“Nah, I know how you love her,” he says, sounding a little bit more like himself. “Max is already there with his girl, so we’ll meet them there. Do you mind picking up something to eat? I don’t feel like cooking.”
Sirens wail in my head.
“Sure, Dean. I’ll come get you and we’ll pick something up on the way, okay?” I ask, trying to sound reassuring. I’m frowning down at my hand, ready to get my key in the ignition, sitting on the freezing cold leather seats of my car.
“Alright, I’ll see you in a bit,” he grunts, and I wonder what the hell is going on. I stop myself from calling Sera, from trying to figure out if they spoke with each other, if she knows what’s going on.
Oh, yeah, I dissolved that friendship and I’m stuck going it alone. Just like it’s always been.
I drive like an old lady to Dean’s, partly because I’m trying to figure out what to do about making him feel better without sex involved, and partly because I’ve been more vigilant when it comes to driving since I hit Dean last month. I mean, now that it’s happened, there’s more of a chance it will keep happening, and this isn’t a game of Grand Theft Auto.
I pull in front of his building, wondering if I should call him to come down, or double-park and hoof it up, but he’s actually making his way down the outer stairs and he looks worse than grim.
Shit, this is going to suck.
He’s also dressed in that black peacoat and he’s got, shit, shit, shit, a suit on. His hair looks wet even from this distance, and he’s wearing glasses, the frame silver and not those typical hipster glasses. He also looks like he hasn’t shaved in a week, and the unease I thought I had rationalized away on my drive over comes back with the force of a tsunami.
This is so going to suck. What’s happened that’s got him looking like that? Did one of the boys die?
I gasp when the thought ticker-tapes its way through my mind, and I didn’t think I could have tears in me for the death of a dog. But Potter, Kal and Pongo never hurt anyone and it all seems so unfair if they were to die. There’s so much shit in the world and it doesn’t make sense that the good is slowly being siphoned away.
Dean gets into the car without saying a word.
So this is how it’s going to go. Should I say something? What if it’s true, what if one of the dogs is dead?
“Hi,” I say, keeping my voice low. I turned off the radio because he looks like he can’t take the music right now.
“Hey, Kat,” he says, giving me a half-hearted wave. I want to smile, I want to laugh at the sight of it, because that’s Dean, being dorky and awkward but there’s something else I don’t know about yet and I don’t want to do something wrong.
“Just tell me where to go.”
Dean grunts, and gives me a sign to go straight. I follow his directions until he verbally tells me to find a parking spot. My hands are glued to the steering wheel and I really don’t want to get out.
Cemeteries skeeve me out. I don’t like the idea that I could step on someone, no matter what stage of decomposition they’re in.
I get out slowly, trying to keep calm, trying to do something for Dean when all I want to do is ask if I can stay in the car. I swallow down the creepiness factor and round my car, somehow forgetting how to walk and bumping into the nose. Really?
Dean waits for me, looking through me again, but he’s holding out his hand, waiting for me to grab it.
Oh, boy. Dear Virgin Mary, please help me help him. I’m going to need all your help on this. Amen.
He twines our fingers together and I try not to think about that.
He walks us into the cemetery, keeping pace with me by shortening his Viking strides. If he were feeling alright, he’d probably make a joke, but I’m grateful right now that the gravel path is packed well enough that I don’t feel like I’m going to snap an ankle in my heels, and the cold hitting my stockinged legs has me shivering.
The sky’s the color of ink, with tiny grain-of-sand-sized stars peeking through. The cemetery’s pretty well lit from the streetlights, and they somehow added potlights to the main path, lighting our way.
I squeeze Dean’s hand because this feels too much like a shitty horror movie.
His hand stays limp in mine, and the misery coming off of him has me swallowing past the tightness in my throat.
Christ, what is wrong with him? Who are we going to see?
“He’s over here,” he says, indicating with his chin that we need to turn right.
I keep my breath even as we walk onto the grass and I start sinking into the ground, and have horrible thoughts of decaying corpses’ dead, dead hands jutting through the earth to snatch at my ankles. I put all my weight on the balls of my feet after that, and stare dumbly at the only other couple, uh, two-person-group standing in front of a pristine white tombstone.