Page 62 of Dreaming of Dawson

Talking to him also reminded me that, even though I’ve contemplated his wedding night, and what I want to do about it,I haven’t come up with any ideas yet. That’s mostly because I’ve been too drunk to think straight, although that’s not a problem anymore, so I need to sit down and think it through.

But not today.

Today, I’ve got other things on my mind.

Like taking a break this afternoon with Macy, and what we’re going to talk about when we do. I know we could continue our conversation from this morning. I think we need to. Just not right now. I don’t want her to think I can’t talk about anything other than the past. Sure, we need to finish what we started, but there are other things to life, and it would be nice just to talk, to get to know her and let her see the real me… not the guy who’s spent too long hiding from himself.

I wait for Macy to sit in the booth right at the back of the bar, then take a seat opposite her. Karl’s made one of my favorites… his speciality pulled pork sandwich, with cheddar cheese, lettuce, onion, pickles and a spicy mayonnaise, which he’s served with a salad on the side. I wasn’t expecting anything so lavish, which I guess means Maggie wasn’t the only one to hazard a guess that something might be going on between Macy and me.

Not that it is… yet.

I’ve poured us both a mineral water, but Macy was in the restroom when I did that and I notice her studying my glass, presumably wondering how much of it is vodka.

The answer would be none of it, but I don’t want to just tell her that. I’d rather she found out for herself. I think it’ll mean so much more

At least, I hope it will.

“It’s good that it hasn’t snowed anymore,” she says, taking a sip from her glass.

“No, but it’s due to tonight, I believe. Although I’ve heard the weather is supposed to warm up over the weekend.”

“That’s good. Hopefully, business will pick up.”

She glances around the deserted bar, and I follow her gaze. “I’m not worried. This time of the year is always pretty slow. But it’ll be okay. It always is.”

She nods her head and picks up her sandwich, taking a bite and then pulling a face, wrinkling her nose and shuddering slightly as she chews.

“Is something wrong?” I ask, watching as she puts the sandwich down again and takes off the top slice of bread.

“No. It’s just that I hate pickles.”

I smile. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Why? You weren’t to know.”

She pulls them out of the sandwich and seems unsure what to do with them, when I open up mine and hold out my plate. “I’ll have them.”

She chuckles, and loads up my sandwich, shaking her head. “That’s a wrong thing.”

“Why?”

“They’re so overpowering. You won’t be able to taste anything else.”

“Then it’s just as well I like pickles.”

She nods her head, her lips twisting upward, as she rebuilds her sandwich and takes a second bite.

“That’s better,” she says.

“Is there anything else you don’t like eating?” I ask, keen to keep our conversation going, and to learn something about her, even if it’s only trivia.

“Not really… although I wouldn’t care if I never saw banana bread again.”

“Banana bread?” I say, taking a bite of my sandwich. “Is that because you don’t like bananas?”

“No. It’s because my mom made it once when I was younger… and it was the worst thing I’ve ever eaten.”

“Why? What was wrong with it?”

---