ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS

21.

Dawson freezes. His breath catches in his throat even though it's not Adam's voice. For a second, his mind plays a trick on him.

"Oh, hey."

It's Hyppolite Jones.

He's sauntering towards him with his hands jammed into his pockets. His hair is, as usual, combed back and his smile is so white it's almost blinding. "Not going home for Christmas?"

"So it seems."

"Same," he shrugs with nonchalance. "My parents didn't even bother to ask."

Dawson scoffs. "No offense, but your parents are horrible."

"None taken," the boy smiles amusedly. "What about you? Why are you staying?"

"I don't celebrate Christmas."

Then, to Dawson's surprise, he lets out a frisky laugh, "Just when I thought you couldn't get more interesting."

Dawson casts him a confused glance.

"Look, I have this friend in Castro who's throwing a party on Christmas Eve. More like a small gathering, actually. You're welcome to come if you want."

Dawson squints skeptically. "What kind of party?"

"The kind with lots of alcohol and cool people," Hyppolite drawls. "Come on, I promise you'll love it."

Dawson hates parties. Not to mention, they're exactly the kind of situation he should be avoiding at all costs.

"You don't want to miss it. Plus, do you even have anything better to do?"

He definitely doesn't. The only thing on his schedule is some major overthinking. Surprisingly, the idea of spending the night with a bunch of strangers smoking pot and singing Christmas carols is more alluring than the idea of staying in his room and thinking about...

Dawson sighs. "I guess not."

"Sweet, I'll text you the address," he winks at him.

"Uh-hu."

"Later!" Hyppolite shouts as he runs down the hallway.

And he's alone again.

*

It's been exactly thirty-six hours and twenty-three minutes since Dawson last saw Adam.

He's OK. He's holding up just fine. He has only thought about him fifteen times.

In his defense, reading Hamilton's copy of Othello didn't really help keep his mind off the boy. Running his fingertips across the pages of the book was an almost unearthly experience. When he closed his eyes he was free to imagine he was touching Adam's diaphanous skin instead. He often wondered what touching his face would feel like; if he would ever have the privilege to find out.

In a fit of sheer impulsivity, Dawson decides to pack a bag and actually manages to go through with it. It's a simple duffel bag that can fit enough clothes for a week, plus toiletries and other essentials. His eyes wander around the room in search of anything else he may need until they settle on the book on his nightstand. He hesitates, unsure what to do with it.

He finally grabs a post-it note and scribbles a hasty message– staining the side of his hand with ink more than the paper itself, one of the many pleasures that come with being left-handed– then sticks it to the cover of the book and leaves the room in a hurry. On the way out of the building, he lays the book face-up on the ground on Adam's doorstep.

Out of breath, he catches the last bus of the day. Mission District's to be the terminus. His head falls back against the velvety seat, as he lets his eyelids flutter closed. He cannot take back what he wrote on that note.