Heart Shaped Rock by Laura Roppe

trying to dispel my obvious confusion. “He’s the dude who sang ‘That’s Amore .’” His voice is matter-of-fact, informative, not judgmental at all. There’s absolutely no “duh” hidden in his tone. But I feel stupid nonetheless. And embarrassed about the hard time I gave him about his name when we first met. I try to think of how to apologize for my idiocy, how to tell him I’m sorry about his dad, but every phrase that pops into my head sounds like one of the rote condolences offered to me after Mom died.
    “I’m really sorry about that whole ‘James Dean’ thing,” I say. I feel like such an idiot.
    “You weren’t that far off, actually. My dad rode a motorcycle. That jacket I wear was his. Maybe I am just trying to be someone else, after all... ” He sighs deeply and the usual twinkle in his eye vanishes for just a moment. He looks down at the table.
    I clear my throat, trying to suppress the emotions rising there. “I’m sorry about your dad,” I say feebly.
    Dean looks back up at me. Candlelight flickers across his face. He is utterly, totally, completely, thoroughly, absolutely gorgeous. He reaches across the table and touches my hand, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end.
    “Thanks.” He exhales. “That’s more than enough about me. I swear I never talk this much. Please, shut me the hell up. Tell me about you.”
    I purse my lips and look at him for a moment. “What do you want to know?”
    “Well, why don’t you tell me about your family?”
    My pulse quickens and my palms become sweaty. I’ve been Cinderella tonight and I don’t want to break the spell. Tonight, I’m Dean’s “hot date,” his “girl in yellow.” Tonight, I’m the kind of girl who waltzes across dance floors and laughs with abandon and talks about cool indie bands while scarfing down Chinese food—not the kind of girl who rolls around on the bathroom floor, howling in agony and pulling on her hair. I don’t want Dean, of all people, to look at me with some kind of half-baked pity in his eyes.
    “Well,” I begin. “Hmm.” I twist my mouth. “There’s not a whole lot to say. My family’s just kind of”—I pause, trying to come up with the right word—“normal.”
    Dean smirks. “There’s no such thing.”
    “Yeah, there is,” I insist, a little too forcefully. “We’re just normal.” I settle confidently into that word. “Totally normal. Nothing special to report, just your typical family. My dad’s an architect. He designs skyscrapers and office buildings and stuff. And he surfs.”
    “He sounds like a cool dude.”
    “Yeah, he is. And I’ve got a little brother. He’s totally emo. He writes these über heartfelt songs on his guitar, and he makes ‘sick’ beats on his computer. Oh, and he’s really into dragons.”
    “He sounds cool, too.”
    “Oh God, no. Lennox is definitely not cool.”
    Dean smiles.
    I pause.
    For the first time tonight, there’s an awkward silence. I expect Dean to fill it, but he doesn’t. He just looks at me.
    “And my mom... ” I finally say.
    Dean’s expression is encouraging.
    My throat is dry. “My mom is... a singer-songwriter.”
    “Oh?” Dean sounds surprised.
    I nod.
    “Wow.”
    I find my voice. “Yeah, the Dixie Chicks recorded a song she wrote.”
    “Well, that’s definitely not normal.”
    “I mean, it wasn’t a big hit or anything, but... ”
    He waits a beat, as if he expects me to say something more. When I don’t, he asks, “So, she writes country songs, huh?”
    “Yeah, she always says country songs come the easiest to her. She tells me to write whatever songs come the easiest to me. Don’t fight it or overthink it.”
    “Good advice.”
    “And she’s an incredible singer, too. Her voice has so much depth, so much swagger, it’s like... ” I trail off. I can’t continue. A lump the size of a golf ball has lodged in my throat.
    Dean shifts in his seat. “Are you a country singer, too?”
    I need a