Page 22 of Until Next Time

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Dawsen stands on the sidewalk and slides his hands into his pockets, and stands there, staring, watching me drive away. I can’t help but look in my rear view mirror as I pull away, wishing I could just love him the way I’ve always wanted.

Dawsen

This fucking day.

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The last couple weeks have probably been the first weeks I’ve actually really looked forward to anything, and I didn’t even care how pathetic it was that I just looked forward to being aroundherall day. So when I came down from my apartment this morning and she wasn’t there, I just deflated. I asked Greg for her number, only because I knew he had it. He gave me a suspicious look but didn’t question me any further, I was thankful for that at least.

When she called me on Stephanie coming by last week, all I wanted to do was defend myself and explain that the only reason she was there was to pick up a box of her things because I broke off whatever it was that had been going on—I decided to not even acknowledge it. I hate the thought of her thinking that I’m sleeping around with anyone, let alone Stephanie, but I don’teven know what it matters, we aren’t anything to each other. But it still bothers me.

I felt so much relief when I saw her walk in. She looked so beautiful, and she had this lightness about her today. I couldn’t put my finger on it exactly, but she just had a glow. Even though she didn’t give me the time of day, I selfishly just loved getting to look at her all day, humming to whatever she was listening to, just watching her exist, being so good at what she’s doing.

Then Max had to waltz in and fuck up the day entirely.

Max is an old buddy of mine, and he’s a nice guy, don’t get me wrong. But I don’t want him anywhere near Birdie. The guy is a tool. He used to brag about how many chicks he got at summer camp every year. Girls have always been a game to him, and even in his 30s, nothing has changed. And okay, I’ll admit that my past isn’t much better, but at least I’m aware of being an asshole in my 20s, he’s oblivious and thinks he can get any girl he sets his eyes on, and I don’t want Birdie falling victim to him.

When I saw him talking to her inmywinery, I felt my blood start to boil. It took everything in me to not go over there and punch him square in the face. I have absolutely no right to feel this level of jealousy, but here we are.

I had every intention of asking Birdie if she agreed to a date with Max when I was walking her to her car, but I froze. I couldn’t formulate any sort of conversation that wouldn’t be laced with envy.

I reach into my shower and turn the knob to the perfect amount of heat and let it warm up. My apartment isn’t anything fancy, but I did renovate my bathroom before I moved in—it was super outdated and needed a good refresh. I chose dark blues, and nickel finishes. I wanted something modern and masculine.

I set my phone down on my counter as I peel off my clothes from the day when I see my phone light up.

I grab my phone and open up my messages. A notification from Birdie Banks comes up on my screen. It’s a picture. I swipe open and see a selfie of her, sitting up in her bed with a book that I can’t quite make out the name of, and a glass of red wine. She has red glasses on and her hair is up in a messy bun and I think I’m short circuiting at the sight. I’m standing in my bathroom, undressed, staring at a picture of my best friend’s little sister. Again, this day is fucked.

Birdie:You’re right. This wine is smoooooth.

Me:I knew you’d like it. Nice glasses, nerd.

Birdie:I didn’t choose the blind life. It chose me.

Me:Do you wear contacts?

Birdie:Yes, Dawsen. I wear contacts. I cannot see shit.

Me:Well… I like the glasses.