“It’s two-fifteen…and OU still sucks!”
I couldn’t help answering Nate’s Cheshire Cat grin with my own. He seemed pleased with himself as we headed off towards our classes, and I decided having Nate as a friend didn’t sound so bad. In fact, it sounded pretty good right now. Maybe Dawson wasn’t my only source of light after all.
It waspandemonium in Dawson’s and Nate’s apartment as the clock ran down the final seconds of the game. UT was trailingOU by three points and if they got this touchdown, they’d clinch the Red River showdown.
Dawson was locked in, hunting for his opening and feeling the pressure. I saw the offensive line caving and my heart plummeted, bracing myself to watch Dawson get sacked. The line broke and just as the defense rushed in, Dawson launched the ball with a force that made my own arm throb. It sailed cleanly into the hands of his wide receiver who shot off like a rocket.
“Holy shit! Let’s goooo!”
“Run, motherfucker, RUN!”
“Come on, you’ve got this! Go go go!”
Loud shouts from Nate, Griffin, and Bash rang in my ears as they all leapt from their seats. When my throat started to hurt, I noted incredulously that I was yelling along with them. The bubble of anhedonia I’d been trapped in for weeks popped without me noticing, even if only temporarily.
Soon, everyone joined us, our shouts coalescing into a booming cheer as the receiver sprinted into the end zone, sealing the win. Limbs flailed around me in excitement, hugging and shaking me vigorously while we watched Dawson and his team celebrating their victory on the sidelines.
“Holy fucking Sooner-balls! Our boy kicked ass!” Nate cried, clapping his hands to my cheeks, which were sore from how wide I was grinning.
I turned my attention back to the TV, hoping to catch as many glimpses of Dawson as I could. The cameras slowly panned over the team, and when I saw Dawson’s smile, there was no emptiness behind it. No exhaustion. Only pure, undiluted joy.
And it was so fucking beautiful.
He’d been different since getting his decision to quit off his chest, and I was glad our talk seemed to bring him some relief.My fingers itched to dig out my phone and call him, to hear the triumph and laughter in his voice. But I knew he wouldn’t get it, not for a few more hours at least, especially with the celebration that would undoubtedly follow.
Instantly, that dark cloud rolled in and washed out any happiness I had. Irrational and toxic feelings of sadness, jealousy, and abandonment filtered in, the bubble around me trying to reform into something thicker and more potent.
I fucking hated this. I hated myself for being this way. It wasn’t fair that I didn’t get to hold onto my happiness, my peace. This illness was always there to taint it or steal it away. Even when I did what I was supposed to do—take my pills, be honest with Dawson, lean on my support system—it still wasn’t enough.
Why am I never enough?
When do I get to be normal?
I was only half-aware as I snuck away from the group and slid into Dawson’s empty bedroom. I closed and locked the door, his warm, woodsy scent wrapping around me like I wished he could right now. I crawled into his bed, burying my face in his pillow and clutching my phone to my chest, waiting for his call.
But it never came.
I wokeup groggy and confused, sleep and reality weaving around one another in a disorienting haze. Keane was playing somewhere in the ether around me, bringing me sweet memories of Dawson singing for me. I finally shook off the fog of sleep, slowly piecing together that I was in Dawson’s bed and my phone was ringing the muffled song under the covers.
I frantically dug around in the sheets until I found it and elation rushed through me seeing the FaceTime request. Dawson’s face filled the small screen and the void fell away.
“Mornin’ baby,” Dawson rumbled happily, the softest smile on his pretty face. It was a hit of serotonin, infusing my system with a heady pleasure.
“It’s not fair for you to look that sexy this early,” I griped without heat. He really was so fucking hot. Dawson’s bed-rumpled hair, sleep-swollen lips, and scratchy morning voice were doing it for me.
“Trust me, I’m not. I’m hungover as fuck,” he grimaced. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to call you last night. I got in later than planned.”
“No need to apologize, babe. So what does a victor of the Red River Rivalry do to celebrate exactly?” I asked dramatically, ignoring the twinge of paranoia that seeped in.
“A bunch of my buddies dragged me out for drinks, but we had a curfew so we snuck some more drinks back in the hotel and got pretty wasted.”
“What, no stripper cake for the champions?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s for bachelor parties.”
“Ugh, what kind of meathead jock are you? There’s never a wrong time for a stripper cake, Dawson. Don’t be a spoilsport.”
Dawson huffed a laugh, looking up at me through his ridiculously long eyelashes that had the ability to melt my brain. Holy hell, I missed him.
