He looks down. “They’re all movie directors.”
“Well, obviously,” I say, glad we’ve moved past my conversational glitch. “I mean, do you make them?”
“Dress for the job you want, not the job you have,” he answers, which isn’t really an answer at all. But I get what he means.
“You should make a Hitchcock one,” I say, filled with an overwhelming desire to touch him in some way.
“He’s your favorite, right?”
“I mean, he’s kinda messed up. But brilliant.” I take another sip. It doesn’t taste as bad this time, like my senses have been dulled. “Are any of them women? I just realized you don’t wear any women.”
“Wearing women. Sounds a bit Silence of the Lambs, don’t you think?”
“I’m serious.”
“I only wear my favorites.”
I want to say something about that, but he’s standing so close to me that I can see the freshly shaved stubble on his jaw, can almost feel his warm breath. I don’t want to challenge him and ruin the fizzling magic of this moment.
“Okay, how about Collins?”
“You’re a director?” He raises his eyebrows, an expression I hope means he’s impressed.
“I might be,” I say. “Someday. And then you can put me on your shirt.”
“Well, let me know when the time comes,” he says, leaning toward me, his voice low. “Because you’ll definitely be one of my favorites.”
“Okay.” I can tell I’m smiling like crazy, but I can’t help it. I feel clumsy, alight from his words. I put the bottle down on top of the dresser and notice a pile of photographs, in disarray as if someone has carelessly dropped them there. “What are these?”
I pick up the first picture in the pile and look at it before it can cross my mind that it might be personal. It’s a woman, slim and beautiful, with long dark hair and a wide smile. She looks like someone you’d want to tell secrets to over a steaming mug of tea.
“Oh, that’s my mom,” he says, scratching the stubble on his face.
“Sorry.” I put the photograph back down on the dresser. “Are these private? I didn’t mean to look. I just—”
“It’s no big deal,” he says, picking it back up. He smiles, running a finger down the side of her glossy face. “I took these when I was home over Christmas break. I don’t get to see her much, so it’s kind of nice to have these.” He picks up another photograph, this one a German shepherd, tongue flopping out the side of its mouth. “They’re like tiny stand-ins for my family. Sometimes when I’m, like . . . lonely or stressed or whatever, I’ll talk to them. Is that corny? Sorry, that’s pretty corny.” His face turns an adorable red color. “I’ve clearly had too much whiskey if I’m telling you these things.”
“It’s not corny,” I say. “It’s sweet.” I want to reach a hand up and run it through his tousled hair, but I keep my arms firmly by my sides.
“To be honest, I miss Charlie the most.” He grins. “He’s the dog.”
“That’s my friend’s ex-boyfriend’s name, actually. Charlie. He’s a Death Eater.” I press my lips together as soon as I’ve said it because oh my god Dean is going to think I’m idiotic. He doesn’t seem like the type to appreciate a Harry Potter reference.
Luckily he laughs. “Really? Hmm, well, this Charlie is more of a shoe eater. And a furniture eater. And sometimes even his own shit.”
“Glad Hannah’s ex didn’t do that,” I say. I have to get us back on track. How do I keep leading us into the least sexy conversations of all time? I look back at the pictures. “What’s your mom like?” I just want to know everything about him, wrap myself up in the details of his life like a blanket.
“She’s a badass,” he says. “Raised my brother and me on her own.”
“I like her.” I pick up her picture, standing it vertically on the dresser as if it has little legs. “Hi, Dean,” I say in a high-pitched voice, wiggling the picture to make it talk. “You should clean your room. It’s a mess.” I’m surprising myself, acting silly like this. I’ve been so reserved in front of Dean so far, so nervous, like every interaction between us is a test I need to pass. Maybe it’s the sips of whiskey working their way through me, warming me from my chest to my toes. Maybe it’s the change in location. I’m so very aware of his bed only a few feet away from us. We’ve never been truly alone before, not like this. I wonder briefly if he locked the door when we came in. I didn’t notice.
“I shouldn’t be drinking in front of my mom,” he says, picking up the bottle of Maker’s Mark. “She wouldn’t approve.” He takes a sip anyway and then hands it over to me.
“Well, then I probably shouldn’t drink either. I want to make a good impression on her.”
He puts a hand over her face, shielding her eyes. “Coast is clear.”
I giggle, feeling light and airy. Then, horribly, I snort. I feel heat flood through me. Snorting in front of my friends is one thing, but this is James Dean. I have always tried so hard to limit my awkward bodily noises in front of boys.
“Did you just snort?”
“Nope,” I say, and then take a drink from the bottle. “So what do you say when you talk to them? The pictures.”
“If you don’t snort, then I don’t talk to pictures,” he answers, grinning. He runs a hand through his dark mess of hair and I watch it enviously.
“Fine,” I say. “I may have snorted. What do you say?”
“Give me another drink first.”
I hand him the bottle and he takes a sip, smacking his lips dramatically when he’s done. Then he puts it back on the dresser and picks up the picture of his mom. He clears his throat and then winks at me. Winking is usually something people do in cheesy movies, but seeing James Dean, a normal, cute, definitely-not-cheesy guy, wink at me makes it feel new, like he’s the one who invented it.
He grins, looking at me and then down at the picture of his mom. For a moment—just a flash—I’m filled with embarrassment that I asked him to do something so silly, so awkward and personal. Why did I think this was a good idea? Then he begins to speak and my anxiety melts away at the warm, easy tone in his voice. He isn’t embarrassed. Of course he isn’t.
“Mom, how’s it going?” he says to the picture. “You’re looking fantastic, really sepia-toned. Please don’t judge my behavior at the moment.” He glances away from the photo to look at me, his gaze locking on to mine. “Because I am drinking, and I have a pretty girl in my room, and I might kiss her.”