Page 35 of Until Next Time
Birdie:*salute emoji* yes, boss.
Me:Good.
I close out of that chat and open up a new message to my dad.
Me:Gonna be on the road for a bit today. Heading into Munsen with Birdie to get some supplies she needs to finish up this mural for me.
* * *
After the accident, I sort of fell into the habit of letting my dad know when I was going to be on the road, or if I was going to be unreachable for any amount of time. I guess trauma gets you thinking of situations differently. A harmless trip out of town fora few hours seems like it wouldn’t warrant a grown man letting his father know of his whereabouts, but when your mom gets killed in a car accident on your watch, a simple road trip feels a lot heavier. And I can’t help but wonder if it will ever get lighter.
I jog down the steps and out the back of the shop towards my truck, and I see Birdie leaned up against the passenger door, rifling through her bag. She never fails to take my breath away. The way her dark brown hair is piled on top of her head, with dark whisps falling around her face. She’s a sight for sore eyes, that’s for damn sure.
“Birdie Banks.” I say in an almost announcer like tone so I don’t totally spook her on my approach because the woman is still looking for something in her damn Mary Poppins bag.
“Ahh!” She gasps and clutches her hand to her chest.
“Dammit, Dawsen. You scared the shit out of me.”
“Well, you would have seen me coming if your head wasn’t in that gigantic bag of yours.” I quip, as I head around the front of the truck to open the door for her. I’m taken aback by the sweet smell of her vanilla perfume. I’m just fully engulfed in her smell of cookies and lust as I reach across her to pull open the handle.
She’s making dangerous eye contact with me as I peer down at her. There’s a beat of silence during our stare off, and I can tell she’s trying to come up with a witty comeback, but she’s stumped. I can tell. Because I know Birdie Banks, and I just got under her skin. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love the effect I have on her sometimes.
“M’Lady,” I say, as I nod towards the bench seat. She rolls her eyes and jumps into the cab. I wait until she slides in and I give her a wink and close the door. I do a quick jog around the front to my door, where I immediately see a piece of paper wedged between the handle and door of my car. I pull the paper and unfold it. I see Birdie’s handwriting scrawled across the paper.
“You’re the boss, but I’m the DJ for this road trip.”I can’t help but chuckle.
I’ve left hundreds of random notes and bits on the handle of her car over the year, but my heart speeds up when I realize this is the first time she’s left something on mine. As far as her claim on being the DJ, this woman can do whatever she wants when it comes to me. But, I can’t give myself away, so I’ll put up a little fight just to humor her.
“Not a chance.” I say as I jump into the driver’s seat and close my door and tuck the note into my visor clip. I’m reaching for my seatbelt and I hear her scoff in disbelief. “Dawsen. Come on. I literally curated an entire playlist for this trip.” I shake my head, “I’m not in the mood for your pop country heartbreak ballads, Birdie.” She scoffs in disgust, “As if! I have great taste in music, I’ll have you know.”
Oh, I know. Birdie has the best taste in music of anyone I’ve ever known. She’s always been a playlist master, finding music to perfectly match the vibe and mood of any situation she ever found herself in. I remember in high school she’d make mix CDs for every party, event, or Friday night football game. The one year we got to ride to school together, she’d had a new mix CD anytime the seasons would turn too. Those were my favorite. I can’t imagine how many CDs she went through in one year alone. Which is exactly why I’m giving her shit about pop country, because I know better than anyone that she’s an absolute wizard.
“Yeah, yeah, you keep telling yourself that.” I say with a smile on my face, as I throw the truck in reverse and head out of the lot. I reach across to the stereo where my auxiliary cable is hanging, I grab it and plug it into my phone. I unlock my screen and do a quick scroll to open Spotify, then press play.
I hear a groan of disgust, “Zach Bryan…Really?” She adjusts her sunglasses and looks over at me to roll her eyes. “What? Youdon’t like Zach Bryan? I thought everyone likes Zach Bryan.” I say, in defense because I thought she’d actually be impressed.
“Dawsen, He’s such a little brat. He is literally such a drama queen.” I laugh at that, because she’s not wrong. Every article ever written about him seems to be about him throwing a little bitch fit about something. He’s talented no doubt, but the drama, she’s right about that.
“Ok, ok. You have a point, but he’s a great songwriter, you’ve gotta at least admit that.” She adjusts in her seat to face me more fully. At that, I realize how hard it’s going to be to keep my eyes on the road with her in such close proximity.
“Yes Dawsen. He is, but there are plenty of great songwriters out there. Listening to his music because he’s a good songwriter is basically the same thing as reading the diary of your mortal enemy and realizing their journal entries are well written.”
“Why does that make so much sense?” I ask, genuinely impressed by her train of thought. “I can’t believe you ever doubted me and my musical taste and reasoning. I’m deeply offended.” She juts her chin up at me and smiles.
Damn. That smile.
I admit defeat and unplug my phone, and hand her the aux cord so she can plug in her phone and play her perfectly curated playlist. She gives me a sweet and very smug smile and I just look away before I’m tempted to stare too long.
I adjust my grip on the wheel, take a deep breath and try to focus on the road ahead with her music in my ears.
25
Birdie
We’ve been driving for forty-five minutes and Dawsen has said like two whole words—granted, I nervously pulled out a book and started reading it because I’m feeling a little anxious, so I thought reading a book would be a good distraction, but here I am, re-reading the same sentence for like the twentieth time while simultaneously flipping pages so he doesn’t think I’m slow, when in actuality, I cannot focus on anything other than the way he got dangerously close to me when he was opening the door for me earlier. I mean, what was that? His gorgeous, deep eyes felt like they latched onto my soul. I was almost scared he’d be able to read my thoughts with the intensity in his gaze. Or when he gave me the most adorable little sad puppy face when he handed me the aux cord. My insides feel hot.
“You’re quiet. What’s that about?” Dawsen asks, pulling me immediately out of my dangerous thoughts of Dawsen and histruck, and his big hands on the wheel, and his bulking frame. I clear my throat and shift a little, “Sorry, I think I’m just a little bit tired. I’m not being a very good co-pilot, am I?”
