Losing Gabriel (8 page)

“How's it going?” Franklin asked.

Dawson was spending a morning of his holiday break hunched over a pile of paperwork on the floor of the den. “Look, another acceptance letter.” He waved the piece of paper. He'd been filling out paperwork and submitting applications for months to different colleges and universities, all in the northeast.

“That's five, yes?”

“What can I say? Everybody wants me.”

Franklin laughed. “I'll keep that in mind when I'm writing tuition checks. Thinking of any special major?”

“Probably business.” His high school aptitude test scores showed he had organizational, social, and leadership skills, scoring in the top five percent in math and in something designated as “high moral character.” Big hurrah.

“Not medicine, like your old man? Country needs doctors.”

Dawson didn't want to live his father's life. He'd seen medicine from both sides, from dark and light. Sometimes it fixed people. Or not. It hadn't fixed his mother. Plus the profession was all-consuming. He wanted a simpler way to make money, and earning a business degree seemed smart to him. “Can't be a doctor. I'd have to learn to play golf.”

Franklin burst out laughing. “Reason enough. My golf game stinks. No time to perfect it.” Then he grew serious. “Daw, the move here hasn't been all bad, has it? You've seemed pretty content lately.”

Having Sloan in his life had settled him and given him something to look forward to each day. “Still not in love with this place, but yeah, things are better.”

Franklin nodded, glancing at the paperwork on the floor. “What about Sloan? The two of you spend a lot of time together. She have college plans?”

The question dinged an alarm bell in Dawson's head. He leaned back on his elbows. “She's a terrific singer, has a really great voice. College isn't for everyone, you know. Why you asking?” Sloan's talk of a singing career was ever in Dawson's head. He knew how badly she wanted it, but for him, letting go of her once they graduated wouldn't be easy.

“I just…well, I don't want her to change
your
plans about college. Sometimes feelings for a girl can do that.”

“Dad, I wouldn't be doing all this paperwork if I wasn't going to college.” The look of relief on his dad's face didn't get past Dawson.

“Lots of girls on a college campus.”

“And I plan to meet them.” The words were more false than true. Sloan would be a hard act to follow for any girl who came along.

“I'll miss you when you leave.”

Franklin's nostalgic expression made Dawson uncomfortable because in spite of their head-butting over the past year, he would miss his father too—he just didn't want to say so. “You're not going all
girly
on me, are you, Dad?”

Franklin feigned horror. “Wouldn't dream of it. Simply a statement of fact. I've had you hanging around with me for almost eighteen years, you know. There's going to be a hole when you go away.”

“Don't rent my room. I'll come back to visit.”

Franklin crouched, grinned.
“Mi casa es su casa.”

“Dad, your accent sucks.”

Winter sunlight spilled across the floor from the windows. Dawson began to straighten up the papers and file folders on the floor. “I think I'll go for a run. Want to go with me? I'll run sloooow,” Dawson said. “Course, if you're too old…”

“Old! Me? Let me get my gear. Game on!”

Together they rose from the floor laughing, bumping, and jostling one another to get out the doorway first.

S
loan and Dawson were curled up together on the sofa in Dawson's basement on New Year's Eve, watching a horror movie. Gore dripped in living color on the big-screen TV. They had strung Christmas lights together around door frames, with bulbs that blinked in syncopation with music from his iPhone dock. His basement was a safe haven, away from the trailer and a life she hated.

Sloan wasn't in the mood for the movie. She wanted to watch the megastar singers and bands performing for the New Year's Eve party in Times Square. She imagined herself onstage in Times Square. Head trip!

He grinned, stroking her hair. “Popcorn?” He tossed popped kernels into his mouth from the bowl on the coffee table.

“Not now.” She cozied into Dawson's side like a burrowing kitten. She heard Franklin moving around upstairs. “Your dad going to watch the ball drop with us?”

“Probably.” Dawson didn't sound happy about it.

Sloan liked Franklin—he was nice to her—but she never felt truly alone with Dawson because his father constantly hovered in the background. She had no memories of her father, knew nothing about him except from LaDonna's vile descriptions of him, and of how he'd walked out on them. Yet Franklin often reminded her of a too strict teacher:
Do this, don't do that. Don't be late. Have you studied? Where are you going?
Franklin's house rules were so numerous, Sloan didn't know how Dawson kept track.

“Let's dump the movie, figure something else to do before Franklin crashes our party.”

Her kiss shot shivers through Dawson. “You're making me crazy.”
No exaggeration.

For weeks she'd taken to teasing him with her hands and mouth and tongue, running her hands under his shirt and waistband of his jeans, stroking his skin, turning it fiery, but darting away when he grabbed for her, laughing and wagging a finger and saying, “Uh-uh.” And for weeks he'd been wound tighter than a string on her guitar. He kept control, but just barely.

Sloan loved the game of keeping him on edge, of pushing, retreating, challenging his willpower and her power over him, something she found intoxicating, compelling. Feeling in control was a high she liked, one she'd rarely known. So far he'd always backed off.

Now, in the soft light of the room, she ran her hand beneath his shirt and across the flat plane of his abs, edged slowly downward under the waistband of his jeans. She heard his breath catch. With unexpected lightning speed, she snatched the TV remote from his hand and clicked over to a station promising a ripping good New Year's Eve party.

“Hey! No fair!” Dawson yelped, outmaneuvered. They wrestled for control of the remote, Sloan squealing and laughing, him tickling her mercilessly.

“Mine, mine, mine!” Dodging his hands, laughing, she fought to keep the remote.

“Mine!” he countered, rolling her backward on the sofa and pinning her hands above her head. He pried the remote from her fingers, flipped it back to the movie.

“Excuse me!” Franklin's voice from the basement stairs sobered them both, made them sit upright and twist their clothing back into place.

