Chapter Twelve

Dawson

I lean back against my closed bedroom door, shutting my eyes.

That's not because I'm hungover and need to block out the world. I'm used to being hungover. It's a fairly permanent state of affairs for me. I'm also used to blocking out the world. It's something I've gotten used to over the last few years.

No, the reason I'd rather not face reality right now is because I can't believe I handled that so badly. Obviously, I didn't expect to see Macy standing there, but she was… and while I was saved from having to go out into the snow to find her, that didn't help. My memories of last night may be hazy, but it seems I have a very clear picture of Macy in her underwear, and as her eyes wandered over me, the picture chose that moment to filter through my brain. Naturally, my cock responded to that in the only way it could, and there was no way she couldn't have noticed. She was staring at the towel… the one I'd wrapped around my hips, that was doing a poor job of disguising my erection, so she can't have failed to see it.

For some reason, rather than trying to make something of that, I chose that moment to apologize. It's what I'd intended to do, but why I had to say the word ‘sorry' right at that moment was beyond me. It must have sounded as though I was apologizing for being turned on by her… or worse still, for being turned on, and it having nothing to do with her. After all, how was she to know my hard-on was entirely related to the thoughts of her naked body that were still flickering through my head? It didn't feel appropriate to explain that, though. I could hardly tell her what I wasn't apologizing for… or risk embarrassing her any more than I already had.

So, I told her why I'd said sorry. I told her the truth… which was that I hated the fact that she'd witnessed my weakness, that she'd had to help me, that she must have thought so badly of me. Okay, so I didn't actually say all of that, but it's what I meant.

Although how she's supposed to realize that, heaven only knows. Except she might, if I'd handled things differently.

I guess it might have been easier to do that if I hadn't been so easily aroused by her… but there's not a lot I can do about that. She turns me on. I can't help the way my body responds.

Even allowing for that, I could have done more. I could have acted as well as spoken. I could have taken her hand and moved a little closer to her while I was talking. Or I could have held her gaze, just so she couldn't have been in any doubt… not only about my arousal, but about me.

As it is, I imagine she's full of doubts.

And that being the case, should I be thinking about holding hands with her, when there's so much to say that hasn't been said, and so many questions to ask… like why she couldn't wait to get away from me.

Again.

That was how it felt after she'd bolted into the bathroom, anyway. It reminded me of last night, when she pulled her hand from mine and ran from my bedroom. Because that's what she did… right after I told her she was fucking beautiful and she told me I was drunk.

She ran.

And then she did it again this morning, clearly keen to be anywhere but with me.

I open my eyes, surprised by how much that thought hurts. I already expected her to think badly of me, but to know that now she's seen the real me, she abhors my company too much to even make polite conversation… it's too much to bear.

I shake my head, ignoring the internal rocking of my brain, and push myself off of the door. There's no way I can leave things like this. Not just because she works for me, and I owe her an explanation, but because… well, because I don't want to.

I pull the towel away, dropping it and the one around my neck to the floor, and rush over to my closet, pulling out a clean pair of jeans and a blue check shirt. My underwear is stored in a basket at the bottom, and I find a warm pair of socks, carrying everything to the bed and sitting down to make things easier. I might be in a hurry, but I know my limitations. It's still early by my standards, and I haven't had a coffee yet. I need to proceed with caution.

Tying my shoes is the hardest thing, which only confirms the fact that Macy must have untied them for me last night. There's no way I could have done it… or left them so neatly by the nightstand. That thought just makes me feel worse, and even more desperate to see her.

I hurry from my room, leaving the bed unmade, and stop in my tracks, looking along the hall. The doors to both the bathroom and the guest bedroom are open, and for a second that throws me. I'm guessing that means she's finished in the bathroom, but does it mean she's in the bedroom? I tiptoe forward, poking my head inside. The room's empty, although I notice the bed in here is also unmade. I don't mind that. She did enough for me last night. I wasn't expecting her to tidy up before she left. I just wish she hadn't gone already.

I stare at the indent in the pillow, where her head must have lain, and smile as I look down at the rest of the bed. It might be unmade, but it's neatly unmade. In fact, if it wasn't for the turned-down cover and the slight indent in the pillow, I'd never know she'd been here, and that thought is enough to sober me up.

