Page 36 of Until Next Time
He glances over at me and flashes me a half smile, the one that shows his smile lines so perfectly. It’s one of my favorite smiles of his.
“You’re great. If you’re tired, I’ve got some snacks in the backseat.” He hikes a thumb over his shoulder, “There’s a small cooler bag with some stuff in there.”
“I was wondering if you had packed snacks.” I said, unbuckling my seat belt to retrieve the bag.
As I reached into the backseat and grab the snack bag and then quickly return to my sitting position I feel Dawsen’s hand land on my thigh with urgency. I go still, and I’m frozen, unsure of what just happened. His hand, still very much on my thigh.
“Shit. Ahh, I’m sorry.” He says, removing his hand and almost awkwardly running it through his hair.
I can’t help but be somewhat amused at what just happened, mostly because I don’t know what the hell just happened. I reach over my shoulder and fasten my seat belt while keeping my eyes on him.
“Is everything okay?” I ask playfully, trying to keep this light because something about him has shifted and something feels off.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make that so weird. I just reacted when I heard your seat belt un-click, I just reacted without thinking.” He said, sounding slightly embarrassed.
“Oh, that’s okay! I didn’t mean to upset you.” I offer sympathetically, feeling kind of bad that I stirred up such a reaction.
“So, the guy who used to donuts in the school parking lot with guys in the bed of his truck is now a car safety spokesperson?” I say teasingly, hoping to change the mood.
He just huffs out a laugh and says, “yeah, I guess so.” And that’s the moment I realize what a fool I just made myself. I take in a sharp inhale and cover mouth, “Oh my gosh. I’m such an insensitive bitch. Your mom. Dawsen. I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I didn’t even think of the correlation. The accident. I am so sorry. Wow. I would understand completely if you just wanted to pull over right here and make me walk home after a comment like that.”
He stops me in the middle of my runaway thoughts and reaches over again, and puts his hand over the same spot he did before, but this time it feels different.
“Birdie, stop. There is absolutely nothing to be sorry about. I’m just protective of the things that matter to me. It was instinct. Yes, the trauma of my accident made me more hyper-aware, but there’s nothing to be sorry about. You did nothing wrong. You can say whatever you want around me, and there’s nobody else I’d rather have in my passenger seat right now, so please, don’t beat yourself up.” He says this to me with the most sincerity I’ve ever heard in his tone. And I feel like I’m in slow motion. The words he’s saying to me are holding so much weight, it feels like they’re being brandished on my heart.
My body has been rigid under his hand, and I do my best to soften. It’s then that I realize I still have this bag of snacks clutched in my grip, so I lean forward to set the bag on the floorboards, and with my movement, his hand retreats back to the steering wheel.
I don’t know where to go from here. My heart feels heavy, and laden with sadness for him, but with safety for me. I pause awkwardly, wondering if it would be too much to press for more information. We’ve never really talked about the accident, since it happened when I was away, but I’ve always wondered, and when I heard the news of what happened, I nearly fell to my knees.
“Dawsen. Can I ask you something?” I ask softly, and I’m fully prepared to be turned down, and I’d understand.
“Anything, always.” He responds so gently. Almost in a breath.
“What happened?”
Dawsen’s hand rubs over the stubble on his jaw. The stubble I’ve been admiring all morning.
“Where to begin.” He teases in a sad sort of way, his eyes drifting to meet mine. I just offer a warm smile before he takes a breath and continues.
“I was having a rough couple of years. Lots of drinking, partying, making bad decisions, and just being a little bit of a shit show, honestly. I’m not proud of it, and I don’t have anything to blame for it—just myself. I was mentally in a bad spot and I was looking for quick ways to numb myself, or just anything to give me any sense of feeling.”
I can tell he’s ashamed. Maybe even embarrassed to be telling me this. He’s scratching the back of his neck, and hasn’t looked at me once. I wait, allowing him to finish. I have a bad habit of trying to turn conversations around if I feel they’re getting heavy, but there’s more to be said, and if he’s trusting me with this, there’s no other place I’d rather be, and no other place I’d want to steer this conversation. Because I want to be part of any conversation with him, no matter the weight of it.
“So, I was out one night at a bar with some buddies, and I got into a fight with some assholes over a girl. I overheard some scumbags talking about her at the end of the bar. She was really wasted and they were talking about trying to get her to go home with one of them. It made my blood boil. The fact that these grown ass men wanted to take advantage of a girl who drank too much. It pissed me off, so I got up and started something. Which probably would have been fine if I hadn’t already caused some disturbances at this same bar the week prior. But it was thefinal straw, and cops were called, and I was arrested.” He took another pause, and changed his grip on the steering wheel.
“I didn’t get taken in or anything, but the officer that arrested me knew my dad, so he did me a favor and ended up calling my parents. I was too wasted to drive.” He sighs, in almost just a breath.
“My dad was out of town that week, so my mom had to come pick me up from a bar parking lot, like a pathetic kid—but I wasn’t a kid. I was a man. A man old enough to know better.”
I turn in my seat, this time I reach my hand out and set it on his knee. Needing to offer him some semblance of comfort or understanding. Or anything. He glances down at the contact for just a second.
“I got in the car, and my mom didn’t say anything to me right away. I remember it just being silent until she started to speak, her voice hoarse and sad,“Honey, let’s do better. Please.”
I remember the lump in my throat, and how it physically hurt to hear my mom sound so pained.
His voice cracked a bit on that last part and I give his knee a slight squeeze, then rubbed my thumb back and forth, taking in the way the denim felt stretched out over his knee.
“We weren’t even three miles from the bar when we were hit by a drunk driver.” He presses his thumb into the inner corner of his eye, willing the welling tears to subside.
