide to give my car the best washing it’s ever had. So I scrub at it aggressively, taking out my mood on the poor paint. But I do feel better, sweat beading on my skin as bubbles move up my arms.

Halfway through, I’m distracted by Ben showing up, his car pulling sadly into the driveway, his body slumped against the steering wheel.

I’m almost positive he’s not dead, but I still move up to the driver’s side and tap on the window.

“Hey there. You okay?” I call out. He turns his head and offers me a grim smile. He doesn’t look well, dark circles sit under his eyes and he looks like he’s about to hyperventilate.

“I’m fine.”

“Get out of the car, man. You look too sad.”

He sighs but does as I ask. And even so, he does it incredibly slowly. Almost like he can’t be bothered to actually put effort into moving his muscles.

“Jesus, do you normally move like this?” I ask.

“I find the motivation to move my appendages lacking,” he replies, and I shake my head, feeling the two buns on top of my scalp bob dramatically. He’s not well. Something is going down and I need toknow what it is. It better not be about me and his dad hooking up. Dean said Ben didn’t mind it…

Do not make this about you, Avery.

This is about Ben. Maybe he’ll open up. He’s quiet and shy, but he still needs to let it all out once in a while.

“Look, your dad is out. Let me make you a margarita and you can spill all the beans.”

Ben looks horrified, his cheeks reddening, his eyes widening. “Oh god. I can’t tell you anything.”

“Why not?” I ask, nudging his shoulder as we walk into the house. As we do, Ben eyes the space.

“Wow,” Ben whispers, looking at the still-damp bright lavender wall. “You did this?”

“Yeah, your dad just needed a pop of color in his life,” I comment on this dryly because if I don’t, I may cry. Painting the wall and throwing some pillows on the couch only made this place feel more like home, and well, this may not be my space if Dean tosses me out. Maybe he’ll hate the wall and throw me out.

Fuck. I shouldn’t have done that. I should have left it bland and wanting.

I should stuff the pillows away in a closet. Maybe all of this is too much—the sex, the pillows, the wall color—it may throw Dean over the edge.

Regret sits heavily in my stomach as I try to compose myself. This isn’t about me. This is about Ben. I need to focus on Ben.

“I like it. He will too,” Ben says, looking at me intently. “You make him happy. I can tell.”

Well, that makes me want to cry so I wave it away. I don’t want to blubber all over Ben. He needs me to listen to him, not the other way around. I’m just happy he’s not mad about me being into his dad. I’m so fucking happy about that.

“Anyway, what do you want? I can do a strawberry margarita or,” I suggest as I shuffle through some cabinets, “I can totally do a lemon drop. I bought a lot of shit at the grocery store.”

“Oh,” Ben breathes. “How about both?”

I grin widely at him. My kind of man indeed.

“Fabulous taste,” I reply, working on making us both drinks. As I do, Ben lowers himself into a kitchen chair and watches me put together the ingredients.

When I set the full glasses down on the table in front of us, I waggle my eyebrows at him and kick him gently with my shoe.

“So, Benjamin, what’s the deal? Why were you having an existential crisis in that car of yours?”

He takes a large gulp of margarita and then chases it with the lemon drop.

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