Chapter Ten

Dawson

What the fuck happened to my head?

And why am I awake already?

It's barely light, which I'm pretty sure means I should still be asleep for at least another couple of hours.

I reach out and grab my alarm clock, pulling it closer so I can focus on the hands, and the numbers around the edge of its circular face. The problem is, while the numbers are reasonably clear, I can only see one hand. How is that possible? Did the other one fall off? I shake the clock and even check the floor before I realize my mistake and that I'm a fucking idiot. It's just after six thirty.

Six-thirty?

That's way too early.

I drop the clock, hearing it thud to the floor, between the bed and the nightstand, and turn onto my back, my head spinning. That's nothing new for me. I wake up like this most mornings, although not usually this early. That's not the only thing that's different, though. Something else doesn't feel right.

I reach down, discovering I'm fully clothed. That's also not unusual. Neither is the fact that I'm on top of the covers and not underneath them… although I seem to have a blanket of some kind over myself. I lift it up and recognize it as the throw that lives at the end of the bed.

That was dextrous of me. How did I manage that?

God knows.

So, what is it that's not quite right? My knee hurts, I know that… although I don't know why. I bend it up, wincing. I must have done something to it, although I don't remember…

"Oh, shit."

I sit up, regretting the sudden movement, my head pounding and my stomach churning, both at the same time, which has the unfortunate effect of making me want to vomit. I won't. But I wish I'd reacted differently to the memory that flitted through my brain just then… the memory of tripping up the stairs, and of Macy coming to help me.

"Oh, God."

I run my hands down my face, remembering how I sat at the bar, drinking from the bottle, awash with shame and guilt and confusion… thinking of Macy. Not Stevie. Macy.

I remember wanting to talk to her, wishing she could be there… and yet feeling grateful that she wasn't. It felt like my humiliation was complete. Stevie left me for another man. It was her subtle way of telling me I wasn't good enough for her. And Macy? Macy had discovered my biggest failing. The woman I secretly longed for knew my weakness… the one I thought I'd hidden so well, even from my oldest friend.

I had nothing more to lose.

So I drank the bottle dry.

I don't recall getting to the stairs, or how I came to fall up them.

What I remember is the sight of a pair of feet… bare feet, right beside my head, and the words, "Let me help you."

It was Macy, and I turned to look up at her, trying to take in the sight before me. I wondered if I might be dreaming again, but I wasn't. She was there, looking even better than she had as a figment of my imagination. There was a light coming from above us, and even though it was an effort to focus, I could make out her shapely thighs, leading up to white lace panties, a narrow waist, flat stomach, and matching bra encasing truly magnificent breasts. I let my eyes linger. It wasn't a dream. I knew it wasn't. Her nipples were hard, clearly visible, and straining against the delicate fabric that was cupping them. That secret longing almost overwhelmed me. I wanted to reach out… to hold her and kiss her.

To make her mine.

But what could I do? I couldn't even stand.

She tried helping me to my feet, like she wasn't standing next to me, wearing practically nothing. But we both realized she wasn't strong enough, and I knew I'd have to make the effort to get up by myself. I wanted to, in a way, to prove to her I could. That I wasn't a complete loser.

I remember feeling dizzy once I was upright, but trying hard not to let it show.

Climbing the stairs was more difficult than I'd expected. It felt as though I was going to fall backwards, and Macy must have sensed that, because she put her arm around my waist, letting mine rest on her shoulder. It felt good to hold her body close to mine, even if I wasn't the one doing the holding. I was more clinging than holding, and there wasn't anything I could do about it.

I think I said, "That's better," before we started climbing again, and while I don't know how she interpreted that, I remember thinking how good it was to feel her soft skin, and be able to touch her, and lean on her… in more ways than one.

How she got me in here, I don't know. My only memories once we got to the top of the stairs are of darkness, and an overwhelming need to be horizontal.

She achieved that. Somehow. But like I say, I don't know how.

I wish she hadn't had to, though.

I wish she hadn't seen me like that, or had to help me.

And I wish I hadn't drunk so much.

I lie back and close my eyes before the shame engulfs me, although I don't know why I'm bothering. It's too late. I'm already mired in it.

Deservedly so.

Before Stevie left, I barely drank at all. I might have shared a glass of wine with Tanner when he came in, but otherwise, I regarded it as my duty to stay sober. Of course, I had no idea back then that my capacity to drink and remain in control for most of the day would be as great as it is.

I'm not proud of that. It's nothing to boast about, but the fact of the matter is, Stevie left and it hurt… and that's when I started drinking. As time's gone on, it might have become more to do with forgetting, but the catalyst was her departure, and the pain that went with it.

Except, the more I think about it, the more I have to admit, it doesn't hurt anywhere near as much as it used to. Everyone around me probably assumes it does… just like they assume I must miss Stevie. But that's not the case at all. It's not Stevie I miss. It's having someone special in my life… someone who loves me, and who'll let me love them.

I know I've told Tanner on more than one occasion that I'll never let another woman in my life, and I've meant it. But I suppose the question is, can I?

If I want to have that ‘someone special', then I'll have to find a way, won't I? I'll have to overcome my feelings of inadequacy, the legacy of not being good enough, and my fear of being hurt again.

