Page 105 of Should the Sky Fall

Cal’s face falls, disappointment written all over it. “Oh. Sorry for keeping you up.” He peers up at Dawson through his eyelashes, smiling a little. “But thank you for keeping me company.”

“Anytime.” Dawson hovers, feeling like he should say something else. Deciding to let his gut feeling guide him, he says, “I like this. Hanging out and watching movies with you. When you’re not obsessing about some guy’s abs.”

“I wasn’t—” Cal stops, narrowing his eyes. “What about his abs?”

Dawson throws his hands in the air in despair. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Nothing! Nothing about his abs, or anyone’s abs. You worry about your abs, because they’re sliced in the middle.”

Cal sinks back into the sofa. “I can get abs like that.”

Dawson nearly sobs. “I can’t do this. I’m going to bed. Forget about Tatum, okay?”

If Cal’s face is anything to go by, that’s not gonna happen.

Ellis is so, so dead.

Chapter 17

Alittleoveraweek later, Dawson has almost gotten used to this being his life now. ‘Almost’ being the keyword.

Which is why he’s currently on his way to the psych appointment, his left foot drumming nervously against the floor next to the brake. It’s not that he’s having second thoughts about therapy, per se. He’s well aware he desperately needs it, and if Cal hadn’t been in charge of their finances and controlled where Dawson spent the money, he’d have gone way sooner. It’s just when he made the appointment, he had a specific goal in mind. He made it meaning to talk about Cal. The old Cal. Now, he needs to talk about the man who wears his husband’s face but is nothing like him.

As if it hadn’t been complicated enough.

He arrives at the location shortly, sitting in the car for a few minutes to gather his bearings.

He takes the stairs to the third floor where Ashley’s office is supposed to be and comes to a stop, looking around curiously. No reception desk, just an unassuming leather bench pushed against the wall opposite the door with Ashley’s name plate. Huh. Okay, so he probably doesn’t need to announce himself. Ashley will come out once she’s done and call him in. Probably.

A jittery sensation pooling in his lower back, Dawson sits down, wringing his fingers together. He checks the time—he’s six minutes early. Six minutes of torture while he waits. His left leg starts bouncing again.

Trying to focus on anything other than his racing thoughts, he attempts to listen in on what might be going on inside. Yeah, not the most polite thing to do, but he’s not trying to eavesdrop, just distract himself. And maybe gauge what’s awaiting him. Not that it matters because he can’t hear a thing. Maybe Ashley’s not there? Dawson could be her first client today. Sure, it’s already three o’clock, but what does he know about therapists’ working hours?

He startles when the door swings open, a man in his mid-thirties standing on the other side. Must be the client Ashley just finished with. His gaze falls on Dawson, and his lips quirk up in a half-smile.

“You must be Dawson.”

“Yes?” Dawson says, not quite understanding why the man wants to know.

The half-smile grows into a full one, and the man steps to the side, casually leaning against the door-frame. “I believe we have an appointment. Ashley Cleaver—“ He flicks an imaginary hat. “But call me Ash.”

Dawson continues to sit there, staring with his mouth slightly ajar. “You’re a man.”

One of the man’s—Ash’s—brows flicks up, his lips pursing like he’s fighting a smile. “Yes, and believe me, there are days I wish it weren’t so, but…” He gives a slow shrug. “We have to work with what we’ve got.”

It occurs to Dawson that Ash is waiting for him to say or do something, anything that probably doesn’t involve staring like a moron. He jumps to his feet, his face on fire. “I’m so sorry. I sound like a douche. I just…your name and…” He tries to remember if Gabe has mentioned at any point that Ash is not a chick, but he vaguely recalls only hearing him refer to Ash by his name or calling him ‘cousin’.

Ash waves it off. “It’s fine. Not the first time it’s happened, and won’t be the last. My parents have a lot to answer for. But if I remember correctly, you booked an appointment via a phone call.” He says like a question, clearly for the sake of Dawson disputing him.

That’s right. Dawson did call and spoke to someone who had a decidedly male voice. “I thought I was speaking to the receptionist.” Which he realizes in retrospect was a stupid assumption. Don’t most therapists have a private practice and handle everything on their own? At least that’s what it says in the movies and books.

“Ah. That explains it,” Ash says easily, not even bothering to point out how inaccurate that assumption was. “Are you comfortable with a male therapist?”

And that’s the bottom of it, isn’t it? Dawson subconsciously expected Ash to be a woman because he’d be more comfortable with one. “Depends. Do you have anything against gay men?” he asks without thinking it through. It’s a legitimate question, but surely Gabe wouldn’t hook him up with a homophobic ass, right?

If Ash is taken aback by the question, he doesn’t show it. He snickers, then flashes Dawson a toothy grin. “Yeah. Usually myself.” Dawson must make some comical face, because Ash presses his lips together, like he knows he said something he shouldn’t have. Oh, how Dawson can relate. “Probably too much to share from the get go. Anyways—” He sweeps one arm in the direction of the office. “Come on in.”

Dawson does so reluctantly, feeling strangely on display. It’s apt, they’re going to be dissecting him after all. Maybe it’s not too late to turn back—

“Have a seat,” Ash says, gesturing towards the sofa that has some pillows and a Pusheen the Cat plushie sitting there. Dawson makes a grab for it as he sits down, finding himself smiling. The cat is holding a pink donut in its tiny paws, munching on it, and it reminds him of Cal’s newfound obsession with the pastry.