Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 75783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
After a moment, he brings two heaping portions of pot roast with warm, buttery rolls to the table and sets one down in front of me. I raise my eyebrows at him with a gentle laugh as I pick up my spoon and sink it into the bowl.
My mom would have a conniption if she saw me eating this. It might actually send her into cardiac arrest.
“Oh my god,” I say after I swallow my first bite. I lean back in the chair slightly and close my eyes, letting the flavors linger on my tongue. “If you haven’t already given Maggie a raise for this, you need to.”
Dawson laughs and nods. “Trust me, she’s very well compensated for this pot roast.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes, and both savor the delicious home-cooked meal Maggie made for us. My mind immediately drifts to my childhood and all the calorie-light meals my mom made for me, how I never really had the opportunity to know flavors like this.
“Is this what I’ve been missing in my life for so long?” I joke, dipping the roll in the sauce and savoring how perfect of a combination it is.
“You really like this, huh?” Dawson smiles at me, resting his elbows casually on the table, clearly forgoing every etiquette rule he was probably taught growing up. “It was actually my mom’s recipe. I found it in one of her cookbooks after she died, and I hung on to it. I’ve tried to get kitchen staff to recreate it, and none of them have been able to come close. With the exception of Maggie, of course.”
He glossed over his mother passing away so quickly that I feel like I should move on from it. But something about the longing and sadness in his eyes makes me want to know more. Henry hasn’t told me much about Dawson, so I had no idea he wasn’t just a child of divorce like everyone else in this town.
“I think it’s sweet that you’ve held onto it like that. It must be nice to still have something that reminds you so much of her,” I say, offering him a warm smile. “Do you mind if I ask you how old you were when she passed?”
Dawson looks down at his spoon, drops the stew that was sitting on top, and takes a deep breath. I feel like I’ve overstepped. It’s very clearly a touchy subject for him, and I didn’t want him to feel like he had to share something he wasn’t ready to. Both of us are entitled to our own stories. He didn’t force me to tell him about what happened to me. I don’t want him to feel like he needs to tell me about this.
He looks at me with a darkness in his eyes that sends a chill through my body. I open my mouth to tell him he doesn’t have to answer, but before I can, he speaks.
“I was fourteen,” he says, resting his hands in his lap and taking a deep breath as his eyes stay glued to mine. “I’m surprised Henry didn’t tell you everything about it already.”
“No, he didn’t tell me anything at all,” I admit, torn between telling him to stop and wanting him to explain. It’s a morbid curiosity, but I want to know more about him. I want to know what made him the way he is.
“I was supposed to be at an after-school club, but it was canceled because our advisor was sick. I wasn’t supposed to be home as early as I was, and I wasn’t supposed to be the one to find her,” Dawson says with a heaviness in his voice that makes me want to reach out and wrap my arms around him, to tell him it’s all going to be okay. I already know where the story is going. But I sit quietly and let him continue, anyway. “She was in the dining room, hanging from a ceiling fan with the chair kicked out from under her. There was a note on the table for my father, but I didn’t see it until after the paramedics came.”
“Oh my god, Dawson. I’m so sorry,” I instinctively say, knowing that it doesn’t do much to comfort him. He’s probably heard this enough as it is.
“I’ve had nightmares ever since. So, I know what you’re going through. No matter what I do, I can’t get the image out of my head.” He sighs and finally looks away from me back to the stew on the table. “Do you know how much therapy I had to go through? Absolutely none of it helped. There are just some things you’re not meant to forget about.”
He takes a deep breath and leans back, finishing telling me about his mom. I just watch him in silence, trying to imagine what he went through. I can’t even begin to put myself in his shoes. Walking in and seeing something as horrific as that must have been traumatic for him. It must have had a big impact on who he is now. If he hadn’t seen anything like that, would he be as tense and strict as he is now? He might be an entirely different person if that didn’t happen.