Chapter Seven

Macy

Despite my cheerful disposition, I've never enjoyed the month of January. It's always cold and generally dark and miserable, and – unlike during December – it seems like there's nothing to look forward to, except more of the same. I guess that's why I feel relieved that we've reached the end of the month. Tomorrow is February first, and it feels like a new beginning.

That's not to say January has been all bad.

My new job is going well. I've gotten used to the routine now, and I've even learned a few of the customers' names and memorized some of their favorite drinks, which caught Dawson's attention the first time it happened. The customer concerned was Angela. I don't know her last name yet, but I know she's married to Levi, who owns the auto repair shop, and I'd served the two of them often enough to know that she likes dry white wine, and he drinks Corona.

"You worked that out already?" Dawson said as I replaced the credit card machine under the counter, and I looked up at him.

"Worked what out?"

"Angela and Levi's order. They didn't need to ask you for what they wanted. You already knew."

I nodded my head, smiling. "I've served them a few times now, and they always have the same things."

"Yeah… I guess people don't change," he said, shaking his head, and I wondered if we were talking about drinks anymore. I didn't inquire. It didn't feel right to start a conversation like that when the bar was getting busy. I turned to go, but he grabbed my arm and pulled me back. It was the first time he'd touched me and the feeling of his hand on my skin was enough to make me gasp, which was enough to make him withdraw his hand and step back. "Sorry," he said, shaking his head.

"It's okay. Did you wanna say something?"

He thought for a second. "Yeah. It was just that, if you ever work a lunchtime shift, Levi drinks coffee then, not beer."

"Really?"

"Yeah. He likes to keep a clear head during the day."

I nodded, wondering when Dawson last had a clear head, and if he could remember what that felt like. I doubted it, but again, it wasn't something I could talk to him about in the middle of the bar, surrounded by customers.

To be honest, it's not something I've been able to talk to him about at all.

We never get the chance.

I spend the first hour or so of every shift entirely by myself, while he goes upstairs to his apartment. I don't mind being alone. It's always really quiet then, and I use that time to get everything ready for the evening. I don't know what Dawson does, but he always comes down at five-thirty on the dot, and sends me off for a quick break before the evening rush. Karl leaves me something to eat, which might be a salad or a sandwich, and I sit in the break room and read while eating. It seems odd that I've never met Karl, or Ned, who works with him, but I like his food, and I've started leaving him notes in the kitchen, thanking him.

I haven't met Maggie or Vanessa, either. Our paths haven't crossed to date, but I'm sure they will one day. They're bound to, because I like my job, and I've got no intention of giving it up.

That said, I think I'd like it better if Dawson would force himself to smile once in a while. It won't happen, of course. He remains as morose as ever, and nothing I do or say seems to change that. He's firmly entrenched in the past, but I keep trying to dig him out… to help him see there's a brighter future out there, if he'd just look up and see it for himself.

So far, my words are falling on deaf ears, and I'll admit, it can sometimes be hard to work with him. Not because I don't still want to help, but because I like him… a lot. Despite his problems and despite my best intentions, I really do like him.

And it hurts that he doesn't even want to be happy.

That doesn't mean I'm giving up on him, though. Not in any sense.

There's gonna be another reason to celebrate tomorrow. I won't just be cheering because it's the end of the worst month of the year, but because Aunt Bernie's car will finally be fixed. It's been tough living without it, for her more than me, and I know she'll be happy to have it back. It was only supposed to take a couple of days, but there was a delay getting the parts Levi needed. He was really apologetic, but what could she say? He'd been kind to her, and it wasn't his fault. Vivienne was good enough to take Aunty to the grocery store, and her friends came to visit her, rather than the other way around. It wasn't as isolating as she'd feared it might be, but I know she's missed the freedom of being able to do whatever she wants, and she was so relieved when Levi called this morning and told her the parts had arrived over the weekend and she could have the car back tomorrow… without fail.

We've arranged that I'll pick it up for her, to save her worrying about how to get into town, although Levi said he needed me to get there before two because he's got an appointment and he's closing the repair shop.

"Do you want me to drive it back here straight away?" I asked her when she told me about the plan.

"No. You can keep hold of it and use it to drive home when you've finished at the bar."

"That'll mean I'll get to work really early," I said, and she smiled.

"I doubt Dawson will complain."

I wasn't so sure about that, but to be honest, it'll be such a relief to have the car back, it feels like a minor inconvenience that I'll have to work an extra couple of hours. It might be the end of the month I always consider to be the most glacial, but it's still absolutely freezing.

