“The other reason I didn’t want to discuss it is because…well, I know that if youhadseen it, or that if I adequately explained the crux of it and youstillcouldn’t see me in a different light, there wouldn’t be hope for us. And I really wanted there to be hope for us.”
He reallywantedthere to be hope for us. Does that mean it’s since been snuffed out? The question plants a fresh sliver of fear in me.
He clears his throat. “I know it might seem egotistical to focus on this need of mine, but that’s because my character was in question, and I was desperate to fix that.
“Still, you deserve to be seen too. It has to go both ways. I want you to know that I see what you’ve gone through. I know how it’s shaped your perception, and that you’ve been protecting yourself the best way you know how.”
A deep sense of gratitude rushes through me. His words are a warm hug from the other side of the curtain, melting away the shame I feel for reacting the way I did.
“I like what you said about our breakup. Itdidneed to happen. If it weren’t for that, I wouldn’t have taken a deeper look at myself. I could have lost sight and let the ego monster turn me into your worst fear. Who knows?”
His words deepen the swell of emotion rising within me, causing the tears to start up once again.
I perform another elephant-sounding blow into the shriveled tissue, and another appears beneath the curtain. I snatch it up. “Thanks.”
“Okay,” Marsha says. “I think you’ve each expressed the things that helped you come to your conclusion. So, without speaking to one another, I’d like you to open your boxes one at a time. Dawson, you go first.”
Great.They’re having Dawson go first? Anyone who watches these types of shows knows that’s not a good sign. Have the one who wants to pursue the relationship put themselves out there first. Make it all the more dramatic and sad when the rejected participant finds out they’ll be flying solo and nursing a broken heart.
There’s a tiny, indecipherable sound from the other side of the curtain, followed by a sigh.
I lean closer to the curtain, wondering if that was a good sigh—oh-good-she-wants-to-be-with-me-too sort of thing, or a bad one—I-hate-to-break-Brinley’s-heart type of deal.
The small thud that follows has me picturing the sound of catching the apple after a small toss, something I did several times leading up to the performance.
“As you can see, Dawson,” Marsha says, “Brinley would like to continue dating you beyond the show. Now, it’s Brinley’s turn.
“Brinley,” she continues, “in a moment, I’ll instruct you to open the box before you. An empty box will signify that Dawson no longer wishes to pursue the relationship. You two will say your goodbyes, and go back to living your own, separate lives."
I nod. That statement might have seemed innocent enough to an outsider, but to me, it sounded like a warning. I picture Dawson and all his brown-eyed glory. That killer smile, the way he winks while teasing me, and the new levels of depth I discovered while watching the docuseries. I think of the tender way he cradles my neck while we kiss, or the possessive way he squeezes my hips and draws me closer. I consider the fact that he initiated this entire process, all to get a second chance with me.
“If, however,” Marsha says, “you find Dawson’s stage object lying in the box—an indication that he’d like to pursue the relationship—you and Dawson will enjoy the luxury date of your choice, our treat.
“Okay, Brinley, go ahead and open your box.”
If I was anxious and nauseous before, it was nothing compared to this. That was baby-pond anxiety, and this is ocean-deep stuff with massive waves and crashing torrents.
I rest my fingers at either side of the box’s lid, the way I did with mine, and let out a slow exhale.If it’s empty, you’ll have to accept it. At least for today,I amend. Would it be bad for me to reach out to him after this is through? And at least explain, perhaps better than I did just now, that…
Just open it,I grumble inwardly.
I do, slowly cracking open the box, eyes aimed on the black velvet folds within. My pulse quickens as I see more of that velvet than I imagined I might. In fact, it looks empty.
My heart feels empty too suddenly. Wiped clean from all the warmth and hope that dwelt there.
But then I see it, the butt end of an axe, reminding me of the way Nick sliced into his palm on stage. It means that he wants to move on, which I’ll process very soon, but first, I soak in the sight. Right here, right now, it’s a symbol of forgiveness. Acceptance. Grace.
Suddenly the curtain between us drops dramatically to the floor. A deep sense of gratitude and relief pour over me as I shoot to my feet.
And as Dawson and I rush toward each other, fumbling with the fabric folds at our feet, my happiness is complete.
There are more things I want to tell him, like the way I’m able to see my own father in a different light thanks to the docuseries, and that it’s already helping me heal those wounds. I want to tell him that he’s one of the most incredible men I’ve ever known, and I’m the luckiest girl alive to have him.
In the lovely warmth of Dawson’s embrace, I can’t delay asking what’s on my mind. “Did the docuseries win last night?”
“Yes,” he says. “We did. I can’t believe it.”
I pull back to look at his eyes and am struck by the elation I see there. “I can,” I assure, “and I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for that.” I hug him tightly once more, willing him to feel just how true those words are. “I’m so proud of what you did, Dawson. And I’ll make up for missing it somehow, I promise.”
