California Dreamin'

He’s probably referring to the giant magenta suitcase along with the floral handbag bulging at the seams with all the stuff I’ve packed for the coming days. I don’t care enough to turn around to confirm. I’m more interested in him and his restrained reactions.

“Yup.”

He takes a step toward it, but I stop him. I clutch the sleeve of his t-shirt and sort of barge into his space.

Dean’s eyes are full of suspicion when I raise myself up on my tiptoes and lean in to place a soft kiss on his jaw. It ticks under my mouth and he goes completely still once again. But that doesn’t deter me. I won’t let it deter me.

“I missed you, Dean. I missed you so much,” I whisper to the slant of his sculpted jaw, making him feel the words rather than hear them.

Said jaw ticks again and I step away.

Throwing me a glance that kinda looks frustrated—though I can’t be sure—he leaves to grab my luggage.

Even though his reaction was less than enthusiastic, I beam.

Nothing can dampen my excitement. He’s here. We’re going on a road trip and I have a plan.

Before this week is over, I’m going to tell Dean how I feel. And I’m going to convince him we belong together.

It doesn’t matter that he’s older—much older, and that we’ve always been just friends. We have something special and I’m gonna make him realize it, too.

When I suggested a road trip, I didn’t know we’d be driving for ten hours on the first day.

I didn’t know that Dean wouldn’t let me drive his precious car. Some sleek convertible I hardly know the name of.

“You’re a fucking control freak, you know that?” I tell him at his refusal.

“Hey, watch it, Tiny. Language,” he growls from beside me.

He’s sprawled in the seat, his strong thighs taking up the whole space with their largeness and masculinity. As I said, he’s lucky I’m in a good mood or I’d take major offense at his high-handed tone.

As it is, I roll my eyes. “The only reason you’re alive right now is because you’re driving.”

“And because you like me.”

God, why does he have to be so confident? And why do those sunglasses look so sexy on him?

“On second thought, maybe I should kill you. That way I’ll get to drive your stupid car.”

“No abuse on the car, either.”

I roll my eyes again and hand him a peeled orange, his favorite. I decided since Dean’s mapping out the whole route and figuring out where we’ll stay overnight, where we’ll eat and whatnot, the least I can do is be in charge of the snacks. Somehow he let me do that, and so, I got his favorites.

“Well, if you’re not going to let me drive, I’m gonna put on some music.”

I lean forward and fiddle with the music system, and Lana Del Rey blasts from the speaker.

Right on cue, Dean groans. “Ah, fuck.”

I tsk at him. “Language.” Then, “She’s awesome, Dean. She’s the bomb.”

He shoots me a glance and turns off the music. “Let’s keep all kinds of explosives away, all right?”

I throw a piece of popcorn at him that collides with his chest and rolls down to settle on those sexy thighs. Smirking, he picks it up and pops it in his mouth.

Gah.

I can’t even be mad at him. His smiles, his relaxed posture, they kill me every time. Mostly because they are all so rare.

Now we’re in Utah, Salt Lake City to be specific, and we’ve stopped for the night at a motel Dean had already picked out. I’m in my room, which is sadly separate from Dean’s – we share a wall though – when my phone rings. It’s Mom.

“Hey, Mom,” I say, lying on the bed.

“Hey, baby. How are you? Are you tired?”

Apart from Dean, my mom’s always been my best friend. She understands me in a way that’s rare and sometimes spooky. When I was little, I used to think my mom could read minds. Turns out the only mind she can read is mine.

“No, I’m fine,” I assure her.

“Did you take your meds?”

“When have I ever forgotten, Mom? I take it on time, every day.”

And the reason she can read my mind is because she’s me. Or I’m her.

We both suffer from clinical depression. I was medically diagnosed at thirteen. But I guess my mom always knew about it. I feel like she blames herself sometimes. Although my dad and me, we both tell her it’s not her fault.

In fact, it’s because of her that I’m so well-adjusted about my condition. Well, as well-adjusted as I can be. You know, when my brain isn’t telling me I’m worthless and there’s no hope for me.

“I’m just saying,” Mom continues. “Mostly because I think you’re a little too happy today.”

“Is there anything wrong with being happy?”