Dawson went hot, then angry. How long had Franklin been watching them? “So are we making too much noise? Neighbors complain?” Sloan scooted to the far end of the sofa.

Franklin came over, shot Dawson a warning look about his attitude. Realizing that his dad was wearing his winter coat, Dawson slouched. “Hospital called and EMTs just brought a family of four into triage. Pretty bad wreck with a semi. I need to check out the two kids, and if a surgeon's called in, I'll stay and keep an eye on them.”

The scenario was familiar to Dawson: Hospital calls. Dad leaves. An accident with injuries. He ditched his hostile mood. “Okay.”

Franklin wrapped the new plaid scarf Dawson had bought him for Christmas around his neck and tucked the ends into his coat. “You two be okay here alone?”

“Sure.” Dawson saw that his dad was in a hurry to leave. He glanced at Sloan and she nodded, wide-eyed.

“There's a deli tray upstairs. Help yourselves. And, Daw, when you drive Sloan home tonight, be careful. Lot of drunk loonies out on the roads.” Franklin turned, but halfway up the stairs, stooped and said, “Hey, you two…Happy New Year. Sorry we can't celebrate it together.”

Sloan returned his sentiment. Dawson mumbled his. When the kitchen door shut, every creak and whisper of the house was magnified. A scream from the horror movie made them both jump, then burst out laughing. Sloan politely reached for the remote. “I'm really over this movie.”

“Me too.” He gave over the remote and she surfed the channels, until she settled on one featuring the bands she most liked. During a commercial break, he said, “Time to raid the deli tray.”

Sloan followed him upstairs. Dawson dragged the tray from the fridge heaped with deli meat, cheeses, sliced veggies, and dip. “Yikes! Who was your dad expecting? The whole neighborhood?”

Dawson grabbed condiments and a bag of deli buns and set all beside the tray. “What? There's barely enough to share.”

She rolled her eyes. “Maybe I can take home a doggie bag.” She said it in jest, but it was in part a request. LaDonna was out for an all-nighter, and Sloan had no idea when she'd drag herself home the next day. As usual, there wasn't much to eat at the trailer.

Oblivious, Dawson slathered mustard on the top half of a bun. Sloan bumped him hard with her hip, making him drop the bun facedown on the countertop. “Hey!”

“Butterfingers,” she chided, grabbing her plate and a bag of chips and hurrying down into the basement.

He found her curled up on the sofa, munching her sandwich. He gave her a wicked grin and wiggled a soda can. “You forgot your drink. I brought it, but there'll be a price for handing it over.”

She gave him a smug look. “I have a drink.” She fished under the sofa and lifted up a bottle of champagne. “Unlike you, I'm willing to share for free.”

“Whoa, girl. Where'd you get that?”

“State secret.” She'd lifted it from a convenience store days before when the clerk was busy and not watching, but she wasn't about to tell him that.

Dawson took the bottle, wrapped in black foil and stamped with gold letters. He'd had beer and wine at parties with his friend Tad, but he'd never tasted champagne. Once Franklin had allowed him a sip of bourbon that had burned his mouth and made his eyes water. “Firewater,” Franklin had joked. “I'd rather you try it with me than at some party.” Dawson never confessed he'd already tried it at age thirteen at Tad's house. Now he gave Sloan a conspiratorial grin. “You like this stuff?”

“Never had it before. Thought we should drink some together. For New Year's Eve.” She wanted to taste the stuff and had hoped Dawson's dad wouldn't mind if they all sipped it together to welcome the New Year. But now Franklin was gone.

“I'll get some glasses.”

“Hurry. The ball drops in fifteen.”

He returned with glasses and set them on the coffee table. “When did you sneak it inside?”

“When you weren't looking, silly.”

He worked the cork up, and when it popped out, the liquid erupted into a cascade that gushed down the bottle's sides and onto the floor. They laughed while Sloan sopped up the overflow with an afghan from the sofa.

Dawson poured two glasses full of the golden liquid that roiled with tiny bubbles. He gulped it. She tasted it. He scrunched his face. “I think you're supposed to sip it,” Sloan said.

They each drank a second glass full. “Taste grows on you,” Dawson said.

“Makes me want to giggle,” Sloan said, giggling.

He poured them each another glass as the TV started playing “Auld Lang Syne.”

“Uh-oh, here it comes! Watch.” She pointed at the screen as an enormous crystal ball began its descent from a lofty tower and the crowds in Times Square hundreds of miles away from Windemere shouted out a countdown from ten to one. When the ball came to rest, and the brilliantly lit number of the New Year flashed on the screen, and confetti blanketed the TV people, Sloan set down her empty glass, set aside Dawson's glass, and dove into his arms. Her head was spinning, and when his hot and hungry mouth met hers, she made up her mind as to how she wanted to complete their celebration.

Sloan pushed up his sweatshirt. His dark eyes bore into her blue ones. “What…?”

She tugged off her sweater and bra. His gaze roamed her body with a look more intoxicating than the champagne. “You make me happy, Dawson.” She lifted his hand, pressed a kiss into the palm, placed it against her breast, and watched goose bumps rise across his bare skin.

He couldn't stop staring at her. She was so beautiful….His head swam and heat spread through his body, hot fingers of need. “You make me happy too. I—I love you, Sloan.” He'd never said that to a girl, but it was true. He loved her.

She threw back her head, smiled, and looked back down at him. “So then let's be happier together.” She kissed him, lowering her body onto his. Skin pressed against skin. Breath mingled with breath.

On the wall, the TV announcer told the viewing audience good night and Happy New Year. Dawson fumbled to find the remote, and when he did, the screen went dark and the room went quiet, bathed only in the colors of Christmas past.