I snorted, looking down at my appearance. My attire of black on black had suited me well the last four years, but at the moment, seemed plain and downright ugly. Not to mention my pale skin coupled with the written tattoos on my wrists. I was a parent's worst nightmare. I definitely wasn't the type of girl guys brought home to meet mommy and daddy.
"You can do this," he said seriously, sensing my inner turmoil.
"Unless of course, you're chicken."
"I hate you," I muttered, climbing out of the front seat. I'd do this, and when his parents hated me on sight, I'd have the satisfaction of being right. But the question was would it be a victory I really wanted?
Dean walked around, joining me at the front of the jeep. "Piece of cake," he said, lacing his fingers through mine. I didn't flinch from the contact. Over the last two weeks, Dean had slowly chipped away at my defenses. "You can stop looking like you're about to step foot in a serial killer's house," he teased, tugging me toward the front door.
"I'd prefer that," I answered as he turned the knob and pushed the door open.
Several things hit me at once as I stepped into his large sprawling house. First, the room we entered was huge. It ran the length of the front of the house, forming a perfect square. A large kitchen separated by long high-top counters sectioned it off from the living room and dining room which was visible from where we stood. Obviously, the builder had gone for an open floor plan. The delicious smell of spiced pumpkin permeated the interior of the house, and I couldn't help sniffing it appreciatively. The smell was warm and welcoming as it enveloped your senses. The only thing my house had ever smelled like was the cleaning solutions June used when she cleaned our house each week. It was the decor in Dean's house that drew me in the most. The walls were painted a warm taupe and adorned with numerous family pictures that were tastefully hung in rich wooden frames. Seeing them made me want to peruse each frame, dying to see actual family pictures.
That idea was put on hold when two little girls came tearing through the kitchen and tackled Dean around the legs, screeching his name at decibels I was pretty sure dogs five miles away could hear.
"Hey, Thing 1 and Thing 2," Dean said, ruffling their hair. "Have you two been driving Mom nuts today?" he chastised as a slightly flustered looking woman bustled out of the kitchen.
"Ashley and
Dora,
get in your playroom and clean it now," she said, putting her hands on her hips.
"But Dean's home, and he bought
a
fend
," one of them said with a cute lisp as she dropped her R's. I had next to no experience with kids, but I had to admit, Dean's sisters were pretty cute. Their hair was made up of platinum corkscrew curls that bounced every
time they moved. Rounded cheeks and rosy lips gave them the appearance of cherubs you'd find in some Greek painting.
"I see that. Room, now," she said, pointing beyond the kitchen.
"Hi, I'm Dean's mom, Sarah," she said, holding her hand for me to shake after the identical twins had torn away through the kitchen.
"Madison," I said, holding out my hand, taking the plunge into actual contact. I waited with bated breath for her to judge me when she took in my tattooed wrist.
"The writing on your tattoo is lovely," she said, surprising me as she flipped my hand over to study it more closely.
"Thanks, it's called Elegance," I said self-consciously.
"What does 'forget' mean?" she asked, finally releasing my hand that had grown clammy.
"Um, it goes with this," I said, flipping my other wrist over to reveal the word "Me."
"Oh, I see. Sometimes the past can be quite trying. I'm sure all of us would like to be forgotten at times," she said uncannily.
I waited for her next comment. Surely, now would be the time she'd tell me in no uncertain terms about how great her son is and how he needs to stay focused so he can continue on to bigger and better things. I waited for her to tell me I didn't belong in this house filled with its large comfortable furnishings, family pictures and welcoming pumpkin spice smell. She'd be right.
"I baked some chocolate chip cookies and pumpkin bars if you two want to have a snack before dinner," she said, shocking me as she smiled warmly.
"Heck yeah," Dean said, grasping my hand once again as he dragged me to the kitchen.
"Yes, dear, I know you're always hungry. That offer was actually directed at Madison," she said drily, following us into the kitchen.
I paused uncertainly in the archway separating the family room and the kitchen. Black marble countertops sat atop dark cherry wood cabinets with frosted doors that wrapped around the oversized kitchen. Industrial-sized stainless-steel appliances sparkled and gleamed, while an array of pots and pans hung over an island in the middle of the kitchen. Artwork and pictures cluttered the refrigerator door held up by an array of whimsical magnets. Upon closer inspection, I saw that the majority of the magnets were from theme parks in the Orlando area.
Dean laughed when he saw me studying them. "I guess you could say we're theme park junkies. My parents let the twins pick out a new magnet every time we go. This one I picked out though," he said, pointing to a magnet adorned with an enraged Incredible Hulk and a roller coaster zooming around his head.
"You seem a bit obsessed with that ride," I taunted.
"Because it
effing
rocks," he said, plopping down on one of the tall barstools that separated the kitchen from the dining area.
"Language," his mom said, pulling a tray of cookies out of the oven.
"
Eff
is not a bad word, Mom," Dean said impishly, standing up so he could load up a plate with cookies and pumpkin bars.
"It is when I don't want the twins telling the kids at the playground to
eff
-off," she answered, using a spatula to move the hot cookies to the cool marble counter. "Madison, dear, would you like a glass of milk to go with your cookies?"
"Uh, sure," I answered, unaccustomed to having someone cater to me.
"I'll take one too, Mom," Dean said, plopping the plate of baked goods on the counter in front of me.
"I figured that, son," she said, pulling a jug of milk from the fridge. "So, Madison, Dean tells me you're going to join us for our Friday night chaos," she added, placing the tall glass of milk in front of me.
