Chapter 10 #2
I force a neutral expression as I weave my way in and out of tables before I’m finally deposited by the short hallway leading to the ladies’ room. I forgo the main one and opt for the family restroom instead, knowing it’ll give me privacy.
The second I’m inside, I twist the lock and press my back against the door. I heave out a breath, and all too suddenly, that tightness comes back in, rushing and determined like a high tide at the turn of a new day.
“Calm down, Emory,” I whisper to myself. I sense it before I feel it—the sob that presents itself at the back of my throat. I force it away, pushing it down deep.
I will not cry in a public bathroom.
And, god, what is it with me and this particular room anyway?
When I set my handbag on the sink, my eyes settle on it in a knowing manner, and I do what I did the last time I found myself in this predicament—I dig my phone out and dial Dr. Cole.
I suck my bottom lip into my mouth as I wait for him to answer. Unlike last time, his voice floats through the receiver on the third ring.
It’s deep and smooth with that rough gentleness that I never tire of.
“Hello?”
Just that one word soothes me, calming me in a way that I should find alarming. It’s hard to run from it, though, when it’s the only thing that offers me tranquility these days.
My voice is just above a whisper. “Hi.”
“Emory.” He says it like he doesn’t know it was me calling before he answered.
I don’t want to talk about the present moment, or the fact that I’m losing it in L’Italiano’s bathroom. So, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Would you rather walk around for the next ten years with food smeared on your face or with your head as a foot?”
I don’t know where it comes from—lies, I listened to a podcast earlier in the week where the host asked their celebrity guest the same question.
“What kind of question is that?” he asks with a laugh. That sound, that melody, is the white noise at the end of a long day, the kind that helps a person fall asleep a little easier. It’s the instrumental meditation music that fills a spa room when you’re getting the knots worked out of your neck.
“It’s the question of the day,” I say. “And the thing distracting me from the present moment.”
He doesn’t stop to mention how that doesn’t fall under the category of a crisis.
I suspect he probably already knows something is off, though, if I’m calling him at all.
Either way, I’m grateful he doesn’t bring attention to the fact that this is the second time I’m phoning a friend—or in my case—my therapist.
“Hmm. Okay. What would you pick?”
“I didn’t pick yet. I want to hear what you say first.”
“I don’t think that’s the way it’s supposed to go.”
I take a few more steps, turning to pace as I listen to him. It’s almost like I’m not even in this bathroom. Almost.
“There aren’t a strict set of guidelines to follow with would-you-rather questions. Someone asks and you just answer. Come on,” I urge. “Which would you pick?”
“I can’t imagine having food on my face for ten years, not one single person telling me it’s there.”
I smile at that. “So you’re picking the foot?”
“Yeah, I think so. Although, wouldn’t a shower get rid of the food?” I consider the possibility of it as he adds, “Because if that’s the case, then I’m going with that.”
I can’t contain the laugh that barrels up my chest and comes out. “Okay, that’s a solid line of thinking.”
“What are you picking?” he asks. “Don’t leave me hanging. I have to know.”
“Probably the foot.”
“Ouch. You’re going to let me walk around with whatever I’ve eaten on my face without keeping me company? That hurts, Miss Prescott.”
I relax back into the door again, my shoulders a lot less tense than they were before. Why is it so easy with Dawson, but feels so hard with everyone else? Lance’s retreating hand flashes in my mind, and my smile drops. Is it possible that he already thinks what we have is beyond repair?
Quiet envelops the small room and the phone line, making it that much more obvious that something is wrong.
Dawson notices, because of course he does. He breathes my name out with such gentleness that it almost cracks me into a million pieces. “Emory, what’s wrong?”
My sigh is wobbly when it comes out. “I’m in a bathroom again.”
“A bathroom,” he repeats. “Not yours?”
