California Dreamin'

I, for one, love their love story. I love how my silent, seemingly unemotional dad fell in love with my quirky, cute mom. I love how my dad, who hardly ever smiles, laughs when my mom is around. I can see it in his eyes, how much he loves her, how much he admires her.

Sometimes I feel like Dean looks at me that way but maybe it could be the imaginings of a lovesick girl.

“Mom? Everything’s gonna be okay, right?”

“Yes. You know why? Because life’s full of possibilities.”

“Even for people like us?”

“Yes. Even for people like us.”

I have tears in my eyes and I know she has them too. But then I hear my dad’s voice in the background—he must have just come into the room—asking who my mom is talking to.

“Fallon?” My dad says when Mom passes the phone to him.

“Dad. Hey.”

“Hey, kiddo. How are you?”

“I’m good.”

“Did you eat?”

“Yup.”

“Meds?”

I laugh. “I took them. I’m fine, I promise.”

He sighs. I can imagine him straightening his glasses. “Where you’re staying… Dean sent me the location. Is it a good place? I’ve been looking at it online—”

“Dad, I’m fine. I told you. Stop worrying. I’m having fun.”

“Next time have fun on a plane, you understand? We’ve been worried. Five days, Fallon. That’s not a joke. Especially when you can be here in six hours.”

I go to say something, but I hear my mom reprimanding him. Stop being such a hardass, Simon. Let her have fun.

She can have just as much fun on a plane. Why does she have to drive three thousand miles to have fun? Do you have any idea the things that could happen on a road trip? I was reading this article online—

Gosh, you’re such a nerd. Stop. It’s fine.

Did you just call me a nerd, Willow?

Yes.

Yeah. I don’t think I like that very much.

What’re you gonna do about it?

You don’t want to know.

I’m not afraid of you…

I can’t hear anything after that because the phone’s snatched by my brother, Brendan, who’s four years younger than me. Brendan means ‘son of a king,’ and apparently my mom used to call my dad, her psychiatrist, Ice King. So, she picked his name with that thought in mind.

“Ugh, Mom and Dad are being gross again,” he says, forgoing his greeting.

I laugh. “When are they not being gross? But it’s better than having parents who fight all the time.”

“I guess…”

We talk for a little bit before I hang up and hug myself. Gosh, I miss my family. Moving to California was an easy decision for me. I was doing it for Dean. But actually living there, so far from the other people I love, is hard.

The only person who can make it better is on the other side of this wall and I can’t wait another second to be with him.

Mom’s right. I’m never gonna know if I don’t ask.

I’m going to go ask Dean. Although first, I need appropriate clothes. Giggling because apparently, Dean makes me a giggler too, I get to work.

He’s not going to know what hit him.

He’s awake.

Good.

There’s light under his door so I knock on it, trying to tamp down my excitement.

A few seconds later, Dean opens it and there’s no use even trying to control my heartbeats. They’re not going to slow down, no matter what I do. My heart isn’t mine. It’s his. It belongs to this man in front of me.

“Fallon?” Dean asks with a frown and a concerned voice.

“Hey,” I breathe.

He looks up and down the brown-carpeted corridor. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

For some strange reason, I’ve forgotten all my reasons for being here. All I can do is simply stare at him. At his rumpled hair and faded t-shirt. His bare feet with a sprinkling of dark hair on the toes, which makes them all the sexier. And his checkered pajamas.

Dean’s always worn them. They make him look very strait-laced and mature. And now I realize, super sexy too.

“You still wear checkered pants?” I say, chuckling.

Dean’s frown takes on a sort of offended turn. He looks down at himself, seemingly put out, and that only makes me laugh harder.

A second later though, I’m not laughing. He’s stolen my laughter, my breaths even as he drags his gaze up and down my body, reminding me what I’m wearing.

It’s my usual nightclothes—a pair of shorts and a tank top—but a little shorter and a lot lacier. And black in color. Dean’s favorite.

He runs his eyes from my feet, up my bare calves and thighs, to my stomach and up to my chest. He lingers in places, making those spots burn with longing. Making my stomach buzz and my nipples bead inside my top.

I rub my feet together, feeling jittery and hot, wondering if he can see how his careful study is affecting me. If he can tell I picked this outfit just for him.