A/N: Hey guys, I know it's been awhile. Again. I know this must me excruciating, becuase presonally I hate waiting (specifically for this one story Ten Kisses by freak.on.a.leash.13, which I recommend highly to any Lily/James fans.) Anyway, back on subject: This is only one chapter, but it's long... or, at least, it looked long on Word, but it always seems to look longer there than here. I do have the next chapter written out, but I need to type it up still. And I thought this whole part was better posted alone, for dramatic purposes. But I'll try to get it out soon.

And I'd really like to get some reviews, becuase there are a lot of views and favorites and everything, so I know there's people who acctually can do it. One gal in particular, Four and Twenty Blackbirds, has been awesome. Thanks, and I'll go ahead and stop boring you with the dang author's notes...

7. Dinner and a Show

"I'll see you, Dean." I sat in my car, which was idling noisily, as he walked around the front. The mall parking lot was almost quiet. Well, there's a first for everything.

"See you-," he stopped suddenly, and took a few steps backwards, so that he was standing next to the driver's window, his head almost level with mine. "Hey, Cole… d'you want to go to dinner, with me, tonight?"

For the second time that day, I bit my lip to hold back a smile. After waiting a few seconds, mostly for dramatic purposes – hey, I didn't skip out on art for nothing – I answered softly, "Okay." And, I made sure I sounded like I had put loads of thought into it… and not screamed "YES. YES! YESS," like my head had been doing ever since he said the word 'dinner'.

"I'll see you at seven," he smiled, and walked away. It was minutes before I even realized that he didn't know where I lived, or before I even moved, for that matter.

Dean pulled up to my house in a forest green Mini. Of course he had a Mini, all British people had Minis. It was cute, though.

I pretended I hadn't seen him yet; pretended I hadn't been staring desperately out the window for the past half hour. I mean, seriously, how pathetic would that be?

And I waited to hear the doorbell before I even glanced at the stairs, because if I looked, I'd go. Running. I walked past my sister's room (more Avril), my parent's room (TV, loud TV), and around the kitchen ("Honey, there's a boy at the door. Hey, Nicole, where are you going?").

Upon reaching the living room I muttered a response, making up a story subconsciously. I dodged the tan couch easily and opened the door.

Dean was on the bottom step, but had started to move his hand to ring the bell again, which meant his arm slightly brushed against mine, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. He was wearing jeans and a tan sweater with elbow-length sleeves – admittedly, a little warm for August, but incredibly cute nonetheless.

"M'lady," he smiled, almost mockingly, as he held open the passenger door for me first. I stepped in, crouching slightly to fit under the doorframe.

"Nice car," was all I replied, smirking. I fought the urge to laugh as he walked around the front of the tiny car, snapping rhythmically. Dean got in, turned on the ignition and pulled on his seatbelt. I copied him (save the whole ignition bit).

"Well, don't you look lovely," it was more a statement than question, so I just kept quiet. But again there was a kind of teasing air about Dean as his eyes swept over me. He made a U-turn in Embry's driveway and drove out toward the main street.

"What?" I looked down curiously. I had on a gray tanktop, jeans, and black heels.

He threw me a skeptical glance and I retorted, "Hey, no one told me where we're going, so don't complain. And," I waved my hand, indicating his heavy-looking sweater, "I don't know if you've noticed, but it just so happens to be August, Mr… er – Sweatery."

Dean just smiled again, turning right. He smiled far too much. Then I realized I was smiling.

Embarrassed for reasons I'm not even going to think about thinking, I glanced out the window. The sky was a pinkish-blue with just a hint of purple clouds. It was seven-fifteen at the most, and the sun was already setting. This just seemed to be proof that my summer was ending. I suddenly felt the child-like urge to stick my stick my tongue out at the quickly-disappearing sun.

It was just - I finally thought the things that had been running through my mind constantly, but only now turning them into words - I felt like everything and everyone was changing. Except me. Same old Cole. And I really needed to do something about that. Soon.

Dean took a left (on a red light, I might add. While I wasn't exactly a Momma's Girl, I had always followed in my mom's religious attempt to abide by traffic-laws.) I sent him a darting look, which he either didn't see or chose to ignore.

Oh, and, by the way, forget I just said 'Momma's Girl'. That'll give you a good bunch of dreams.

Looking back out the window, I saw we were in a Market Place full of cafés, diners, fancy restaurants, and ice-cream parlors. And a Shave It – you gotta love Shave It. Most of the shops were surrounded by bright, green, fake grass. A massive fountain was wedged in the center, and a cobbled patio about ten yards wide surrounded it. Dean pulled into a parking space under a big willow; the Cooper was small enough that the branches – which could easily rest on the windshield of any normal-sized car – barely scratched the roof. We got out and Dean walked me to a café/ expensive looking restaurant. The hostess guided us outside to a cherry wood table with a red umbrella towering over it. The ground was cobblestone here as well, and it blended right into the larger stones around the fountain. Dean smiled and handed the waitress a Louisiana quarter. He was tipping her already? He must think she's pretty… wait, he's on a date with me… rude much?

The waitress must have been thinking along the same lines as me, because, for a second, a confused, blushing expression froze on the girl's face, and she looked like she was stuttering mutely. It was funny to watch.

A moment later, though, she cleared her expression, poured us water, and hurried away, stealing glances at Dean over her shoulder.

"So, about that…" I started, trying not to sound outraged.