“Not mine,” I confirm, secretly loving how well he pays attention to detail. “I did what you said. Well, kind of. Lance’s parents invited us out for dinner. I’m trying, Dawson, but…”
“But, what?”
“Does a person’s past mistakes, whether they were consciously made or not, always follow them? At what point do people stop bringing them up?”
“It’s different for everyone,” he says. “You’ll find your way.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“Sometimes people need confirmation to help them get there or outside circumstances to fall into place. But not always. This is your journey, so only you can decide what it’s going to take to get there.”
“I don’t know how to figure that out.”
“You will. Just stay true to who you are.”
“What if I don’t know who that is anymore?” I ask.
“The beautiful thing about life is that we don’t move backwards.
Our trajectory is forward, and with that, comes the truth that we’re always evolving.
Some seasons evoke more change than others.
This is one of them, Emory. It doesn’t mean you’ve lost yourself.
It just means you’re learning who you are at this moment.
You can look at that like a hardship or like an exquisite metamorphosis. ”
I blow out a breath. “So what you’re saying is that I should go out there and give them the middle finger?”
There’s a smile in his voice when he says, “I’m slightly concerned that’s what you took away from everything I just said.”
“I’m kidding,” I say sheepishly, sighing. “Maybe one day this won’t be a thing—calling you from bathrooms.”
“Maybe, but it’s okay that it is right now.” A few heartbeats pass. “If I’m being totally honest, I don’t mind hearing from you. Your voice is grounding in a way I can’t truly describe.”
“Is it?” I murmur, resting my head back and closing my eyes. I just want to listen to his voice. To let it lull me into a headspace that doesn’t feel so thought heavy.
“Yes, and I promise you that it’s fine that you’re calling.”
A beat passes, and I can’t stop the question that comes next. “Have you always lived in Coralhaven?” If so, I want to know how I’ve never run into him before. Not that it necessarily matters, but my heart tells me it does.
“No. I did my schooling in New York, then moved to Coralhaven after I healed from what I went through. I’ve only been working with the psychiatrist unit of the hospital for the last five months or so.
I needed an environment that wasn’t so go-go-go all the time.
I thought this small beach town could give me that. ”
An unsteady laugh comes from me. “Who knew Coralhaven would bring you back to life but nearly try to take mine. The irony is funny, isn’t it?”
His voice turns resolute, that underlying current of seriousness seeping into his words.
“There’s nothing funny about you almost dying, Emory.
In fact…” he trails off, and my breath hitches ahead of time.
“It fucking kills me knowing that you have to go through all of this. It only makes it worse that I’ve been in a similar place as you, that I’ve felt it because I know exactly what you’re feeling.
I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, and if I could, I’d take it from you.
I’d absorb every last drop of sadness from your pretty heart so you didn’t have to deal with it. ”
My stomach dips and soars, like a paper airplane floating and attempting to stay in flight. “I-I don’t know what to say to that.”
“You say nothing,” he tells me. “You hear it, and you accept that there are people in the world who cherish your smile and want to see that instead of the frowns you wear on a constant basis.”
Someone pounds on the door in the next breath, the vibrations working through the door and jolting me away from it. I hope to hear Lance’s voice on the other side—probably because a hint of disloyalty pools in my stomach at Dr. Cole’s admission—but instead, it's a woman asking if the room is free.
My phone slips from my hands in response and clatters to the ground. In my haste to pick it back up and tell Dawson I have to go, I accidentally end the call.
“Shit,” I mutter as I gather my wits, grab my bag, and let the lady have the restroom.
Dawson redials me as I’m heading back to the table, but I don’t answer.
When I get home later that night, I pretend like I don’t have a missed call waiting for me. Because it felt way too good hearing Dawson say those things, and if he doesn’t stop, I know I’ll fall again.
Down, down, down into the lightness that is Dawson Cole and all the soft-spoken words he offers me. Down, down, down into the orbs of his warm honey eyes. And down, down, down into that layer of comfort and safety his presence offers me.