DoesMyBreathStink60: I’ve decided to focus on something more than meaningless hookups.
DoesMyBreathStink60: Not that you asked. I wanted you to know.
For once, it’s not my dyslexia that’s making the words hard to read. It’s Dawson’s confession. I can’t seem to understand or fully grasp what he’s said. I close my eyes, and the ladle I am using to stir the juice clinks against the sides of the glass pitcher as I really focus on my phone.
But his words stay the same.
I swallow as I drop the phone to the counter, running my fingers down my arm to pinch myself.
I wince.
Shit. So this is real life. Awesome. Which means I did wake up this morning, and just like I have since the moment I flicked his nose, I have done everything not to think of Dawson.
News flash, I suck at not thinking of Dawson.
It isn’t my fault, though. He’s everywhere.
The communications building, outside the space where we meet for the dyslexia group I run, and even at Best Buy, though, in his defense, I don’t think he knew I was there. He was looking at computers with Louis and Jennings, but seeing him sent those butterflies he causes to go nuts in my belly. Especially when Louis started giving him shit for fighting with their dad about sitting for this next week’s game. I wanted to defend him, remind his brother it’s Dawson’s choice, but it wasn’t my place.
I shouldn’t have wanted to do that.
It’s just… I did.
Again.
Apparently, I’m becoming a regular ol’ defender of Dawson Sinclair at every turn.
It’s insane.
It’s not me.
Yet…it is.
It’s his fault!
Each day, I learn something new about him, and I like the things I’ve learned.
That he skated before he walked.
That he didn’t start playing football until he was nine.
That his favorite girl cousin is Charlotte because she’s sweet and loves to eat cupcakes with him. And his favorite boy cousin is Harrison because he is the youngest boy and funny as hell.
When Dawson is on the road, he has an outfit that he wears for the trip there. He wears the same suit to all his games, hockey and football, and he has a specific outfit for the trip home. He never changes. It’s always the same three sets of clothes.No matter the weather. Even the same boxers and socks until he has to replace them. I laughed when he told me about a time that Louis washed his pink sweatbands from a Glow Run with Dawson’s travel boxers, turning them bright pink. He was mortified, but they looked so good on him, now he only wears pink underwear.
I think my face was as bright as said underwear when I was watching the video he had recorded to show me his pink boxers. Even with his teammates dogging him, he just laughed and showed the line of his pink boxers and a bit of abs that left me drooling. But it was his confidence as his friends made fun of him that really got me going. It’s impressive how nothing seems to set him off course. Everyone is telling him to pick a sport, but he won’t. He wants both, and he isn’t above working for it.
Then there is this thing with me.
True to his word, he has only sent videos and voice messages. He isn’t posting on Instagram anymore, almost as if these things are only for me. I crave them. I no longer dread seeing one of his buddies. Instead, I get excited, which is so bad. I know that, but I can’t help it either. I’m trying so hard to keep him at arm’s length, but I’m also holding on to DoesMyBreathStink60 like my favorite teddy bear. It feels safer over the messaging app. I can hide my face and the feelings that are growing.
I can fake that I’m still firmly in my own orbit and not floating around in his.
Being under his gaze, feeling his heat, knowing what his lips taste like, how I want to run my thumb along his hangnail like a freak… I feel wildly out of control.
A feeling I’m starting to want desperately.
The calmness of the two of us in that rink? Yeah, I want that.
