Page 49 of Ablaze

But . . . had I imagined that moment when he dropped me onto his bed? Was there something different about the way his fingers felt on my waist–the warm press of them under my sweatshirt, sending currents zipping down to my core–or the way his breathing stuttered, as if he was afraid to exhale? Did I imagine the sheer millimeters of space between our lips or the way his usual pools of blue took on something darker altogether?

The room was dark, so I probably did.

But it was after I told him I was moving in with Warren that everything seemed to change. At least, for a while, until he came back and started dating Jessie again. I guess they must have made amends about her situation with her brother, but I haven’t pried.

I’m just happy that things finally seem to be normal between us again.

I pull Dean into the living room by his hand. “Look who’s finally here, everyone!”

The rest of the group greets him with handshakes and hugs. Even Warren gets up to give Dean a quick handshake before I strategically place myself next to Warren. I know he’s still upset, but I’m hoping the rest of the night will distract him.

“That’s some serious bling you’re sporting there, munch.” My brother rocks the baby in his arms, tilting his head toward my wrist. “Which jewelry store did you rob?”

My face heats as everyone’s eyes turn toward me. Everyone, including Dean. He quickly averts his gaze when my eyes collide with his, taking a sip of his beer. My smile wobbles slightly when I look from Warren to my brother. “Yeah, thanks. It was a gift from Warren, so you should ask him.”

Warren flashes everyone a smile, raising his hands in a surrendering gesture. “If you see news of a masked man–roughly six feet tall and a hundred-eighty-five pounds–it wasn’t me.”

Everyone laughs, and I’m thankful that, for his few faults, at least being surly in public isn’t one of them.

Dean, however . . . he looks like that beer is souring his stomach.

As everyone catches up, sitting around the family room with slices of cake in their hands–or in Malcolm’s case, a sleepy Sage since my brother handed him over to go get another beer from the kitchen–I track Dean making his way out the front door. He’s left his phone on the fireplace ledge where he was sitting, so I know he won’t go too far.

“Yo! This party’s gettin’ serious now!” Rohan hollers, startling Sage in Malcolm’s arms. He winces when Samantha gives him a look, taking the baby from Malcolm. He lowers his voice. “I was just sayin’ this party is about to get serious if Dean brings his guitar.”

I swing my gaze back over to the foyer where Dean is taking off his shoes. He saunters back through the living room with his guitar and takes the same spot at the ledge of the fireplace. Positioning his fingers on the strings, he plucks them strategically, creating a hush in the room. A shiver runs down my arms and legs as each note travels to the bottoms of my feet.

He rarely plays in public, but I’ve been lucky enough to hear him practice here and there when I’ve hung out with him at his place. Still, it’s been well over two years since I’ve even seen him pick up his guitar.

My eyes are affixed to him–the way his long fingers wrap around the neck of his guitar, the way his thick lashes almost kiss his cheeks while he adjusts his fingers, the way his sleeves are rolled up, showing off the sexiest forearms I’ve ever seen.

It’s not until Warren throws his arm over my shoulder on the couch, pulling me to his side, that I even remember I’m not the only one in the room.

Dean clears his throat before tucking a strand of his long hair behind his ear. “Uh, I didn’t get you a present.” At this, Warren shifts next to me, surely trying to emphasize what he said in the kitchen to me earlier. “But I’ve been working on something. It’s not Miley Cyrus . . .” He smirks when his crystal-clear blue eyes take me in from across the room. They’ve always looked like faceted diamonds to me. “But hopefully you still like it.”

The first notes to Drive by Incubus drift from his guitar, making a few of our friends whoop in excitement, and I’m enraptured instantly. Dean’s throaty rumble rings out above the melody, and it’s as if I’ve been transported somewhere else entirely while he sings.

It’s a song that’s always held meaning for me. It became my favorite in my teenage years when I was looking for something to ground me.

For years after the accident, I let my fears guide me, too–fear of being in enclosed places, fear of smelling something burning, fear of even looking at my charred skin and reliving the horror all over again. But this song became the anthem for my recovery.

My healing.

Yes, I still have a ways to go–I always will–with accepting myself exactly the way I am, but I’m miles from where I used to be.

I’m so submerged in Dean’s crooning voice that I don’t even realize tears have soaked my cheeks until one drops on my wrist, splashing over the bracelet. Startled, I look at Warren. I think I’d already felt his eyes on my face, gauging, judging. Assuming.

A frown pulls at his mouth, and before I can place my hand over his, he gets up and walks away.

Everyone whoops once Dean stops singing, but I can’t seem to move from my spot. A heavy hum floats in the air from the last chord Dean played, overpowering any other noise, including the way my heart beats out of rhythm.

My eyes keep gravitating toward him and it seems his don’t stray far from mine, either. We’re in a moment of locked connection–speaking a language only we seem to understand–when the front door opens and a slightly nasal Southern accent fills the room.

“Well, I’ll be!” Jessie’s eyes linger on Dean before moving to meet mine. Her smile falters slightly as she ambles inside, and I rise to my feet, wondering if she saw the way we were both lost in each other. The question in her gaze seems to suggest that perhaps she did.

She pulls me into a hug. “Happy birthday, hon!” She looks around at everyone, waving to a few people. “Looks like a great shindig!”

“It is. I’m glad you were able to make it.” I try to sound convincing.

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