California Dreamin'

Love.

Gosh, I used the L word, didn’t I? I fucking used the L word when I don’t even know if he feels the same way.

Great going, Fallon.

Worse, he isn’t saying anything. He’s simply watching me.

I wring my hands together, breaking his gaze. Maybe it was too soon. I mean, we just reconnected. Maybe I should give it a few more days before I get to the main part. Namely, telling him I’m that girl. The girl who would do anything for him.

“I didn’t mean love —”

“You don’t have to worry about me meeting a girl, Tiny,” he cuts me off.

“I don’t?”

“No. Because I’m not interested in girls. They’re a little too young for me. I’d rather be with a woman.”

He’s talking to her, the waitress.

I guess you could call her a woman. She’s tall and busty. Her face is made up and her blonde hair’s shiny. She’s wearing her uniform, a pair of black shorts and a white t-shirt. But even so, she’s got a type of body that suggests she’ll look good in a nice, sophisticated dress as well. So basically, the complete opposite of my sneakers, Harry Potter t-shirts, and messy buns.

Ever since Dean said he likes women, not little girls, I’ve been a little pissed at him. We drove for hours in more or less complete silence. He let me pick the music and I had half a mind to force him to listen to Lana Del Rey. But I didn’t. Because I’m mature enough not to.

We’re three days into our journey, and the easy silences and comfortable conversation from day one have vanished. We’ve just reached Des Moines, Iowa. The land of corn and broad fields. Although you can’t see that right now because it’s winter and everything is bare and frosty.

Kind of like my heart because he’s talking—flirting—with the waitress.

I just came out of my room and was planning to ask him out to dinner. I even put on a nice pink dress to look more like a grown-up. Although I’m not liking the length of it. It barely drops down to mid-thigh.

Anyway, I figured we could go eat at a decent place and we can get back to being friends. And I can get back to convincing him we belong together. I’ve already wasted a lot of time being pissed.

But it’s not gonna happen. He’s super engrossed in his conversation with the waitress, and that pisses me off so much I can barely handle it. She has her notepad out but instead of writing on it, she’s laughing at what he’s saying like he’s the most hilarious guy ever.

Oh, please. He’s not.

The guy has no sense of humor. You actually have to tell him, Dean, this is the part where you laugh. It’s a joke.

A moment later though, Dean laughs as well and I’m done.

I can’t take it.

He used to laugh with me like that. Before. Way before he left for L.A., and I didn’t know the meaning of the things I felt for him. Now, it’s too painful. He has hardly smiled since we started this road trip.

I whirl around, getting out of the dining area, and follow the hallway back to where our rooms are located. I stumble along the way but there’s no one to save me except the colorless wall I clash with; somehow, I manage to stay upright.

I have no idea how long I’ve been inside my room, trying not to cry but crying anyway, when a knock sounds. It’s loud and confident. It can only belong to one person.

“Fallon,” Dean calls out, confirming my guess. “You in there?”

Sighing, I wipe stray tears off my cheeks and get up to open the door to reveal an angry Dean.

“What’s going on? I thought you said you were going to be down soon. I ordered for you,” he says, all irritated and pissed off.

“Did you?” I can’t stop myself from saying.

Was that what he was doing, just ordering?

“What?”

I let go of the death grip on the door and sigh. “Nothing. I’m just not—”

“Are you crying?”

Damn it.

I move away from the door, hiding my face from him. “No.”

“Why are you crying? What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine. I’m not hungry though. So you should go eat.”

Turning away from him, I walk to the bathroom, or at least try to. But Dean grabs my hand, his fingers circling around my wrist. His touch is so hot I forget to breathe. I forget to do anything but feel his grip on my hand.

“What’s going on, Fallon?” he asks, his chest awfully close to my back. To my trembling back, actually. Because I can’t contain the things inside of me anymore. I can’t take his nearness, his voice, his smell and be unaffected.

I face him, my eyes stinging with miserable tears. I compare how Dean looks now—tense, concerned, his jaw tight—with how he looked with that waitress—carefree, laughing. Happy.