Page 66 of Until Next Time
“I’ll do an order of scrambled eggs and bacon please.”
“And I’ll take the breakfast burrito, please.—Oh, and one pancake please.” He looks at me and winks.
“Sounds good, I’ll go give this to the kitchen.” Our server says as she holds up her pad of paper and heads off.
“Did you just order us a table pancake?” My eyes go wide at him in disbelief at this man’s memory and attention to detail.
“Yeah, you still like that right?” He asks, almost bashfully.
I just smile at him, because yes, that’s right. I love table pancakes.
I’ve always loved sweet breakfast foods, but I never want to only order pancakes or waffles. I love classic eggs and bacon, with the option to have a few bites of something sweet. So, my family would always order a ‘table pancake’ for anyone who wanted normal breakfast, but with the option to have a few bites of something sweet. It’s my favorite way to eat breakfast, and the way he knows this very obscure thing about me makes my pulse quicken. In the best way.
“This is all just so hard for me to wrap my mind around. Like, this is weird right? Not bad weird, just weird like we’ve both been dancing around this for years without even realizing?”
He takes his forefinger and thumb and rubs it across his furrowed brows.
“I know. It feels like we skipped a few chapters. Like I should be asking you what your hobbies are, or how you take your coffee, not kissing you twenty minutes into the date.” He laughs.
“Let’s do this then. How about we tell each other something that we know for certain, the other person doesn’t know.” I challenge him, straightening in my seat and tossing my hair over one of my shoulders.
He grins, “You go first.”
“Okay. Well, I’ve cheated on every single math test I’ve ever taken.” I clench my jaw and try to look ashamed.
Dawsen laughs and shakes his head, “Straight to detention, missy.” He laughs and points his finger across the diner to invisible detention.
We’re both laughing and I give him the look of, “you’re next.”
It’s silent for a beat while he thinks, “Alright, I once spent two months of allowance on a video game that I didn’t care about at all, but I knew River wanted it really badly. So I bought it, knowing he’d invite me over to play it, and I just wanted an excuse to see you.”
I smile softly, because this man in front of me, who I always thought was indifferent towards me, he’s been carrying the same damn torch that I was. I can’t help but feel like we’ve wasted so much time.
“I used to make up reasons to come see you in the basement when you and River were down there. Mostly getting questions answered that mom would send me down to ask, which she definitely didn’t ask. Like, what River wanted for dinner, or what he was doing that weekend, or if he finished his homework.”
He lets out a throaty chuckle, and reaches his hand out and takes mine into his. The gesture is soft, kind, intimate. Like we’ve been doing this our entire lives.
Dawsen looks at me, like he’s weighing his thoughts carefully.
“Do you plan on moving back to the city? Are you looking for other journalism jobs there?”
I’m immediately transported to that elevator and the contents of my desk stuffed in a box. Thanks to Dawsen, he bought me some time while I try to figure out my next steps. The whole time I was working on the mural, I would be lost in thoughts of Dawsen, what I want the rest of my life to look like, and also a good amount of feeling sorry for myself, you know—being a 30 year old, unemployed virgin and all.
“I’ve actually been thinking a lot about that. It’s funny how you can spend your whole life trying to escape something—which is what I did with Saddlebrooke. And I was super hesitant about coming back here honestly. I already felt like a failure. Getting fired, and basically getting kicked out of my apartment, I just didn’t want to come back here and get…stuck.”
I take a deep breath.
“But ever since being back here, the thought of leaving is actually terrifying.”
Dawsen squeezes my hand softly, and his gaze is still locked on mine. His eye contact is intimidating and sexy, and to be quite honest, I wish he’d look away for a bit, because it’s getting hard to focus on my thoughts.
“I want to stay here. I think. But I don’t want to live with my parents, and I want to write. It’s the one thing that has consistently brought me joy, and the one thing I feel completelyalivedoing.”
For some reason, saying these things feels like a weight lifted, but I didn’t ever realize it was heavy to begin with. I tend to hold things in, bury them under the rug, including my feelings about life and circumstances. I guess I’ve always thought that if I hide them well enough, they don’t exist.
“You don’t want to paint?” His brows furrow a bit, and the way he looks almost concerned makes my heart speed up. He cares.
“I love painting. I think it will always be where I feel most free, most true to myself. But, I don’t think I want tohaveto do it… if that makes sense. I want to paint because it transports me, and it gives me a feeling of levity.”
