Chapter 35 Birdie
Birdie
What an eventful afternoon.
I finished the mural at Southbound, I told Max to ‘fuck off’ in so many words, and I cried into Dawsen’s t-shirt for a solid five minutes. So, I’ve made no significant progress in my journey from my pathetic, jobless existence, especially because I’m jobless once again.
I cleaned up all the painting supplies at the winery and loaded them into the back of my car.
I just wanted to get out of there as fast as I could and to not see Dawsen again.
My mind is just out of control from this day, and I needed to just make a quick escape.
I gave Greg and Savannah a hug goodbye and told them I’d see them sometime soon, and Greg handed me a bottle of wine as a parting gift.
I’m about to pull open my driver’s side door when I see a flower wedged into the handle. A simple daisy that has been plucked from a small plant that’s just a few feet away lining the sidewalk.
Dawsen.
I smile, bring it to my nose to inhale the fresh scent.
I look at it, and as beautiful as it is, it makes me sad.
It makes my heart ache for something I want so bad, and then it makes me so mad.
Mad because I feel like I’m being strung along.
Like I’m being teased and taunted. And confused.
Confused because one day I’m pining after a man I believe has only ever seen me as his best friend’s little sister, and then the next day I’m pining after that same man but it turns out he’s pining after me too.
Confused because he’s refusing to do anything about it. Confused because why not.
Without another thought, I slide into my car and toss the daisy onto the floorboard of the passenger seat.
Under different circumstances, I would have taken that daisy home with the utmost care.
I would have pressed it in between the pages of books to flatten it, then I would later display it in a frame because to me, small things have always been the big things to me.
But I don’t want to be strung along, and I don’t want to be made a fool of anymore.
So that tiny little flower will not take up anymore space in my life.
I reach for my seat belt and buckle myself in for the short drive to Nook ) good luck!
Casey: I’ll swing on by tonight with ice cream.
Me: Phish Food, please. I have wine :)
Casey: See you then!
I stand up and hike my bag up onto my shoulder and head towards the front of the store, but I’m stopped in my tracks when I see a small display table near the register with stacks of The Daily magazine… with a picture of Dawsen Jones on the cover.
My head feels hot almost immediately and my stomach fills with butterflies seeing the photo of him.
He’s standing against the tasting counter in the winery, looking sinfully sexy.
His hair is perfectly mussed, and his outfit is casual.
It’s perfectly him. Like he didn’t give his outfit much thought, but when you look like that, you don’t need to.
Once I pull myself from the trance, I’m met with confusion.
Why is he on the cover of a national magazine.
Like, did I miss something? I grab a copy and flip it open, frantically searching for the cover story.
It’s there, in the middle of the magazine, a full four page spread of Dawsen Jones.
An expose on the Merc and Southbound. My mouth goes dry as I read the words splashed across the pages, and my heart stills when I read his quoted words beneath the interviewers question about the name of the winery and what inspired the name change.
“Yeah, I mean, it was definitely inspired. There’s this girl.
I mean, it’s always a girl isn’t it, the reason any man does anything?
Well, yeah, she moved away. You could say she flew south for the winter, which makes more sense if you knew her.
But yeah, anyways, she moved away to the city, and she’s the muse behind the name. ”
My hands are literally shaking, and I’m so immersed in this damn article, I don’t even notice Mira has been looking at me.
“He’s something else, isn’t he?” Mira says, breaking my focus.
“Mira. What the hell? When did he do this interview.”
“Awhile back, you were still in the city. I knew the boy had it bad for you, but I didn’t know just how bad.” She says, almost joyfully.
My heart is pounding, and it feels like my mind is trying to play catch-up or connect the dots.
I had no idea he felt this way.
“Why didn’t he tell me?! I don’t get it.” My whole body feels like it’s been jolted by caffeine and electricity.
“Can I pay for this later? I need to go talk to Dawsen.” I say, as I’m practically running out the door.
“Nonsense, It’s yours. Go get ‘em tiger.” Mira hollers at me as I run out the door.
And I do quite literally run down the block until I get to the front doors of Southbound.
I pull them open with fury and walk right up to Greg and demand to know where Dawsen is.
He looks all too amused with the scene I’ve just caused.
Calmly, smiling, he asks, “So, I’m guessing you read the article?”
“Yep” I say, popping the ‘p’
“He’s upstairs.” Greg says, pointing me towards the hallway that leads up to Dawsen’s loft.
Without another word I run up the steps, skipping every other, while simultaneously being impressed by my athleticism in the moment.
I reach the door to his loft and pound my fist against it. It doesn’t take but 20 seconds until Dawsen pulls the door open and I push myself in.
“What the hell is this?” I ask, I can feel tears sliding down my cheeks, holding open the magazine an inch from his face. Just in case he needs to jog his memory.
“It’s my cover story interview I did with The Daily a couple months ago.” He answers my rhetorical question, which is all very irritating in the moment.
“You know what I mean, Dawsen.” I drop the magazine and walk up to him. We’re so close, our shoes are touching, and I can sense how fast his heart is beating.
I’m peering up at him, and his gaze is locked on mine.
The way I crave this man, and how effortlessly he named his winery after me, like it was nothing. I take a deep breath, feeling like I can’t quite catch it.
“What’s stopping you, Dawsen? Why don’t you want to have me? And don’t give me some bullshit answer that explains nothing. I deserve more than that. And you know damn well that I’m right.”
He sighs, and his brows are furrowed, and he moves his hand to my face, pushing my hair behind my ear.
“You’re right. You deserve more, and that’s why.”
“No, that’s bullshit. You don’t get to decide what I want or don’t want.” I spit out.
“It’s just complicated, Birdie.” He says, his tone is calm, but he’s on edge.
“It’s not complicated. It’s not complicated if you don’t want it to be.” My words are heated, and laced with frustration, with longing, with sadness.
There’s just silence between us now. My eyes are fixed on him, and I’m not backing down until I get a reasonable answer.
His head drops, he steps forward and brings his forehead to rest on mine. His hands find mine, and he starts tracing circles on them with his thumb. This is the most intimate moment I’ve ever had with Dawsen Jones, the closest I’ve ever been to him, and my heart is racing.
“When my mom died, I watched a part of my dad die too. I took the love of his life from him. My choices ruined him. I can’t ever bring her back.
There’s nothing I can do about it, Birdie.
I ruined my dad’s life, and I can’t let myself have the love of mine.
I don’t deserve that. I don’t get to take that from my dad and have it for myself.
I don’t deserve it…” His eyes are full of tears, and I can hear the pain in his voice.
“I know that might not make sense, but I have to live with the consequences of my actions.” He adds, and I know in that moment how much pain this man has been holding, how much anguish and regret he’s been living with.
I back away from him slightly. Putting space between us.
“So this is how you’re punishing yourself?”
He looks at me, his eyes wet, and with so much pain, he answers, “yes.”
My hands are shaking at his admission.
“Have you ever considered that your choice was actually punishing me too?” I say, my voice cracks and I can’t stop the tears now.
“I never knew of your feelings, I swear. I never intended for any of this to come out. I didn’t even realize the caliber of that interview when I agreed to it, and I was caught off guard by that question, I didn’t know what else to say.”
“So then what about that night in the motel? Were you caught off guard then too?” I ask, tears streaming down my face and anger in my voice.
Dawsen steps closer to me again.
“Yes. Dammit, I’m weak, Birdie.” He rubs his hands over his face.