Page 65 of Dreaming of Dawson

Macy

I close the door behind me and pause for a second to catch my breath before I dart to my locker, bending to unlock it, just as the door opens behind me. It’s Dawson, and he stares down at me, waiting until I stand up straight again before he moves a little closer, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Why do you keep running away from me?” he says. I hadn’t expected that, and I fold my arms, being as defensive as my need for him will allow. Because I need him, no matter what I just said, and what I just did.

“I don’t,” I say, although all he does is shake his head and move even closer still, which isn’t helping.

“You did it this morning, and while I might have been too drunk to stand last night, I can still recall you running out of my room… right after I called you beautiful.”

My skin prickles. “Oh, God… you remember that?”

“Yes.”

“But you haven’t mentioned it. You talked about other things that happened last night… about falling up the stairs and how I shouldn’t have had to see you like that, or help you get to bed. But you haven’t said a word about that.”

“No. Well… to be honest, I was kinda embarrassed.”

That’s the last thing I wanted to hear, although it’s not a surprise. “Great,” I whisper and turn away, although he grabsmy arm and spins me back around. His grip is firm, but not painful. I noticed that earlier, and while I know he’d let me go if I asked, or if I made a move, I quite like the feeling of having his hands on me…

“Let’s just get one thing straight. I wasn’t embarrassed about calling you beautiful,” he says. “I wasn’t even embarrassed about calling you fucking beautiful. It was the circumstances that I found embarrassing. Not you. And not what I said about you.” He moves even closer, tipping his head slightly and staring into my eyes. “I’ve never seen anyone quite like you… with or without your clothes on.” He smiles, and I can’t help the gasp that leaves my lips. It’s not the first time I’ve seen him smile. To be honest, it’s happened quite a lot today, but this feels different. It feels spontaneous.

“Y—You smiled,” I say, studying his generous lips and shining eyes.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I felt like it. Now, stop changing the subject, and answer my question.”

“What question?” I ask, unable to remember why we’re standing here, let alone the words that may or may not have passed between us.

“Why did you run?” he says, reminding me. “And I’m not just talking about what happened in the bar a few minutes ago, or this morning, when you bolted out of the apartment. I’m talking about last night as well. What did you think I was gonna do?”

“Nothing,” I say instinctively.

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Then why did you fly like that? I thought you said you liked me?”

“I do. I like you a lot.” There I go again, letting my mouth get carried away with my thoughts. I did it just now when he asked me this same question, and although I didn’t mean to say it – then or now – it seems I can’t lie to him.

“Then I don’t understand.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m struggling here, Macy. I don’t remember the last time I was sober, but I’m fairly sure my brain didn’t work this slowly then. What did I do wrong?”

He’s blaming himself, just like he did when Stevie left, and I don’t like that. I can’t let him do it to himself again. Not over me…

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say, although I quickly realize he’s heard all that before, and I put my hand on his arm, pulling it away again when he jumps.

“Put that back,” he says.

“I—I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t. I liked it. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m still touching you, so it seems only fair that you should touch me, too.” I raise my hand, resting it on his bicep, which flexes to my touch. “That’s better,” he says, a smile catching at the corners of his lips. “Now… I think you were telling me I didn’t do anything wrong?”

“I was. Because you didn’t.”

“Then why did you run?”

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