Page 27 of Until Next Time
He’s scanning the road ahead looking for the entrance, and I muster up a chuckle and sarcastically retort, “Sounds good, babe…” As I draw out the word. Max reaches over the console and gives my knee a squeeze, not picking up on my tone, as he simultaneously spins the wheel and pulls up to the valet. I offer him a polite smile, “I’m excited to try this place!” “You’re going to love it.” He winks and shifts his shiny car into park. I shuffle around the floor looking for my purse. Once I’ve got it slungover my shoulder, Max made his way to my door, opening it and reaching his hand out for me to grab. I do so, reminding myself that he’s super attractive, very kind, and so far has done all the right things, aside from the pet names.
Max gives me a smirk and quite literally tosses his keys to the valet guy, exactly like you’d see in a movie, and I know I should be impressed, so I chuckle and say, “Nice toss.” He winks at me as his hand finds the small of my back as he leads me to the entrance of the restaurant, I take a deep breath, push all my thoughts aside, and decide to give this date my best shot. Because he deserves that at least, and so do I.
* * *
We’ve finished our entrees and have just ordered dessert when Max excused himself from the table to use the restroom. I pull my phone from my purse and see a text message from Dawsen. My heart speeds, my fingers frantic to swipe open the message.
I think an audible gasp slips through my lips when I click open the message and see a photo of Dawsen with a cocky grin spread across his face with his hand held up to show my panties hanging on the tip of his fingers. They must have fallen off the counter when I was throwing everything into my bag. I can’t help but laugh and also feel absolutely mortified.
Dawsen: I think you forgot something.
Me: Oh. My. God.
Me: Set those down! You are holding my panties!!!
Dawsen: I’ve held worse things. ;)
Me: Dawsen Jones. You are shameless.
Dawsen: Why are you texting me? The date that bad?
Me: He’s in the bathroom, and you’re the one texting me.
Dawsen: Well, I just didn’t want you worrying about the whereabouts of your panties.
Me: Please can you stop saying panties?
Me: Okay, he’s coming back. Bye.
20
Dawsen
I couldn’t sleep a single minute last night because I was way too fucking consumed with thoughts of Birdie and Max and what they were doing, where she was at, and if she had spare panties or if she wasn’t wearing any at all, and if she was laughing at his jokes, and how I could just punch him square in the face for even looking at her.
I finish lacing up my running shoes and use my thumb and my middle finger to press into my eyelids, willing myself to stand up and run these thoughts out of my head. I know I shouldn’t have texted her while she was on a date, and I definitely shouldn’t have sent her a selfie while holding her left behind panties—I know it’s messed up—but I wanted to be on her mind while she was withhim. And imagine my surprise when I wentto take a shower and see the red lace thong on the floor of my bathroom.
* * *
While Birdie was living in the city, living her own life, away from me, it was easier to compartmentalize my feelings. To put them in a little box, lock it up, and hide the key. They’ll always be there, just sitting, waiting for me to release them, but now that she’s here, whirling about my business, my life, she’s all encompassing, and I’ve not even unlocked that metaphorical box. She’s got that power over me. I’m down bad, and I’m not even sorry about it. I just don’t know what to do with it.How about quit being a pussy and just make some moves.My internal monologue is brutal, and I won’t let myself do that. Ever.
* * *
My jog turned into a breezy, fucking freezing 6 miles. My fingers are frozen, I can’t feel my ears. And my face hurts. Perfect. Just the type of torture I like—controlled.
I’m rounding the corner of my building, looking down at my watch when I run straight into Birdie. Like, with force. Her face, meeting my chest, and her coffee, hitting the ground, splashing all over her white leather cowgirl boots.
“Oh my shit, I’m so sorry Dawsen!” She says, flustered, wiping my shirt with her hands, attempting to wipe off the slosh of coffee that landed on me.
I can’t help but let out a breathy chuckle at her attempt that is doing absolutely nothing to clean the mess, other than maybeeven making it worse, and I’m also not complaining, as I watch her dainty fingers splayed across my stomach.
“Good morning, Birdie Banks. Fancy seeing you here.” I say through a smile, as I look down at her. She’s taking inventory of everything she’s holding, and still fumbling with an empty coffee mug. She’s laughing in a sort of self-deprecating way, which she tends to do pretty often.
“I am so so sorry Dawsen, I just didn’t see you coming, It’s early, I didn’t expect anyone to be like…running? Wait, why are you running? It’s fucking freezing.” She rambles, and I reach down and place my hand under her elbow, straightening her. I give a little nod to the front doors of the mercantile, signaling for us to move that way. “Let’s get you inside, and we can get your boots wiped off.” I break the contact and grab my keys and mess with the lock. I can feel her standing close behind me, and I add, “And I can get you a refill. And you can tell me what you’re doing here this early.” I look over my shoulder, smiling at her as I push open the door. She’s giving me a tight lipped smile back and in true Birdie fashion, I know she’s feeling clumsy and embarrassed right now.
Birdie has always been a sort of klutz, her entire life, and I mean that in the truest sense of the word. I don’t really know if there’s been a day in her life that she hasn’t tripped, spilled, fell, rammed into someone, you know—things clumsy people do. Her family has teased her about it her whole life, in good fun of course, but I know it’s an insecurity of hers. I’d also be lying if I said this was the first time I’ve been victim to her klutziness.
In high school, we had a situation just like this actually, but it was her lunch tray landing on the brand new pair of Vans I had gotten for Christmas that year. They were covered in chocolate milk and pizza. She offered to buy me a new pair, but I refused. I wore those Vans into the damn ground and on their final dayyou could still see a faint smattering of brown from the chocolate milk.