My walk today is the coldest yet, but I'm wrapped up well, and I get to work on time, opening the door to find Dawson straightening the bottles behind the bar. There's no need for him to do that, and I wonder if he's just been topping up his glass, which is full to the brim. I guess the contents are mostly – if not entirely – vodka, but I don't say anything, and wander over to the back of the bar, going into the break room to deposit my coat and purse in my locker, so I don't embarrass Dawson by my presence.

I take a moment, but not too long, and then come back out again, to find he's still behind the bar, but is looking at something on his phone, although he clearly hears me approaching and puts it away the moment I join him.

"It seems much colder today," he says and I nod my head, wishing he'd talk about something more important than the weather, for once… like why he drinks so much, or why he's so determined to be miserable. I glance over and notice his glass is still just as full as when I left. It makes me wonder whether he's gulped down half of it and topped it up again in my absence, or whether he's pacing himself… because he needs to.

"Yes, it is."

I can't think what else to say. Asking him outright why he's punishing himself like this is beyond me, and we stand awkwardly for a moment or two before he nods his head for some reason and says, "I'll go upstairs."

I don't have time to reply. He turns away and heads for the back of the bar, leaving me to wonder if he's too far away to be reached… and if he even wants to find a way back.

"I know I'm new to town," I say, glancing around the deserted bar, "but is it abnormally quiet in here tonight?"

"It is. Even for a Monday, this is ludicrous." Dawson says, polishing a glass that doesn't really need it.

We've barely seen anyone all evening, and no-one at all for over an hour. It's nine-thirty, and to be honest, there seems little point in us being here. We've already tidied up and re-stocked the bottles where necessary. I've even swept the floor, and having finished it and put away the broom, I'm currently sitting on a bar stool, because there's no reason not to rest my feet.

"Is there something going on in the town that I don't know about?"

"If there is, I don't know about it, either," he says, shaking his head. "I've never known a night like it."

He doesn't seem worried, just confused, and as he puts down the glass, he looks up at me. "Can I get you anything?"

"I'm not a customer, Dawson… even if I am sitting on this side of the bar."

"I know, but it'll give me something to do."

"In that case, I'll have a coffee. Thanks."

He nods his head, turning away, and busying himself at the barista machine. It doesn't take him long to return, although I notice he hasn't made himself one, and that he brings his glass of ‘water' with him instead. I guess that's easier than trying to sneak bourbon into his coffee, and I take a sip of mine, looking at him over the rim of my cup.

"How long have you lived in Hart's Creek?" I ask. I want to get him to talk, and even if I'm fairly sure he won't open up to me, at least this is a place to start.

"All my life," he says.

"It seems like such a happy place to grow up."

"It is. It was."

I notice a shadow cross his eyes… something different to his usual glower, and I tip my head down, looking up at him, to get his attention.

"Was?"

"I'm all grown up now," he says, like his reason for using the past tense should be obvious.

"I know, but I got the feeling there was something about your childhood that made you sad."

"No." He takes a long drink, sucking in a breath. "It was never sad. My parents were…" He lets out what remains of that breath. "They were the best."

"Were?" I say, keeping my voice low and soft.

"Yeah. They… They died when I was at college."

"Both of them? Together?"

"Not together, no. Mom got cancer, but unlike your uncle, she and Dad didn't have long to get used to the idea."

"I—I didn't realize you knew my uncle."

"Everyone knew Emmett. He was a great man."

I feel a lump rising in my throat, but swallow it down. "Yes, he was. What… What happened to your mom?"

"Like a lot of people, she ignored the symptoms, writing them off as something to do with her age. By the time my dad finally persuaded her to go to the doctor, it was too late. She died six weeks after the diagnosis."

I reach across the bar, but he's too far away to touch, and he doesn't take my hand. Why would he?

Even so, I can't say nothing and I look up into his saddened eyes and murmur, "I'm sorry, Dawson."

He nods his thanks and then says, "Dad had a heart attack seven weeks later."

"Oh, my God." I lean over, making the effort to reach out to him, and he lets me rest my fingers on his arm, lowering his head to stare at them for a second, before I pull my hand away again.

He takes another long drink, this time keeping hold of the glass. "Stevie and I made it back from college in time to be with him when he died, but I don't know if he realized we were there."

"I'm sure he did."

Something changes around the edges of his mouth and the corners of his eyes. I'd swear he wants to smile… but he won't let himself. And he should, because for a second I catch a glimpse of the man he could be, and it's wondrous.

"Maybe," he says, shrugging his shoulders, like he's pulling the mantle of sadness back on.

"What did you do?" I ask. "Did you stay on at college?"

He nods his head. "Yeah. But there was a lot to work out. My parents both had life insurance, and they owned a property, which was mine to keep, or to sell. I wasn't sure what to do, but about two months after Dad died, this place went up for sale."