As is the prospect that she's gone without saying goodbye.

Unless…

"Macy?" I call her name, wandering out into the living area, unsurprised by the silence and emptiness that greets me.

She's gone. She's put a deliberate distance between us, and after everything I've done, I can't blame her for that.

"You're a fucking fool, Dawson," I mutter, realizing the magnitude of my mistakes as I wander over to the doors that lead out onto the balcony. There's snow on the rooftops opposite, but the sun's shining, and although it's early, I can hear voices outside… or one voice, anyway.

It's a woman's voice, and it sounds like Macy. Except it can't be. Can it?

I unlock the door and open it, the still silence surrounding me. I must have been imagining things.

"You're sure? Thirty minutes? That's great."

It's her. It's really her.

I turn, rushing across the room, and then remember I've left the door open, the chill breeze filling the room. I dash back, pulling it closed, although I don't bother locking it before I run straight out of the room and down the stairs.

If I wasn't in such a hurry, I might have time to think about last night… about lying on the stairs, unable to move, about how good Macy looked, and how ashamed I felt, and still feel, for that matter. I might even have time to think about the fact that I'm capable of running. But I've got more important things on my mind… like getting to Macy before she leaves, and I dart through the door at the bottom of the stairs, going out into the bar. It's dark in here. She didn't put on the lights, but I don't need to either. I know this place like the back of my hand and I hasten over to the door, pulling it open.

She jumps and turns to face me, her eyes widening, and a blush creeping up her cheeks. In an instant, I decide against bringing up my reaction outside the bathroom. I might want to explain it, and to tell her she was the sole cause of my arousal, but I don't want to embarrass her, and I think that might.

"What are you doing out here?" I ask. It seems like a fair question, given the weather. Her coat looks fairly warm, but it only comes down to just below her waist, and while she's got her scarf wrapped around her neck, she's not wearing a hat or gloves. She must be freezing.

She sucks in a breath, which mists before her as she lets it out, so I can only just see her biting on her bottom lip. It's enough, though, and my dick hardens… even if I wish it wouldn't, just this once. She might notice, and that's the last thing I need. Besides, I'm trying to concentrate.

"I'm waiting for a cab," she says.

"Can they get here?" I ask, recalling why she had to stay last night… because the cab company couldn't get anyone out to her.

"Evidently. They can even get to Aunt Bernie's." She smiles and my heart flips over in my chest, which is even more distracting than my hard-on. That hasn't happened for years. Years and years. It's kinda like being reborn, and I step even further outside, despite the icy chill, wanting to be closer to her, in the hope my heart might react to her like that again… because I liked it. "That's just as well," she says, looking up at me.

"It is?" What is? I can't remember what we were talking about…

"Yeah. I need to get back there so I can take a shower and get to work."

Oh, yeah… the cab, and her leaving. Unfortunately.

"But you're not due back here until four," I say, frowning, my brain still catching up.

"I know, but I'm due at the apple orchard at nine."

How could I have forgotten? She has another job.

"I could have taken you," I say, and she tilts her head, like it's her turn not to understand.

"Taken me where?"

"Back to your aunt's place. I'd have waited while you showered, and then driven you to the apple orchard, if you'd asked… I mean, if you'd wanted me to."

She shouldn't have had to ask, you fucking fool. Just like she should have had to ask to stay last night. You should have offered, and if you'd been sober, you would have done.

She shakes her head. "The cab's ordered now," she says. "It'll be here in thirty minutes." She glances at her watch. "Probably closer to twenty-five now."

I want to tell her to cancel it, so I can take her, but I have a feeling she'd decline and I don't want to put her in the position of having to find excuses not to be with me.

"You can't wait out here for thirty minutes… or even twenty-five."

"I'll be fine. I don't wanna get in your way."

"You won't," I say, notching that up as excuse number one. Before she can work out excuse number two, I grab her hand, making her gasp. "It's too damn cold out here. You'll catch pneumonia."

"But… but…"

I haul her back inside, not giving her a chance to argue, and then I close the door, looking down at her sparkling eyes and pinked cheeks. It's a look she wears well, and I tilt my head toward the bar.

"Do you want a coffee? It'll help warm you up."

