Chapter 14 Dawsen
Dawsen
It’s been a week since I’ve dropped Birdie off after the wine fest. It’s been a week of me replaying that night in my head over and over again.
The whole drive back to my place, I was overthinking every single thing that came out of my mouth.
Was I too creepy? Knowing all that shit about her favorite movies?
There’s a fine line of having a vague memory about something and on the other side of that line there’s me, hanging on to every detail of every memory that’s humanly possible.
I ended my night with a three finger pour of bourbon and a cold shower.
* * *
It’s Saturday morning and I’m laying in my bed staring up at the pitched, open ceilings in my apartment. I reach across the bed to grab my phone off my bedside table to check the time and see if anyone’s trying to get ahold of me. I pull open a text from River that came in last night.
River: Breakfast at my folks. 9:00. Biscuits, gravy, eggs, and bacon.
*Eight hours later*
Me: *thumbs up emoji*
I groan and pull the blanket over my face when I realize it’s only 6:00 am.
It’s been a few years since I’ve been able to actually get any decent sleep.
I’m usually awake until the early morning hours, unable to fall asleep, or up at the crack of dawn.
And any sleep I do manage, I’m usually up multiple times in the night, just wide awake out of nowhere.
There’s got to be a reason for it, but it’s just something I’ve learned to live with.
Probably a result of unresolved trauma—something I read about online during one of my episodes of insomnia, no doubt.
I roll to the side of my bed, and slowly make my way to the bathroom.
I turn the knob on the sink, waiting for the water to warm and splash some on my face.
I rub my hand across the stubble that’s due for a shave as I stare at myself in the mirror.
I decide I’m going to leave it. I kind of like it, and I could use a little change for a bit.
I brush my teeth and decide that I’m going to head down to Mel’s Diner and grab a coffee, and then indulge myself with my favorite unhealthy hobby—finding out all of Birdie’s secrets.
I used to hang out at River’s house a lot as a kid growing up.
We’d go back and forth between his house and mine, but he had a basement that his parents set up for them to have a separate hangout spot for friends.
They had a ping pong table, a play station, and a couple couches and bean bags.
It kind of just became the place we all gathered after school, on weekends—and Mrs. Banks would always come down with a tray of snacks and drinks for whoever was over that day.
The good ol’ days.
River and Bird’s dad, Jack, worked for the local postal service here in town and he started telling us about this art project that was taking off across the country that was created by one of Saddlebrooke’s own.
People would send their anonymous secrets to this guy who would later post them anonymously on his personal blog every Friday.
Some of the secrets were sad, some were funny, and some were even disturbing.
It was like a social experiment that had went viral.
I remember one Friday after school, we were in the basement, Birdie was on their family computer, and Riv and I were on the couch just behind her playing a mission on Grand Theft Auto.
I remember turning around when I heard soft whimpers coming from where she was sitting.
It got both of our attention and asked her what the hell she was looking at.
With tears in her eyes, She called us over to read the blog full of that Friday’s secrets.
Every Friday after that, she would rush down to the basement after school and read the latest thread of published secrets.
She would laugh, sometimes cry, and a lot times, she’d gasp in absolutely disbelief and shock.
I was awestruck at how she could experience such a wide variety of human emotion in such a short amount of time.
Being able to experience her like this made me feel like the luckiest guy in the world.
Birdie Banks always felt off limits to me, but she was the only girl I ever wanted the attention of. She still is.
If there were any particularly shocking ones, she’d always pipe up, “Oh my gosh, you guys need to see this!” and basically force us to read them.
It was her thing.
I wanted to be her thing.
I remember one of the Friday’s she ran down the basement stairs, arms flailing, voice full of joy, “The town put a secret submission box in the front of the book store downtown!” River didn’t give a shit and started getting annoyed with her, but I looked forward to those Friday afternoons, sitting next to her, watching her scroll and fixate on each secret like they held the meaning to life.
“I’m jealous of these people. That they are so courageous to even write some of these confessions down. Let alone, send them out into the world.”
“Is it courageous though if they’re anonymous?” I asked, because I’m not so sure.
“I’ve always wanted to share my own secrets like this, but even with the security of anonymity, I’m still terrified to do it.” She said, and I’ll never forget the look in her eyes, and the softness in her voice.
“Maybe start with something small? Like, something silly, then it will make it easier someday to share the ones that take courage.” I suggested.
“I like that idea. Maybe I’ll just submit one to the box in front of Nook & Novel? That seems less intimidating.” She twirled her hair between her fingers, like she was contemplating the idea.
“Will those get posted to the blog?” I asked, genuinely curious, because I was absolutely interested in trying to find out Birdie’s secrets. Does that make me an asshole?
