Page 30 of Dreaming of Dawson

I don’t have time to reply. He turns away and heads for the back of the bar, leaving me to wonder if he’s too far away to be reached… and if he even wants to find a way back.

“I know I’m new to town,” I say, glancing around the deserted bar, “but is it abnormally quiet in here tonight?”

“It is. Even for a Monday, this is ludicrous.” Dawson says, polishing a glass that doesn’t really need it.

We’ve barely seen anyone all evening, and no-one at all for over an hour. It’s nine-thirty, and to be honest, there seems little point in us being here. We’ve already tidied up and re-stocked the bottles where necessary. I’ve even swept the floor, and having finished it and put away the broom, I’m currently sitting on a bar stool, because there’s no reason not to rest my feet.

“Is there something going on in the town that I don’t know about?”

“If there is, I don’t know about it, either,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ve never known a night like it.”

He doesn’t seem worried, just confused, and as he puts down the glass, he looks up at me. “Can I get you anything?”

“I’m not a customer, Dawson… even if I am sitting on this side of the bar.”

“I know, but it’ll give me something to do.”

“In that case, I’ll have a coffee. Thanks.”

He nods his head, turning away, and busying himself at the barista machine. It doesn’t take him long to return, although Inotice he hasn’t made himself one, and that he brings his glass of ‘water’ with him instead. I guess that’s easier than trying to sneak bourbon into his coffee, and I take a sip of mine, looking at him over the rim of my cup.

“How long have you lived in Hart’s Creek?” I ask. I want to get him to talk, and even if I’m fairly sure he won’t open up to me, at least this is a place to start.

“All my life,” he says.

“It seems like such a happy place to grow up.”

“It is. It was.”

I notice a shadow cross his eyes… something different to his usual glower, and I tip my head down, looking up at him, to get his attention.

“Was?”

“I’m all grown up now,” he says, like his reason for using the past tense should be obvious.

“I know, but I got the feeling there was something about your childhood that made you sad.”

“No.” He takes a long drink, sucking in a breath. “It was never sad. My parents were…” He lets out what remains of that breath. “They were the best.”

“Were?” I say, keeping my voice low and soft.

“Yeah. They… They died when I was at college.”

“Both of them? Together?”

“Not together, no. Mom got cancer, but unlike your uncle, she and Dad didn’t have long to get used to the idea.”

“I—I didn’t realize you knew my uncle.”

“Everyone knew Emmett. He was a great man.”

I feel a lump rising in my throat, but swallow it down. “Yes, he was. What… What happened to your mom?”

“Like a lot of people, she ignored the symptoms, writing them off as something to do with her age. By the time my dadfinally persuaded her to go to the doctor, it was too late. She died six weeks after the diagnosis.”

I reach across the bar, but he’s too far away to touch, and he doesn’t take my hand. Why would he?

Even so, I can’t say nothing and I look up into his saddened eyes and murmur, “I’m sorry, Dawson.”

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