And while the ladies in the salon made naughty, lustful comments about the photo they flashed featuring that insanely muscled physique of his, I followed the movement of Dawson’s loose fist as he caught the corner of his jaw with his thumb, looked straight into the camera, and slowly glided it to rest beneath his chin. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely, “but I still miss those days.”
I practically melted right there in the salon chair. He’s still thinking of me after all this time. After all those roles. After all those women. Not that the onscreen stuff represents what’s happening in real life; when asked, Dawson was quick to say there was no significant other, which is probably what made saying no to Marsha Langston…notso easy.
But I did it, and the more reasons I gave her, the easier it got.
Until we hung up.
Now, I am itching to call her back and change my answer. It’s like that creepy old jack-in-the-box my great uncle had in the playroom. You wind up the tiny gear, faster and faster as the tension gets so thick you can feel it.
My mind is that traitorous finger and thumb, pinching the lever and cranking it over with reckless abandon. And I’m the conflicted clown with a dumb grin on her face, ready to spring into action.
But that’s simply the romantic in me. The part that forgets why Dawson and I took a break in the first place and why that temporary break got shoved into permanent status.
Dawson’s drive to seizeeveryopportunity was unyielding. And while it got him where he is today, I knew it would come with a cost. Or perhaps a casualty is the better word. If forwarding his career mattered above all else, where did that leave me?
Still, with Dawson at a safe distance over the last two years, I could fondly recall the good times we shared without threatening my resolve. A resolve that took discipline, mental focus, and at least one and a half years to build. But build it I did, like a dam, solid and strong as the Hoover. It’s the Dawson Dam, and it’s not about to budge.
And to think I almost caved and binged the docuseries he hosted. Thank heavens I came to my senses.
I think back on my conversation with Marsha Langston. How transparent must I have been? Firing off my objections at machine-gun speed with scarcely a breath in between?
Suddenly my hand starts to vibrate.
Before I even glance at the thing, my eyes widen, my pulse quickens, and my throat gets tight. I lift the phone to check the screen and gasp when I recognize the number. It’s Marsha Langston again.
My thumb makes the executive decision before I give it the go-ahead, and soon I hear Marsha’s voice coming through the line.
“Thanks for answering.” When it comes out muted, I tap the speaker prompt on my screen.
“I just got off the phone with Dawson, and he wants me to pass on a message. It’s a second attempt, actually, to show you how important this is to him. How importantyouare.”
A swell of rising waves crashes against the Dawson Dam. The jack-in-the-box is ticking like a timebomb about to blow.Calm, Brinley. Take a deep breath.
“And,” Marsha continues, “if his offer changes your mind, we’ve decided to double the donation we’ll make to your charity.”
Double?That alone has me reconsidering. Their first offer would have put three hundred kids through the week-long program and given us a good start on the addition to the center. Could I live with the guilt of turning down a donation that size?
“Okay,” I say cautiously.
“Dawson would like to extend the show’s duration and go into the sixth day. That would, of course, cause him to miss the Emmys, but he’s willing to do that as a demonstration of what matters to him most.”
A wave of nausea rolls through me. This speaks directly to myoneissue with Dawson, doesn’t it? I accused him of making his career more important than me.
“Brinley?”
“I’m here,” I manage, working to reel in my scattering thoughts. I start with the most obvious one. “I would never let him miss the Emmys,” I say. “He might think I don’t see value in award shows like that, but he’d be wrong. They matter.” Heck, even whatIdo gets a nod at those awards shows in the special effects categories. In fact, Janis and I were nominated just last year for the long-standing job we did for The Darker Side.
“Not to mention,” I add, “I’d have every woman in America blaming me for making him miss the ceremony.”
“Hmm,” Marsha says. “But it’s fascinating that he made the offer, don’t you think?”
I consider that. “Maybe…” But as I give it more thought, enlightenment strikes. Dawson, miss the Emmys, never. “Hehasto know I wouldn’t let him do it. In fact, I bet he’s counting on that.”
“Countingon it?” Marsha repeats. “You’re saying it’s a hollow offer because he knows you’ll insist that he go?”
“Exactly.” Call me a skeptic, but I dated the guy for a year, which was long enough to know how he operates.
“I wonder if that’s true,” Marsha says thoughtfully.
