Chapter 15 #2
He grins. “I know when to spend my money well.” Dawson then holds out his phone to me after clicking a few times.
“Seriously, put in your handle.” I see the familiar blue of the Venmo app, but I don’t take his phone.
I can already tell he doesn’t have the keyboard I’d need to help me, so I shake my head.
I feel his gaze on me, and then he turns his phone toward himself.
“Shit, Louis told me there is a keyboard app that helps. I’ll download it for next time. ”
My mouth parts. “Next time?” I mutter. “Keyboard?”
I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience.
“Yeah, to make it easier for you. But it’s cool. Just tell me your handle.”
What is happening? I bite hard on the inside of my cheek as I hold my chin up. I am so stubborn, and I refuse to think he cares. Believing that will only make me fall for him. “AmbrosiaMercer1,” I spit out.
I hear the cha-ching sound as my phone vibrates, but I don’t look at it.
Instead, I hold his gaze. He tucks his phone into his pocket as he says, “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable with all the signs and letters.
If I had known you needed a certain kind of text or audio, I would have done it a different way. ”
“What?” I gasp, my mouth going dry.
“I’m not going to stop, but I don’t want to put you in a position where you are embarrassed because you can’t enjoy my advances. So, I’ll record my voice or video myself from this moment forward to make it easier for you.”
He knows—not that I’ve hidden it—but he knows, and he wants to make it better?
I see no judgment in his eyes. No humor or teasing.
He is looking at me the same way he has been since I found myself toe-to-toe with him.
My heart is slamming into my ribs, practically begging for him, and all I can do is stare at him in astonishment.
My lips quiver at the kindness in his words.
He starts to blur as the tears burn my eyes, so I quickly look away. “How…why? What?”
“Does it matter how? All that matters is I know now, so I want to make sure you’re comfortable in our communication.”
“Communication?” I feel like a drunk parrot.
“Yeah. I’ll get the keyboard in case you need to use my phone, and like I said, I’ll make sure to send voice texts and videos.”
No one has ever said anything like that to me. I’m not ashamed of my diagnosis, so people know, but never has anyone just wanted to…support me. Well, except for my parents and my aunt.
What the hell?
“You want me to use your phone?”
He nods, looking at me like that’s a given. “Yeah, in case yours is dead or something.”
“You know that’s not normal.”
He chortles. “For someone who has something to hide. But I have nothing to hide.”
Stay strong, hold those walls up! “Why?” I gasp.
“Because I want you to feel comfortable with me.”
I blink. “But…I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
His eyes meet mine, such care and compassion in them as his lips curve into a full-out, dimpled smile. It’s not the grin he’d use to get in my pants. No, this smile is full of understanding and kindness.
It leaves me breathless.
“You’re special.”
Just two words, and they rock my core. I feel the walls around me crashing down, and I rush to hold them up because I know good and well I could fall for this man. Hard. And when he got what he wanted, he’d walk away without even a glance back at me. “Stay away from me.”
“I can’t,” he answers automatically. “Give me a chance.”
I shake my head and turn. “No.”
His smile stays in place, and his confidence is flowing off him in waves. “Fine. I’ll keep working for the chance.”
“Dawson, this is insane. Don’t you see you only want me—”
“Don’t finish that,” he demands, his eyes narrowing. “I won’t let you minimize how I feel.”
“How you feel?” There I go, mimicking like a damn parrot again.
“Yeah,” he says, stepping closer. “I have never felt like this, so be patient with me. But for me, it’s more than physical.
” He tucks my hair behind my ear, running a finger down my jaw.
“No, I want you at my games, and I want to share a milkshake with you so we can get to know each other in person.”
“There are plenty of girls out there—”
“Not when you exist.”
My eyes widen. “Dawson,” I sigh, my heart in my throat. “Neither of us has time for games. Work on what’s important.”
“I am,” he says, and his admission has me pausing. His eyes are so sincere, so full of heart, and I believe him. He wants me; he wants this—but for how long? Attentively, Dawson runs his thumb along my cheek, catching the tear that has escaped. “I’d rather have your anger than your tears.”
I press my lips together. “I’m not crying over you. I’m overwhelmed with everything…the notes, the signs.”
“No, I know,” he says softly and not in a condescending way. I was sure he’d call me on my lie, but just like he’s done during this whole interaction—hell, every interaction—he proves me wrong.
I swallow at the realization.
Maybe I truly don’t know Dawson Sinclair.
Before I can say something stupid or kiss him like it’s all I want, he says, “But I don’t want you to cry over something you have no control over. I didn’t know what you needed, but now I do.”
No one has ever spoken of my disability like that, and I hate that the bricks that had built my wall to keep him out have crumbled even more.
I swallow again as he says softly, “I mean…fuck, you’re incredible. You got me trapped in your web, begging for attention, and no one has ever done that.”
My heart aches as I look away. “I’m not your type.”
“I didn’t have a type until you.”
My brow furrows. He wasn’t supposed to agree with me, but even I know he isn’t making shit up. He has been with big, little, and midsize girls. He doesn’t care if they’re dark, light, or caramel like me. He likes women, and that alone is a red flag. “You’re not my type.”
“Eh,” he says on a chuckle, leaning in close. “How so?”
“You’ve been with everyone in this school.”
He scoffs. “Hardly. And my past is just that—a past. Let me show you our future.”
Jesus H. Christ. “Wow, you’ve been practicing that?”
“Every chance I get,” he says with a wink. “But it’s true. Let me prove it.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head and then walking away because I have to.
“Didn’t peg you as someone who lets fear control you.”
I glance over at him, feeling each of his words as he gives me that panty-dropping smirk that should be totally illegal. I usually don’t let fear control me, but when it comes to him…
Nope. Not going there.
I need to get the hell away from him.
Now.
I decide to take a shortcut through the communications building since my car is parked in the back.
With Dawson throwing me off my axis like I’m one of his footballs, I don’t notice Dr. Poncy stepping in front of me.
I jerk back, my eyes widening as she takes hold of my shoulders with her bony fingers.
Dr. Poncy is in her early fifties, black hair with two white stripes along her temples that she weaves in braids to tuck into a bun.
She is very small, not only in stature but also in weight.
Maybe five feet and one hundred pounds. She is an Emmy-winning broadcaster for her local broadcasting, and while people love her, I don’t feel the same.
Things changed two years ago, and I know I’m not her favorite person.
Still, I try so hard to please her and even asked her to write me a letter of recommendation for my master’s program since I do respect her.
I thought she’d be a professional, but she turned me down.
Her reason: “I don’t think you’re good enough to get your master’s.”
Mind you, I carry a 4.0 GPA unweighted, but whatever.
With her nose a bit wrinkled, she says, “Ms. Mercer.”
Flashing a sweet smile, I ask, “Dr. Poncy, how are you?”
Ignoring my question, she sets me with a narrow look. “I need to speak with you privately. I spoke with Professor Koshkin, and I am not pleased that he is fighting for a higher grade for you on a paper that I feel you didn’t do your best on. From now on, I’d like to speak to you and only you.”
Air gets trapped in my lungs as I hold her gaze, unsure what to say. “I never asked Professor Koshkin to discuss my grade. He did that unsolicited as my adviser.”
She tsks at me. “Sure. Come with me.”
As I follow her into her office, my stomach twists on itself.
I wish I were anywhere but here.
But mainly, I wish I were with Dawson.