He repeats the notes, and I can understand why he can’t get it out of his head. It’s pretty, and I tell him so. My compliment draws up a smile, but at the same time he hunches his shoulders, which makes him look smaller and his eyes flick in all directions but mine. He usually has no trouble accepting a compliment, but I’m starting to see that his music is a sensitive subject for him.
“Do you have lyrics to go along with it?”
He starts strumming again, looking at his fingers.
“Nah, I’m feeling the notes, I’m not sure about the words. I want to get this perfect first before I find the words to go along with it. Maybe it’ll be perfect without words. I don’t know yet. The song will tell me.”
He sounds like me when I talk about writing. It’s like there’s some outer almighty being that takes control over the inspiration, and we’re just its instruments. I like seeing Dean so focused and striving to improve himself. It’s better than when I see him working in the kitchen. Sure, he’s passionate about food, but seeing him play with his guitar is something else entirely. He should be doing something that makes him this happy for a living. I just understand the struggle to want to do something that not many people can do and make a living of. I’m suddenly eternally grateful someone noticed my writing and took a chance on me, even when I didn’t believe in myself.
“Why did you become a chef?” I ask him and he looks up with a surprised look on his face. His blue eyes stare into my soul and I can almost physically grab the connection between us. The moment breaks when he looks away and starts playing again.
“I was never great at school, I’m not that much of a study. Things just don’t interest me enough to really grab me. I don’t see the use of knowing the exact dates of stuff that happened in history. And I’ll never, ever, understand the use of the Pythagorean theorem, even if Miss Julie swore to me I would use it all the time as an adult.”
He finishes the melody he’s playing, and sets his guitar aside as he walks back to the table I’m sitting at, also taking a seat.
“I do, however, understand how to use my hands. I like creating things and I like making people happy. Maybe that’s why I like playing guitar. But food does the same for me. I can take these ingredients and can make people experience something. It’s like some sort of magic. I can make them taste and smell things and bring back memories they don’t even realize they’ve got.”
The way he cooks when he’s in the kitchen of Roots when I observed him doesn’t even get close to the passion he’s expressing about food while sitting next to me. My eyes search for his, before I face my fears of overstepping and speak my mind.
“What happened?”
His eyes break the connection we have as he looks down at his hands.. It’s how I presume I look when I’m too scared to speak my mind. Maybe I’m just projecting, but as the silence continues I become more sure of my assessment. The tough man act he has going on disappears before my eyes, until there’s a fragile boy sitting next to me. All of his confidence has disappeared, his shoulders are slacking and his eyes are searching mine, a desperation in them. Sure, he’s not physically changing. He’s still big and huge and strong and Dean as I know him, but emotionally we’ve breached a barrier.
“Life happened. And everything changed and it changed the magic of the kitchen.”
His eyes seem emptier than they were before, and it makes me want to grab him and protect him. Which would be hilarious, me protecting him.
“Working at Roots is fine, but it’s not the fine cuisine I could be making. And that’s okay. I love working at Roots and I love working with Shelby. Especially now that I’m going to be an uncle, which you totally should’ve told me about by the way.” His eyes light up as he mentions his sister’s pregnancy. “But I think I’ve lost my magic goggles, and now I can only see the same plain colors all non-believers can see.”
For someone who says he doesn’t have a way with words, he sure knows how to use them. I scootch over to him, pressing the side of my body to his, wanting to provide him with some comfort. The twinkle in his eyes at the mention of being an uncle is hopeful though. I want to see that spark in him more often, as it ignites a fire in me that warms me.
Shelby had caved a few days ago and told her brother she’s pregnant. From what I heard, Dean got really excited and went into overbearing brother mode. He made Shelby sit down a lot more and she couldn’t go on smoke breaks anymore, which got her really mad, because that was her nap time.
“That’s sad,” I say as I grab his hand and tangle my fingers through his. “You deserve all the magic you want in your life.”
He shrugs and scratches the back of his neck with his free hand.
“I’ve got an idea,” I say as I give him a mischievous look.
He eyes me questioningly.
“Let’s go buy some food to make something magical for dinner.”
“Aren’t you supposed to write?”
“It’s not happening today. The magic is gone. Or something like that.”
“I’ll only do it on one condition…”
I squint my eyes. “What?”
“You don’t get to cook. Because you’re a shit chef.”
I snort. Yeah, I am.
As we step out of the store with bags full of all kinds of ingredients I’ve never even heard of, we run into Meggy in her work clothes, who’s standing out back talking to one of her co-workers, as she’s obviously just got out of work.
“Morgan! Deanster!” She waves goodbye to her co-worker and comes rushing over to us. I look at Dean and ask him a question without voicing it. Deanster? What the hell. It manages to get a smile on my face nonetheless. Sometimes Meggy reminds me of a puppy chihuahua. She’s full of nervous energy and rules the world. She makes up for having this tiny body by her freaking huge attitude. And if you wrong her, she’ll bark at you until your ears start bleeding.