She hesitates for a second, but probably not much more, and then nods her head. "Okay."

I get the feeling she's accepting out of politeness rather than enthusiasm, but I'll take it. She's here, and as far as I'm concerned, even if we've only got twenty-five minutes, it's twenty-five minutes more than I thought we'd have.

I glance down and realize we're still holding hands, and although I know I reasoned it was too soon for things like that, I can't help thinking how good it feels… right until she pulls away, letting me know she doesn't feel the same.

"Take a seat," I say, determined to make the most of what I've got, rather than dwell on what I haven't, as I rush to the back of the bar, switching on the lights, and then return to her, watching while she unwraps her scarf and unfastens her coat, sitting up on one of the bar stools.

It doesn't take long to prepare two cups of coffee, although rather than staying on this side of the bar to drink mine, I walk around and join her. The moment I sit, I take a sip of coffee, closing my eyes and letting it relax me a little before turning in my seat so I can look at her.

"Sorry," I say, and she twists, so she's facing me, confusion etched on her face.

"You already said that, when we were upstairs. Or have you forgotten?" She glances down at my drink, presumably wondering if I've sneaked some bourbon into the cup. I haven't. For the first time in a long time, I'm drinking neat coffee.

"No. I hadn't forgotten, but that didn't feel like enough."

I didn't get to explain. Not properly.

"It's fine. Really," she says. "You don't have to keep apologizing."

"Yeah. I do." The sadness in your eyes tells me that . "I'm sorry you saw me drunk."

"I know. That's what you said upstairs," she says, picking up her cup.

"Except that's not what I meant. Not really. Let's face it, you witness my drunkenness all the time. So, I guess what I wanted to say – what I should have said – was, I'm sorry you saw me being so weak… so pathetic."

She puts down her cup, without having taken a drink, and leans a little closer. "You're not weak, or pathetic."

"I felt pretty weak last night," I say, and she smiles. "And I'm sorry you had to help me."

"I know you are." I open my mouth to add to my apology, or to explain it better, but before I can, she twists around a little further, so her knees are touching my leg. She doesn't seem to notice, although my cock does, and while I try my best to ignore it, and focus on her, it's a struggle… especially when she's this close. "Why do you do it?" she says, surprising me. "Is it about your wife?"

My dick seems less keen on that thought and responds accordingly. That ought to make things easier, but it doesn't… because I know I have to reply.

I owe her that much, even if I'd prefer to talk about what happened last night, and this morning, and maybe explain my reaction to her outside the bathroom… if I can. She needs answers, though. Honest ones.

"She's my ex-wife, not my wife," I say, just to get that straight. It feels important.

"And you drink because you miss her?" she says, nodding her head, like she's answering her own questions now, rather than waiting for me. "It must have been hard, having built this place up together."

"Must it?"

"Of course. When she left, it wasn't just the end of your marriage, it was the end of something you'd created… the two of you."

"In a way. But the bar was always mine."

Her eyes widen, and I can see she's surprised by that. "I thought you said you worked on it together."

"We did. But this place is called Dawson's for a reason."

"Because it's yours?"

"Yes. Right from the start."

"So she didn't want a share in it?"

"No. I offered, but she said she wanted it to be mine."

"Was that because it was your parents' money?" she asks.

"It might have been, or it might have been because she thought she owed me for supporting her through college, working two jobs, so she didn't have to."

"Did you feel like she owed you?"

"Never."

"And you didn't ask about her motives?"

"No. She just said it was something she wanted to do." I can remember the look in Stevie's eyes when we had that conversation. There was so much love there, I didn't feel I had the right to question her motives. That would have been like questioning her love for me… and I'd never have done that. Not until the day she left me.

"So what was Stevie's plan?" Macy asks. "To get this place up and running and then find a job elsewhere? Was she thinking of going into accountancy once the bar was all set?"

I shrug my shoulders, finishing my coffee, even though Macy's hardly touched hers. "That may have been her plan at the beginning, I don't know. It all happened so fast, we didn't get to talk about the future. We were too busy dealing with the present. Neither of us had expected to find ourselves in the position of having that much money when we were so young, and while we weren't short of people advising us what we should do, it seemed insane to invest it in something we knew nothing about. I'd worked in bars all through college, and enjoyed it, so it made sense to throw our time and effort into something at least one of us understood."

