Page 8 of Should the Sky Fall

He means to make quick work of showering—the last thing he should do is take even more time than he already has. His good intentions last only until he steps under the hot spray. The water pressure is amazing and feels like a balm on his muscles, stiff after hours of fitful sleep.

When he feels his fingers pruning, he regretfully steps out of the shower. Olivia must’ve planned to bully him into the shower, because there’s a fresh towel hanging on the rack among a few that are clearly in use.

He dries off, scrunching his nose as he reaches for yesterday’s clothes. He’d sweated through them last night, but he isn’t going to ask to borrow something from Ray. He can survive a couple of hours in sweaty clothes.

After he’s finished dressing, he collects his phone and heads downstairs. Olivia’s already sipping her coffee, an eyebrow raised in expectation.

At the thought of food, Dawson’s stomach rebels. “Not sure I can hold anything down at the moment.”

“You haven’t eaten since you got here,” Olivia points out and opens the cupboard. “Toast or Weetabix?”

Like talking to a brick wall. “Toast.” Not as hearty as Weetabix and he won’t have to wait for it to soften enough to eat.

With a curt nod, Olivia snatches a couple of slices from the pack and shoves them in the toaster. Knowing Dawson’s preferences, she plops a chunk of salted butter and a jar of marmalade on the table.

Pointedly ignoring Olivia’s searing gaze burning holes in the side of his face, he polishes off the toast before brushing the crumbs off his hands and taking his plate to the dishwasher.

He looks at Olivia expectantly.

With yet another sigh, she heads upstairs and comes back with his car keys. Before he can pluck them from her hand, she fixes him with a look.

“Drive safe. Text me when you get back.”

“I will.” He’s both annoyed and touched by the mother-henning. “I’m sorry it was such a bust.”

Giving him a sad smile, Olivia hands over the keys. “I’m just happy I got to see you. And that you got to see the girls.”

Dawson’s first instinct is to get defensive—is she trying to guilt-trip him?—but her expression is open and genuine. He feels like a dick for being so touchy.

“They grow fast,” he concedes, sparing a mournful glance upstairs. He won’t have time to wait for the girls to wake up and say goodbye.

Olivia huffs, grinning. “Tell me about it. My bank account is crying. You try shopping for new clothes every few months.” Her smile fades. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

“I won’t,” Dawson says, praying it’s not a lie. He’s thankful when Olivia walks him to the door but doesn’t hug him. He’s not sure he’d be able to hold it together.

“Think about what I said, okay? Just think,” she stresses, when she senses Dawson wants to argue. “You don’tneedhim, Dee. You’re stronger than you realize.”

He has no idea what to say to that, because nothing could be further from the truth.

He gets into the car without looking back, knowing Olivia’s watching him. The remnants of the headache keep buzzing at his temples, making the drive back to the Coast more miserable than it was already going to be.

The two hours go both excruciatingly slow and all too fast. Despite having spent the night and the entire ride giving himself a pep-talk, Dawson’s hands shake as he unlocks the door to the apartment.

“I’m home!” His voice cracks only a little. “Cal?” he tries when there’s no response.

Cal must be home—his car was in the garage, and he rarely walks anywhere. On the other hand, it’s not even ten. If Cal drank last night—highly probable—he might still be asleep.

Leaving his shoes at the door, Dawson heads to the kitchen. He forgot to drink anything and he’s parched. Pulling a glass from the cupboard, he fills it with tap water and nearly chokes on his first sip when he spots Cal from the corner of his eye.

He clears his throat. “Oh. Hey.”

Half-sitting, half-leaning on the arm of the sofa, Cal is watching him with cold, calculating eyes, a tumbler of something in his hand. Dawson doesn’t have to guess what’s in it.

“How nice of you to show up,” Cal says, an edge to the words that has Dawson backing away and hitting the counter. The island between them creates some kind of barrier, at least.

“Sorry.” He sets the glass on the countertop to avoid spilling it. “I sent you a text—”

“I got your fucking text,” Cal hisses and pushes away from the sofa. “What of it?”