A Hundred Mile Dating Radius #3
Gio’s text he’d sent letting me know he was off work was the third down on my screen, a silent reminder of what I could have chosen: comfort, history, simple friendship.
But I could never do that to Dawson. Even though his actions had caused our breakup and he’d clearly moved on, I could never date his best friend.
That would just be too weird. I put the phone back down and I flipped on the fireplace for ambiance, plugged the phone into my charger on the nightstand, and flopped onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling beams and fan, counting blade’s rotation hoping it would calm me.
The longer I lay there, the more it felt like the walls were closing in, so I got up and started pacing.
Once, twice, then a dozen times from the window to the tiny kitchenette.
I pulled open the fridge, found it crammed with sparkling water and those tiny cartons of half-and-half, and smiled to myself.
Selma probably stocked it herself—she was always making sure everyone else was taken care of.
I grabbed a can, popped the tab, took a single sip, then left it sweating on the counter.
Nothing could touch the thirst I had tonight.
I wandered to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face, trying to study my own reflection.
My skin was flushed, eyes a little glassy.
I looked like a shell of myself, the girl who used to live in this town, drive these backroads, sneak kisses with Dawson behind the barn after chores.
I didn’t recognize her, and I didn’t know if I missed her or not.
I unzipped my jeans and peeled them off, feeling the fatigue in every muscle as I pulled my shirt over my head.
My clothes smelled like bar smoke and citrus, like the inside of a teenage dream gone sour.
I tossed them into the hamper and stepped into the shower stall, turning the handle as far hot as it would allow.
The water hammered down, steaming up the glass, the mirrors and my lungs.
I stood there for a long time, arms wrapped around myself, forehead pressed to the cool tile, letting the spray raise goosebumps all along my arms and legs.
I scrubbed my skin until it tingled, I washed my hair twice, stubbornly, as if I could rinse out everything I’d ever done wrong by sheer repetition.
But nothing washed away the way Dawson’s voice still echoed in my ears, the way his knuckles had grazed my wrist at the bar, or the way he’d looked at me across the heads of his brother and best friend—a look that felt like falling, like every rational bone in my body dissolving into want.
It didn’t matter how many times I tried to convince myself otherwise: I was still that girl, the one who would have done anything for him, and maybe still would.
When I finally turned off the water, the silence was immediate, absolute.
I toweled off, rubbing a little too hard, as if I could sandpaper myself into something new.
I twisted my hair into a knot and shrugged into sweats and an old NYU t-shirt—one I’d snagged from Uncle Ronnie in New York before he moved to Florida.
It still smelled faintly of the detergent my uncle used, all lavender and lemon, and the scent was so familiar it stung.
The little cabin was quieter than I remembered.
The logs that made the walls were so thick they muffled every outside noise, turning the world into a soft, padded cocoon.
I wandered from room to room, opening cabinets, touching the spines of the stacked books on the built-in shelves, smoothing my thumb over the worn leather of the armchair.
There were touches of Selma everywhere—extra throw pillows, a half-melted pillar candle, a basket of magazines tied with twine.
Even the fridge was full: a pitcher of cucumber water, mason jars of pre-cooked oats, and a tray of chocolate-dipped strawberries. The kindness of it made my chest ache.
I paced, restless, as if the cabin were a cage and I was trapped within it, unable to settle.
I checked my phone again, as if by some trick of will I could conjure a message from him, a sign, anything.
There was nothing new—just Peter’s increasingly desperate texts and a text from Janine that she’d email me in the morning.
I set the phone on the nightstand, screen down, and tried to focus on breathing, on letting my mind go blank.
But the memories didn’t stop pressing in.
I heard the echoes of laughter from the bar, the clink of glasses, the way Gen and Ella had eyed me sideways when Dawson’s name came up.
I thought about how many women he’d been with since our last night together, and tried not to care, but the knowledge stung like a mouthful of salt.
That’s when I heard it: the knock.
It was soft, hesitant. The sound sent a jolt right through me, and for a brief moment I considered hiding, pretending I’d gone to sleep. But instead, I moved toward the door, my heart beating so hard I could feel it in my teeth.
I opened it, and standing on the porch, looking more handsome than should be legal was the man I’d spent the entire night avoiding, Dawson Lockhart, my personal heartbreaker.