Page 42 of Until Next Time
Dawsen is standing at the mirror, towel wrapped around his waist, abs fully visible, shoulders, strong and very much in myline of vision. My mouth suddenly feels drier than the Sahara desert. Like I just swallowed cotton.
“I’m back!” I say, my voice shakes a bit, hoping he didn’t notice.
“Are you hungry? It looks like there’s a bar on the property. Maybe we should grab some food?” I ask. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. He can probably hear my stomach growling from here.
“Starving. And I could use a beer.” He says, still messing with his hair in the mirror.
I haven’t moved—just standing here ogling and admiring silently the muscles in his sides. Like what are those even called? I’ve never even thought much about side muscles. But apparently I’m a big fan of them and that’s also when I notice what looks very much like a tattoo across his side, towards the bottom of his rib cage. I’m just far enough away to not be able to make out what it is exactly, but I’m curious. How long has he had a tattoo? And why do I suddenly have a twist of pain in my gut at the realization of just how much I don’t know about him. I’m jealous almost—of every person who has been around and who has had a more personal view of his life the last few years than I’ve had. I push down the thought as best as I can, yet I crave to trace those lines with the tips of my fingers.
“Uhh, I’ll go check on your clothes. Be right back.” I say awkwardly, practically running away. My mind was a runaway train there and I didn’t trust that bitch.
I fast walk to the laundry room and see that the dryer cycle is almost finished. Thank God for these industrial dryers. I need food so that I can think with my brain and not other parts of me, and that’s just not gonna happen if Dawsen is naked.
I wait a couple minutes before the machine sounds off and the drum stops whirring. I pull open the door, grab the clothes and toss them onto the folding table that’s in the center of theroom. I start folding his jeans, boxer briefs, t-shirt and utility jacket into a nice pile and do everything in my power not to bring them up to my nose and inhale them.
God. I really do belong in an institution don’t I?
I thought I was cured of this madness. But you can’t give me Dawsen’s boxers and not expect me to get a little sweaty.
I rap my knuckles against the door a couple times, a warning before I enter. Which seems ironic because I already know he’s naked in there. I’m holding his clothes after all.
I push the door open and Dawsen is leaning up against the bathroom door, typing into his phone. He doesn’t look up, so I pad across the room and set the clothes on the dresser.
“The rain is finally letting up a little bit. I’ll just wait out here so you can get dressed and we can head over to the bar?” I ask, making sure we’re on the same page.
He clicks off his phone and looks over at me. I basically ran back to the door after I set his clothes down. The space is good.
“Sounds great. Hey—are you warm enough? Why don’t you take my jacket.” He reaches for it sitting on the dresser. He grabs it and strides right over to me. Towel hanging low on his hips. That indentation that is basically an arrow pointing to everything that towel is covering is staring me dead in the eyes.
I take a couple un-calculated steps backward, bumping my back against the door in the most ungraceful manner. I can’t help but laugh, which makes him cock a smug eyebrow at me.
“You ok?” He asks, handing me the jacket that’s fresh from the dryer.
“Oh, yes… yeah, I—I’m dandy.” I say, feeling my face contort into a weird dorky grin. I grab the coat, and quickly turn to face the door, bolting out and inhaling the crisp wet air. The door clicks shut behind me, and my head is hot from adrenaline and I realize that I’m going to have a long night ahead of me if I can’t act like a respectable woman.
So, I’ll do just that. I do a calming motion with my hand in front of my face like I’m making an effort to compose myself. I slide on Dawsen’s jacket and love the way it feels wrapped around me. Oversized, warm, and cozy.
There’s something intimate about wearing someone else’s coat. Ya know? Like, I’m a part of the places he’s been, who he is, the things he’s done, the conversations he’s had while wearing this jacket. And I love the idea that he and I are the only ones who knows what it feels like to wear it.
I’m lost in those thoughts as Dawsen steps out of the room, looking effortlessly gorgeous—damp hair and wearing the same thing as earlier, but somehow even sexier now. It’s probably because the sun has set, and the string lights are reflecting off the wet ground, and I’m still picturing the obscene towel wearing situation from earlier.
I swallow and straighten, as if to snap myself out of whatever my brain is doing.
“Are you ready to go? Are you going to be too cold, I can give you your jacket back, really, I’ll be fine.”
Without a word, Dawsen presses his hand at the small of my back and nods at the sidewalk ahead of us that leads to the bar.
We start walking in companionable silence and I guess he’s not going to take me up on the jacket offer. Which, I’m grateful for. It’s cold as shit out here. We’re walking close enough that my arm is grazing his. His hands are tucked into his pockets, and his stride is tall and confident.
That’s one of the things I’ve always loved about him—the way he is.The way he carries himself. He’s always seemed so tall, so confident, so sure of himself even when he was just a teenager when he was supposed to be awkward and lanky. He just has always seemed to know what to do with his hands.
Tucked into pockets while he walks.
Pressing on the small of my back.
Reaching across the back of seat when he’s driving.
The way he holds a pen.