"Um, yeah, I guess, Mrs. Jackson," I said, shooting a look at Dean.
"Call me Sarah," she said, leaning on the counter across from us. "I'm making a roast and potatoes if that's okay."
"My mom makes the best roast," Dean said, rolling his eyes with pleasure.
"That sounds great," I said uncomfortably as they both watched me.
"Lovely. Dinner will be ready in an hour-and-a-half when your father gets home," she said. "I'll be in the twins' room. Wish me luck," she added, heading out of the kitchen.
Silence filled the kitchen following her departure. I struggled to take in my surroundings as Dean munched contently on the baked goods in front of us. I felt like I had fallen headfirst into one of the sitcoms I like to watch. Did people really live this way? Did they genuinely care what went on in each other's lives? It seemed all so foreign to me. This world was the polar opposite of mine.
"So, your mom is nice," I said, helping myself to a cookie.
"Yeah, she's pretty cool."
"What does she know about me?" I finally asked the question that was burning a hole in my stomach.
"What do you mean?" he asked with false vagueness.
"Cut the shit," I said, making a move to get up.
"They know what I know," he admitted, sighing. "Look,
Mads
, it's just the relationship I have with my parents. They pretty much know everything about me. I wanted them to understand why I like you," he said, grasping my hand. "Trust me, okay?" he implored.
"I'm just not used to this," I said quietly, sweeping my hands out to take in my homey surroundings. "I'm not used to people knowing everything about me.
"We'll wear you down, and before you know it you'll be an open book," he teased.
"I hope not," I thought, shuddering at the mere thought. His parents would
shit
a brick if they ever found out about my formative years. I should cut my losses now and head out before the warm smiles I'd been given were replaced with looks of disgust and concern for their son's well-being.
"How about a tour of the house?"
Dean asked, draining the last of his milk.
"I'm thinking maybe I should head home," I answered, edging toward the archway.
"I don't think so, slick," he said, reaching out to snag my hand.
"Sheesh, you're always manhandling me," I griped as he dragged me toward the hallway beyond the kitchen.
"Well, if you weren't always trying to dart off like some skittish rabbit, I wouldn't have to. Come on, I want to show you something anyway."
I grumbled under my breath about men and their hero complexes. My grumbles were cut short though as I took in the hallway walls.
"This is our family tree hall," he said, proudly pointing to the walls that ran along the hallway.
I gasped in awe, taking in the sight of the wall plastered in a sort of
mock wallpaper that was compr
ised of hundreds and hundreds of pictures. Someone had obviously taken great care to cut and piece each of the pictures together into a gigantic collage that lined the entire length of the wall, creating the most unique wallpaper I'd ever seen. It was like a work of art. Starting at one end, I slowly walked down the space, taking in each of the photos. There were pictures of birthdays, births, weddings, graduations, holidays and everything in between. Each chronicled section was situated in its own space, divided by three sets of doors on each side of the hall. Adorable pictures showed the twins visiting the Magic Kingdom and being held by Mickey Mouse. I caught a glimpse of a much younger Dean happily straddling the frame of an obviously brand-new bike. Another picture showed Dean with his arms around a girl that I knew by just looking at her must be his sister Trish. As I continued my way down the hall, I found countless pictures of Dean as they chronicled his life from birth to present.
Reaching the end of the hall, I turned around, making my way up the opposite wall. I'd never seen so many pictures in my life.
"What do you think?" Dean asked, stepping up beside me as I reached the end.
I shrugged, acting nonchalant, but the truth is, I had to swallow a large lump in my throat. I looked everywhere but his eyes.
"I didn't show you this to upset you," he said, once again seeing through me. "I wanted you to see what's on the other side of the coin. Not everyone lives like your mom. You could become
an
adult, get married and one day
display
your own family on your own walls."
It was as if he could see into my very soul. How did he know that I feared I would turn out like Donna? Death itself would be a welcome choice over turning out like her.
"Life is what you make it," he said quietly.
"Stop trying to psychoanalyze me," I replied to his shrewd analysis.
"I'm not," he denied, looking hurt as he took a step closer to me.
This was why I don't do the whole friend thing. People began to expect things and we're both bound to be disappointed.
"I just always feel like you're trying to save me," I said, trying to get past the anxiety I felt over his close proximity.
"Not save you. I just want to share things with you. I like you,
Mads
, more than I can ever remember liking anyone," he said, stepping even closer.
"You don't know me. You'd hate me if you knew the real me."
"I'm looking at the real you. Anything else was a facade. I don't care about facades. I only care about you," he whispered a breath from me.
My breath hitched. I knew he was going to kiss me. I needed to step away and break the trance that had gripped me. I couldn't kiss him, it wasn't allowed, but I couldn't get the words out. I felt myself leaning in as if we were two magnets that were drawn together.
"I can't kiss you," I pleaded.
"Okay," he said, placing his hands on my hips and dragging me even closer.
Everything in me hummed. This was so wrong. I'd buried this part of myself years ago.
"You don't have to kiss me, but I'm going to kiss you," he said, eyeing my lips.
All my excuses fled. I shouldn't want this, but I did. My eyes fluttered closed, giving him my silent consent.
A screeching yell shattered the moment as a small body barreled into us followed by another.
"Whoa, slow down, Things," Dean said, stopping their forward motion with his long arms.
"But Momma says we can have cookies," one of them wailed plaintively.
"That's fine, but no running. Got me?" he admonished.
Both nodded their heads simultaneously before racing back down the hall.