It feels like an impossible mountain to climb, but so did those stairs when I looked up at them last night, and I got up them. With Macy's help, of course.

Macy…

I open my eyes again, images of her sweet smile, her kind voice, and her perfect body flooding into my mind. She looked amazing, and although it didn't enter my head to question her last night, I can't help wondering why she didn't put some clothes on before she came to my rescue. Not that it really matters. The point is, she was there when I needed her… and I really needed her.

I hate myself for that… for being too drunk to climb the stairs, or thank her properly, or even string a sentence together, if I remember rightly.

I'd managed that earlier, when we were in the bar together. I'd talked to her then, a lot more than I usually would, and it felt good.

I wanted more of the same. But more than that, I wanted her, and my cock hardens at the thought, because although I know I was incapable of doing anything last night, I wish things had been different. I wish…

I sit up again, my head spinning, although I do my best to ignore it, and focus on the wall at the end of the bed. There's something nagging at me. A memory…

And bells.

"What's that about?" I mutter.

Why am I thinking about bells? I remember hearing them, but why? Was I so drunk I was hallucinating? I've never done that before, but I guess last night was exceptional, even by my standards.

Does that mean I imagined the whole thing?

"No, stupid. It can't." For one thing, my knee hurts, and not only that, I can still recall how it felt to put my arm around Macy… even if she was the one holding me, rather than the other way around. I also remember something else, though. A different kind of touch.

What the hell was it?

She wasn't holding me up anymore, that's for sure. I know I felt stable and relaxed… like I wasn't relying on my legs to hold me up. So, was I lying down?

I guess I must have been. And I guess Macy probably had to help me with that, too. She must have brought me in here, and presumably removed my shoes, because they're not on my feet, and I honestly don't think I could have done that myself. I wonder if she pulled up the throw, too. I might have given myself credit for that earlier, but who am I kidding? There's no way I'd have been dextrous – or even conscious – enough to do that.

Except I was conscious. I must have been. I thanked her. The words, "Thanks, Macy," definitely left my lips.

She smiled at me. I remember that, because it made me feel like there was something to hope for. It's been a long time since I've felt anything even close to hope. So was that why I grabbed her hand? Because I wanted to cling to that hope… to never let it go?

I remember doing it now. That was the other touch, and I…

"Oh, fuck."

I shake my head, covering my face with my hands as the memory finally comes back in all its humiliating glory. I called her beautiful. Or, to be more precise. I called her ‘fucking beautiful', and while that's completely true, I shouldn't have said it. Not because I didn't mean it, but because – as she so rightly put it, in that delicate whisper I only just heard – I was drunk.

This is worse than I thought. It's inexcusable…

I push back the throw, taking longer than I should to untangle my feet, and sit up on the edge of the bed, the room swaying slightly as I get my bearings.

Macy might have asked to stay here last night, so she could shelter from the snow, but will my behavior have driven her away? Will she have left already, never to return? That thought makes me feel sicker than ever. That's not just because I don't want her to leave. It's because I don't want her to leave and think badly of me. What am I saying? She already thinks badly of me. She must do, having seen me at my worst. But I want the chance to apologize, and make it right again.

I get up, my head pounding, my mouth dry, and I take a moment to get my balance before I head for the door. Outside, the hall is shrouded in darkness, but there's enough light for me to see her bedroom door is closed. That could mean she's gone already, or that she's still here… maybe even still asleep. I can hardly knock and find out, though. What would I say? How would I explain myself… and my appearance, which must be pretty terrible?

I don't know, but at least that's something I can fix.

I step into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. There is a window in here, but it's tiny, and I have to switch on the light just to see what I'm doing. It's horribly bright, but after a second or two, I'm almost accustomed to it, and I remove my clothes, putting them into the laundry hamper. This isn't the first time I've had to get undressed before showering in the morning, but it's the first time I've felt truly ashamed of it, and I get into the shower, trying not to think too much about why that might be, but focusing instead on never having to feel like that again.

It's a thought I've had many times before, but in the past I've never been able to think of a good reason to stop drinking. Now, I can think of several and they all revolve around the person who I hope is still lying asleep in my guest bedroom. The only problem is, will she be willing to listen to my apologies?

I step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my hips, still wondering how many ways I can phrase the word, "Sorry," and panicking over whether Macy will even be here to hear them. If she's not, I'll have to go find her… snow, or no snow. Because there's no way I can leave things as they are.

I grab a smaller towel, quickly drying my hair, and leaving the towel draped around my neck while I brush my teeth, staring at myself in the mirror. There's no denying I've allowed my stubble to become a beard, and I half expect my eyes to be bloodshot. It's been known before. But in fact, they don't look too bad. I've definitely seen worse, although it's not an easy reflection to look at, and I turn away the moment I've finished, switching off the light as I exit the bathroom.

"Oh… God."

I look up to see Macy coming out of her room, dressed in the clothes she had on yesterday. She's blushing, and although I'll need several coffees before I can call myself fully awake, there's no mistaking the way her eyes are wandering… or the fact that I like it. A lot. And so does my cock.