"You didn't consider putting the money in the bank?"

I shake my head. "No. We were foolish enough to think that would have been just plain boring. When this place went up for sale, it seemed like fate." I stop talking and run my finger around the rim of my cup. "We got kinda swept along on a tide of youthful enthusiasm, but I remember stopping for long enough to ask Stevie if this was what she really wanted. She'd worked real hard to get her degree, and I knew how much she wanted to become an accountant. The problem was, we knew she'd have had to go to Concord to do that."

"Was there no-one here who she might have worked for?"

"There's a firm of accountants with offices above the drugstore, but they're quite small, and I think Stevie had bigger ambitions than that."

"Concord isn't that far away, though. She could have commuted."

"I know. She knew it, too. But she said she wanted us to do something together. It felt like we'd spent long enough doing different things, and fixing up this place would give us a shared interest. That was what she said. We didn't discuss anything longer term… not back then."

"Okay, but what about later? Once the bar was fixed up? You must have talked about it then?"

"Why? Neither of us was unhappy… or so I thought. She certainly never mentioned wanting to do anything else, and in fact, she often used to say how much she liked the freedom this place gave her."

"Freedom? Working the hours you do?"

"She didn't work the same hours, though. Most people assumed she did, because she was in here every evening, serving behind the bar, but during the day, she used to do her own thing."

"I assume you're not talking about a job?"

"No." I shake my head. "But you have to remember, I don't really need to be down here until eleven, or thereabouts, so we'd spend most of the morning together, having brunch before I came down to start work. She'd maybe go out with some friends in the afternoon, or go to the beauty salon, or shopping, then she'd come back and we'd have something to eat before working the evening shift together."

"I thought you said you made a good team."

"We did. But that didn't require us to spend every moment of the day together. I think I already said to you, she was better at paperwork than I was, so if she was here during the day, she'd be upstairs doing that, and I'd be down here. We weren't in each other's pockets."

"But she said she wanted you to spend more time with each other," Macy says, looking confused.

"She did… and we were. When we were at college, I was working from five until midnight seven days a week. The only chance we had to be together was first thing in the morning, up until maybe eight, or eight-thirty, and sometimes for an hour during the day, if we happened not to have lectures at the same time. We had weekends, but Stevie used to study, and I'd usually catch up on my sleep."

"And you did that for four years?"

"Yes."

"That must have been hard."

"It was. But I thought the fact that we got through it proved something."

"It did. It proved you loved each other."

"Maybe we did back then. But I don't love her now." I feel like that needs to be said, and she looks up at me, her eyes fixed on mine. "I don't miss her, either. That's not why I drink, Macy. You're wrong about that."

"Then why do you?" she asks.

"At the start, it was simply because she'd left me… because she'd gone, with no warning. She just announced she was leaving, packed her bags and walked out."

"So it was shock?"

"Yes. That's exactly what it was. Although I'm not sure I've ever realized that before. I didn't understand why she'd done it. I still don't."

"Okay, but you can't still be drinking because of shock."

"I'm not. As time's gone on, I think it's more to do with wanting to obliterate the knowledge that I wasn't enough."

Have I ever put myself out there this much? I don't think so. Not even with Tanner, and certainly not when I've been sober. It's an odd feeling to be this exposed… this vulnerable, and I stare into her sparkling eyes, waiting for her response, which starts with a shake of her head.

"You can't say that," she says. "You can't say you weren't enough."

"Yeah, I can. Otherwise, why did she even have to look for another man, let alone sleep with him, or leave me for him?"

Macy reaches out, placing her hand on my arm, and even though my shirtsleeve forms a barrier between us, I can't help the gasp thato leaves my lips. This isn't the first time she's voluntarily touched me. She practically carried me up the stairs last night, but I was drunk then, and I'm not now. I'm not even all that hungover anymore, and her touch is enough to ignite long forgotten memories of what it's like to feel a woman's fingers… a woman's hands… a woman's lips.

"None of that was your fault," she says before I can get around to going too far with those thoughts.

"That's what Stevie said, but even if it's true, I must have done something to make her go. It can't have been all her. Because it takes two to make a marriage work, you know? That means it must take two to make it fail."