"You mean the quarters, I assume. Thought you might ask, everyone does at some point," Dean paused, considering me. After a few seconds, however, he said, "I collect them. And then I give them to people that I find interesting. But, you see, I give all of my, er, 'victims' a different coin, depending on which of your lovely states they remind me of. That waitress over there, for example, made me think of New Orleans. So she got Louisiana," he pronounced 'Louisiana' extremely Britishly, making me giggle a little. Deam seemed finished, and I was about to reply when he casually added, "and also it is immensely brilliant watching people's responses."

Dean seemed to speak like an American most the time – not accent-wise, but phrase-wise – but there were also the more-than-occasional moments when his English-ness was absurdly obvious. And absurdly funny, to me, at least. I did sort of agree though, no matter how weird his little habit was, that his latter comment was right: the look on our waitresses face was picture- perfect.

And then she was back, equipped with a pair of menus this time. She handed Dean his first, and then turned to me. Her eyes held a grudgy, jealous air about them, and she calmly thrust the laminated menu at my face. Or did so as calmly as one could thrust anything.

"Thank you," I challenged. I don't really know why, it wasn't something I'd have usually done, but it was… fun.

"Oh, you're welcome," the waitress replied, sarcastically. She seemed to be trying really hard not to roll her eyes. Eventually she turned back to Dean, "Can I get you anything to drink?"

"Mm, yes. A diet Coke, please," Dean replied slowly, curiously raising an eyebrow at me. I felt myself blush, and looked back down at the menu.

"Water," I muttered to what I could imagine was a mock-politely posed waitress. I heard her leave and continued to focus my eyes on a random spot on the menu. Reggae Lasagna, Reggae Lasagna, Reggae La –

"You were waiting for me at the tonight, weren't you?" Dean interrupted my train of thought. When I looked up he was still eyeing me suspiciously.

"Uh… no…," It really didn't sound that reassuring.

He smiled, winning. "I saw you looking out the window," he explained.

"But then," his smile seemed to grow both wider and smaller, if that was possible, "I do remember waiting outside the door for a rather long stretch of time."

Luckily – luckily, because I had no dignified answer, not because I was extremely happy to see her – the waitress returned once again and set our drinks down heavily – and ice cube plopped out of Dean's and the lemon slice fell off mine,

She ignored this and took a leather-covered pad out of her kilt/apron-thing.

"What can I get you guys?"

"Barbequed steak, medium-rare. French fries," Dean answered confidently, also answering all of the normal meal questions before she could ask. The waitress nodded at me.

"Um," I ran my eyes down the page, "Reggae Lasagna."

"Side?"

"Salad."

"Ten to fifteen minutes," said the waitress in a voice like a secretary would use to say 'Please hold'. She turned on her heel and stalked off.

After what I can suffice to say was an extended awkward silence, I made an attempt. Courageous, I know.

"So… tell me about… you."

Oh my, even Chuck Norris would be proud.

"Wha- Oh… I moved here from London about, say, four years ago. I have a little brother, who spends a good portion of his life on the computer. As you know, I collect quarters… hmm. Art is my favorite elective… not that you'd care too much…," his eyes flickered to mine as he said that, checking, as if to see if I really did, "and my dad moved out 'bout two years ago to live with our old maid. What about you?"

I was a little blown away, but I didn't push anything. Instead I said, "Uh. I've lived here for, like, ever. My best friend, Embry – I think she was in your art class last year, you signed her – uh, nevermind. I have a little sister who scares me a good half the time, and… and my parents don't really talk. I can stand change, but not all that much at the same -," but I stopped, changing directions, "I like sitting by random people on planes. Something about… they're stealing looks at you, you're observing them. It's so anonymous, you know?" I paused and he nodded smartly, "And then, sometimes they'll talk to you; open up completely. Because it's like, they'll never see you again, anyway… but then, other people don't say a thing the whole way, but you catch a glimpse of what they're reading… or drawing, or writing, or whatever…" I trailed off quickly, realizing how deep I was getting. Blushing, I fidgeted with the navy blue napkin in my lap.

"Really, do you?" asked Dean. "I hate flying."

And before I could stop myself, as if I hadn't embarrassed myself enough already, I muttered, "Well, they say opposites attract."

I looked away again, internally smacking myself in the head repeatedly with an imaginary hosepipe.

But Dean still seemed seriously interested, "Okay," he laughed.

"Oh."

I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear and stared intensely at the dead fly in my water glass, resting my chin in my hand. It had gotten dark, so dark that even this close to Los Angeles more than the usual few stars could be seen. It was terrible how all those big lights concealed all these tiny ones. The moon was almost full, and it was brightly reflected in the clear fountain water. Couples sat around the edge of the fountain, talking… kissing… dancing.

As if following my gaze exactly, Dean seemed to be physically struck by an idea. "Do you want to dance?"

"I don't…" I stuttered, but he was already pulling me up and over to the patio around the fountain.

"Everyone dances. Now follow my lead."

Dean started off easy, though he didn't seem to mind much. After a while, he started getting to a normal pace – one that actually went along with the soft, classical rhythm playing quietly in the plaza.

Many foot-stampings and hastily muttered 'sorry's later, I was spinning, laughing, stepping, with one are loosely flung around Dean's neck, and the other in his firm grip. Dean's other hand was rested lightly on my hip (gulp/sigh.)

I twirled under his arm again, fast, and catching glances of water, stone, fake grass, and dark, bright (I know, what?) sky, I felt totally… free.

Dean ended the spin with a melodramatic dip.

God, the above seen is from a cheesy romance novel. Or a fairy tale. That's what my life felt like right then: a story.