Her face lightened a bit at my question.
“No. I guess it’s not related to the actual experiment, but Mira said she’s going to post them on a wall in the bookstore for people to see.
I think it’s mainly supposed to be another tourist attraction in the town, but I think it’s romantic.
Reminds me of those people who put locks on that bridge in Paris, or wherever they do that. ”
* * *
On Fridays when she’d pull up a chair at the computer, River started to tease her and poke fun, but in a mean way.
I could tell she started to get embarrassed.
She started to share less with us, and then after awhile, she would just retreat to the computer in silence, scroll, then head back up the stairs without a word.
I would check the blog on Fridays when I got home. It made me feel closer to her even though she had no idea. Knowing that I was reading the same things as her, felt like our own little secret.
I was driving around town one afternoon breaking in the new Dashboard Confessional album—because everyone knows driving around back roads with the windows down is the best way to experience new music, when my thoughts naturally wandered to her.
I got curious and decided to head to Nook & Novel for the off chance that maybe she’d left a secret and it would be posted up on the bulletin board.
I still remember the look Mira gave me when I stood at the board, scouring each postcard pinned on the board, searching for one that could be Birdie’s.
She was eyeing me speculatively when she cleared her throat, “Top right corner, dear.” She said, seeing right through me.
I looked up and saw one of those old postcards, the ones with an oil painting of some landmark on the front. I knew it had to be hers, because she had been collecting ones just like it since she as just a girl.
I knew the right thing to do was to read the secret and pin it back up on the board, but where Birdie was concerned, I had no interest in doing the right thing.
I reached up and removed the pin that was holding it up, turned it over and made sure that I was the only one who ever got to experience her secrets.
From that day forward, I felt like I had a piece of her that nobody else did. I craved that feeling, I needed that—it was the beginning of my sick habit of checking that damn board for years and taking home every single damn postcard she put in there.
* * *
I pulled on my favorite worn in pair of jeans, a flannel and my boots.
I love fall in Saddlebrooke. The leaves have all turned and there’s just something about it that feels like possibilities.
I’m in a good mood despite my lack of sleep—which I’d like to think is because of the crisp air, and the promise of coffee, but I think it has more to do with her being back in town, and the hope of seeing her across from me at breakfast this morning.
I hop into the cab of my truck, turn the heat on.
It’s a 1970 though, and the heater leaves something to be desired.
I layered up in my waxed trucker jacket and I always keep a spare beanie in the glove box, so it doesn’t bother me much.
I guess I’m just used to it. I head down the road to Mel’s to grab a coffee and wait for Nook & Novel to open up.
I haven’t checked that board in years. The novelty of the whole project wore off a bit in the town, and I guess I just started trying to give her up. But like anything you try to quit, it only takes a tiny hit to drive you mad.
I finish my coffee and check my watch, it’s about a five minute walk from Mel’s to the book shop, so I make my way out the door giving Mel a nod and a wave as I push open the door. I’m greeted with a cool gust of air, and I head towards the Nook.
As soon as I arrive, I see Mira inside shuffling around some books at the display by the door. I groan and rub my hand across my scruff. I was hoping Mira wouldn’t be working today. That woman has been onto me for years and I’d really like to avoid her comments this morning.
I push open the door, “Good morning Mira, you’re looking lovely as ever.” I say warmly. “Do you happen to have the latest issue of Hook and Barrell?”—a magazine that I do in fact read, and have sent to my apartment, and is in fact sitting on my coffee table as we speak.
“Cut the bullshit, babe.” She says with a smug look.
“She dropped a secret in the box last week.” She just winks at me.
I pull my lips together and just head towards the board without saying a word.
I stand there, scanning the bulletin board looking for one of Birdie’s secrets.
That’s when I see it. It’s a postcard with an oil painting of the Grand Canyon on the front. I flip it over to see her secret scrawled in black ink. Always black ink.
I’ve turned into everything I was always running from. A walking cliche. An unemployed artist with no real talent. -Until Next Time
I take the postcard and slide it into the back pocket of my jeans and return the push pin to the board.
It feels like I’ve been punched in the gut and I’m having a hard time dealing with the reaction I’m having to the way she feels about herself.
In that moment, it’s like my entire life’s purpose has shifted into only wanting to shield and protect her from the way she feels about herself and any person who makes her feel less than what she is.
I head straight for the door and giving Mira a wave. My stride is fast and determined as I hear her holler, “I’ve got your copy of Hook and Barrell over here at the register.” Without even looking back, “I’ve already got one at home. Thanks, Mira!”
I’m going to fix this.