I don’t need to be afraid anymore. Don’t need to be ashamed.
Dawsonhas me. And he’s all I need.
11
EVIE
Three days later,I’m standing in Dawson’s kitchen wearing his T-shirt and a pair of mauve sweatpants that he bought me, flipping pancakes like I’ve been doing it my whole life. The sun streams through the windows, and I’m smiling because for the first day since I can remember, I didn’t wake up eventhinkingabout reaching for Charles.
I woke up reaching for Dawson.
And there he was, pulling me close, whispering sweet things into my ear as he slid his hand between my thighs and gave me the kind of good morning that no toy could ever reproduce.
I looked into his eyes and came apart while he covered my mouth with his rough palm to keep me from waking the neighbors.
I’m smiling at the memory when the front door nearly bursts off its hinges.
“Evie Morris, you had better be alive!”
Reese storms into the kitchen like a Navy Seal, only instead of guns in her hands, she has iced coffees. And murder in her eyes.
“I’m alive,” I reply, holding my spatula defensively. “And I’ve been meaning to call—”
“I’ve texted you forty-seven times! I’ve had about enough of this you-ignoring-me thing.” She sets the coffees down and puts a hand on her hips, scanning me from head to toe. “You’re wearinghisclothes.”
“Well…the pants are mine.”
“Uh huh.” She looks around the kitchen. At the dishes I’ve organized, the fresh flowers I picked from the yard and placed on a vase on the counter. Her eyes bug out when she sees the grocery list I started on the fridge. “Evie, have youmoved inwith him!?”
“Um, not officially,” I reply, flipping a pancake, pretending it takes more concentration than it does. “I’m just…staying here. For a bit.”
“For a bit,” she repeats, pulling out a chair from the table. Her expression shifts from annoyance to something I can’t quite read. “So walk me through this. Because the last time I saw you, you were freshly deflowered. And now you’re Carol Brady.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. I know you don’t watch good old TV.” She takes a long, disgruntled sip of her coffee. “So spill.”
I do. I tell her about the morning after, about my minor anxiety spiral and how Dawson managed to calm me down. About how he brought me breakfast, my clothes on the dresser, and most importantly, the way he makes me feel safe.
I even tell her about the sex. We’re comfortable with each other like that. Not every detail, but enough. Then I tell her about how he asked me to move in with him and I said I’d think about it but then just never left.
Reese listens, and when I’m done, she’s quiet for alongmoment. So long I start to fidget.
“What is it?” I ask, my stomach starting to knot.
“Okay,” she breathes. “Can I be honest with you?”
Those words never precede anything good, and I know that, but this is Reese we’re talking about. So I nod. “Okay.”
She leans forward, and for the first time since I’ve known her, she looks genuinely concerned. No teasing, no sarcasm. Just worry.
“Evie, I get what he’s done for you. He got you out of your apartment, broke through your walls, and that’s all amazing.” She pauses. “But, babe…you went from using Charles six times a day to being completely wrapped up in this man in less than a week. You haven’t even mentioned a design project. You’re wearing his clothes, cooking his meals, cleaning his house, and just waiting for him to come home.”
I’m starting to get defensive. “So?”
“So…doesn’t that sound like going from one addiction to another?” She gestures at me, then in the direction of my apartment. “You were obsessed with a vibrator, now you’re obsessed with a man. It’s the same pattern.”
Her words hit me like a splash of ice water to the face. My hand tightens around the spatula as I stare at her. “That’s not what this is.”
