Liar, Liar

Chapter 16 - I Miss You

I'm lying in a blue, leather couch. It's kind of retro, old-style. In fact, the whole apartment is probably all bought at a second hand store. I don't have anything against it. Actually, I'm all for it. The mismatched chairs, the old wooden table with a long crack down the middle, the soft carpets. I never expected Dean's apartment to look like this. I thought it would be much more similar to Ashley's and not mine, but I guess I misjudged him in that way. Truth to be told, I misjudged him on several points. He's not some snobby rich-kid, nor a superficial jerk. He's the most down to earth person I know, save for Fern. He's great, he really is.

"Fuck," I hear from the kitchen, and then some more profanities. The clinking of glass and metal can be heard out into the living room where I am napping and the smell of burnt food reaches my nostrils, making me wrinkle my nose at the pungent smell. Even though Dean is a great boyfriend, he truly can't cook to save his life.

Groggily, I stand up from the couch and saunter over to the kitchen. Dean glances over at me regretfully. "You wanna order in?" he asks and I chuckle, walking over and wrapping my arms around him from the side.

"You're such a klutz."

He drops his head but I catch him smiling anyways, so I stand on my toes to kiss his cheek.

"Indian?"

He shakes his head in disgust and makes a grimace. "I can't stand Indian food."

"What?" To say I'm surprised would be an understatement. Who doesn't like Indian food?

"I said I don't like-"

"No, no, I heard you the first time." I move to stand in front of him. "What I want to know is what went wrong in your childhood?" I'm acting concerned as I stare into his eyes, holding onto his upper arms. I love Indian food. Apparently that doesn't mean Dean has to. He explains it away with something about the cafeteria at his middle school and how it scarred him and we end up ordering Chinese food instead, much to my disappointment.

The delivery guy arrives twenty minutes later, a thin, frail teen boy with zits that remind me of how glad I am not to be a teenager anymore. Dean pays generously and closes the door. "Smell that? That is the smell of very good Chinese food. Not Indian food," he teases, nudging me while I roll my eyes at him.

I plop down in one of the old armchairs as Dean sits on the couch. We eat mostly in silence, apart from the few remarks on the quite tasty take-out. The TV is on, Hell's Kitchen reruns playing so Gordon Ramsey's angry voice booms through the apartment.

All of a sudden my mind runs back a month, to the time when I was eating breakfast in Adam's apartment. I don't mean to, but suddenly, the smell of pancakes rush to my nose instead of the remaining burnt smell and the room changes shape and the colorful furniture of Dean's apartment is replaced by beige and brown, dark wood and glass tables. I'm in my underwear and the Chinese food is long gone. Adam looks at me from across the dining table, smiling over at me with his million-dollar grin. I smile back, the taste of his lips still lingering on mine from ten minutes ago. My heart feels warm – full. Full of happiness and I am content. There is nothing more that I could possibly want, except for that moment back. His bright eyes, his unruly eyebrows, the constant stubble on his chin, his great lips. Everything. All the way down to the small birthmark on his hip, a darker spot resembling the shape of nothing else than a blob. I miss the blob and I miss Adam.

I reach over to grab his hand, but in a split second the blue eyes are another shade of blue and the unruly eyebrows are another set of unruly eyebrows. The slight stubble grows longer and there are just normal lips. Now Dean smiles back at me and takes ahold of my outstretched hand. The room is again a disarray of all kinds of furniture and the smell of pancakes has disappeared. It smells burnt dinner again.