She grips my arm just a little tighter. "You really think that?"

"I don't know what to think. That's part of the problem. Stevie never gave me an explanation for what happened… except to say she'd fallen in love with another man."

Macy winces, pulling her hand away, which is a shame. "That had to hurt," she says.

"Yeah, it did… but what she didn't tell me was why she'd fallen out of love with me, or why she'd started seeing someone else, or even looking for someone else. I've got no idea what I did wrong. That's what made it so hard to accept. I didn't see it coming."

"Why would you?" she says. "You're not psychic. And I imagine she did everything she could to hide her affair from you. Most people would in those circumstances. But what I don't understand is why you think you must have done something wrong. Did it ever occur to you that maybe she just grew apart from you?"

Grew apart? I'm not sure how I feel about that. It still implies some kind of failure on my part… a failure to maintain her interest, to hold on to her love.

"That still suggests I wasn't enough," I say, giving words to my thoughts.

"Or that sometimes it's just not meant to be."

"And she couldn't have worked that out sooner? We'd been together for more than half our lives."

"And for most of that time, you were happy. Your marriage was a success."

"Yeah… right up until the divorce."

She sighs, shaking her head. "You're missing the point."

"Am I?"

"Yes. You're forgetting all the happy times you shared and just focusing on the sad ones. You're destroying yourself to prove a point."

"Is that what you think I'm doing? Destroying myself?"

"It feels that way."

"If I am, it's not so I can prove a point, it's so I can forget."

"Her?" she says, tilting her head.

"No… the emptiness."

She lets out a slight gasp and I wonder if I should have said that… if I should have revealed so much of myself. But then I look at her, real close, and see a glistening in her eyes as she struggles to swallow. Is she gonna cry? I hope not. I honestly don't know what I'd do. She wouldn't want me to hold her, but how could I do anything else? How could I watch her cry and do nothing?

"I'm sorry," I say, hoping to distract her.

"What for?"

"You don't need this." Clearly.

"It's okay," she says. "If it helps to talk, I don't mind listening."

"You're damn good at it," I murmur and she blushes. I'm almost tempted to smile, just to see if she'll smile back, but before I can, she rests her elbow on the bar and leans her head against her upturned hand. That's such a cute look, I forget about smiling and just stare.

"Can I ask you something?" she says.

I'm a little nervous about that, but I nod my head anyway. "Sure."

"Would you take her back?"

Her question surprises me, but I know the answer, and I give it straight away. "No."

"So, if she came through that door right now and told you that leaving you was the biggest mistake of her life…"

"I wouldn't believe a damn word of it," I say, interrupting her.

"Maybe not, but if she said it and begged for your forgiveness, would you take her back?"

"No."

"You mean there are no circumstances under which you'd consider trying again with her?"

"None."

"That's a pretty definite answer."

"I know. I knew right from the beginning I wouldn't want her back."

"But you regret her leaving?"

"That's harder to say. I did at the time, but I don't now, and I haven't for quite a while. Even back then, though, even on the day she walked out, I wouldn't have changed a thing. She didn't love me enough to want to make our marriage work, and I wouldn't have wanted her to stay with me if her heart belonged somewhere else. I think that would have made me feel even more second-rate than I do now."

She sits up again, letting her arm fall to her side and staring right into my eyes, which is a little unnerving considering how exposed I'm feeling right now.

"You're not second-rate," she says with so much conviction, it's hard not to believe her. "But what I still don't understand is, if your marriage is over, and it's been over since the day Stevie left – which is essentially what you're saying – then why don't you get on with your life? It's been a while now, so why don't you do something positive instead of drinking yourself to death and looking back over something you claim you don't regret?"

I hold her gaze, just like I wish I'd done upstairs… although this is for a completely different reason. Sure, her words might have been hard to hear, but that doesn't mean they're not true. They're the most honest thing I've heard in a long time, and I need to thank her for saying them… for telling it how it is. Tanner's tried many times, but hearing it from Macy makes all the difference. Is that because she doesn't know me like he does, and yet she understands me so well? Or is it just because it's her? I can't be sure, but I open my mouth, even though I have no idea how I'm gonna start my next sentence, just as a car horn sounds outside.