"The bar?"

"Yes. The guy who owned it before had left town, owing money to a lot of people. There were legal hoops to be climbed through, but once that was done, the place was sold to pay his debts."

"I see… and you bought it?"

"Eventually. Yes. I had a few legal hoops to get through myself, including selling Mom and Dad's house, but once it was done, we moved in here."

"We?"

"Yeah. I was living with Stevie by then. I had been all the way through college, and as well as helping me deal with my parents' deaths, she was the one who convinced me I could make a go of this." He glances around, although he doesn't move his head, just his eyes, bringing them back to focus on me.

"What was it like?" I ask.

"Living here with Stevie?" he says, clearly confused.

"No. The place itself. Did it need much work?"

"More than you can imagine."

"Why?"

"The guy's financial problems had taken their toll. We had to rip out almost everything in here and start again, and as for upstairs…" He rolls his eyes, shaking his head at the same time.

"Was it bad?"

"It was worse. We lived in just one room for ages, because the others were either being used for storage, or were uninhabitable."

"It sounds awful."

"Except it wasn't."

"Because you were doing it with Stevie?" I say and he flinches at the mention of her name, even though he's said it himself.

"I—I guess," he says, and although I can tell this is hard for him, he steps forward, like he's worked out that talking is helping, and he wants to do it some more. "We'd never spent that much time together before…"

"But you said you lived with her all the way through college."

"I know, but I'd worked two jobs so we could eat and pay rent on our apartment."

"Didn't Stevie work too?"

"No. She was studying."

"And you weren't?"

"Not as seriously as she was. She really wanted her degree and had ambitions to become an accountant. I'd just gone because I didn't wanna spend four years away from her."

He was clearly devoted to her, but I'm not jealous. I think it's kinda sweet.

"How did it work out when you got back here and spent so much time in each other's company?" I ask.

"It was weird to start with…"

"Why?" I say, interrupting him. "Why was it weird?"

"Because there was no-one to tell us what to do. We were free to do what we wanted, and that took some getting used to, although we made a good team. Stevie was a lot more organized than I was. She dealt with all the paperwork and the finances, and I did all the manual labor. Once we'd established our roles, it worked well…" His voice drifts off, and he takes a long sip from his glass, shaking his head.

I want to ask if that made it harder still when she left him, but I can't. I don't really need to, either. After all, they'd created this place together. When Stevie ran off with Peony's ex, not only did Dawson have to deal with the breakdown of his marriage, but he had to carry on their business without her.

No wonder he's found it hard.

He must be reminded of her every moment of the day.

Maybe that's why he drinks.

So the memories are more hazy.

"This is silly," he says, making me jump.

"What is?"

"We haven't seen a soul for the last two hours." He nods toward the entrance. "We may as well close up for the night."

He has a point, and even though I'd rather stay and talk, I get the feeling he's had enough for one night. And maybe I have too. Even if I'm not jealous of his relationship with Stevie, there's only so much of it I can take at one sitting.

"I'll fetch my things," I say, getting down from the stool. He opens his mouth, but then closes it again, and while I'm tempted to ask what he was going to say, I doubt he'd tell me. Judging from the look on his face, he's done for tonight.

When I come back out, wrapping my scarf around my neck, I notice he's already topped up his drink, and I let out a silent sigh. It seems talking didn't help as much as I'd hoped. Or maybe I was hoping for too much. Who knows?

Either way, I think he'd rather be alone, and I go straight to the door, turning back as I open it, and saying, "Goodnight," to him.

He looks up slowly. "Goodnight," he says, and I stare at him for a moment, before stepping outside, my breath catching in my throat when I see the sight before me.

It's been snowing. Hard. And while I have to say the town looks absolutely beautiful, I can see the impracticality of it. There's no way I can walk home, for one thing. There must be a good ten inches of snow on the ground. Oddly enough, it doesn't feel as cold as it did earlier. There's a gentle stillness in the air, and as I glance around, taking in the snow-decked roofs and trees, I realize why it's been so quiet in the bar tonight. No-one else wanted to venture out, either.

Still, I'm sure there must be a cab company here. Aunt Bernice has been under the impression I've been using it to get home, and I pull out my phone, quickly checking on the Internet. Sure enough, I find one straight away and dial the number. It's busy, which isn't an enormous surprise, but I try again… and again… and finally, it rings.

"Hello?" The woman on the end of the line sounds harassed, to put it mildly.

"Hi. Is there any chance I could…"

"If you're looking for a cab, you're out of luck," she says, cutting me off mid-sentence. "It's too dangerous out there. The drivers we sent out earlier are mostly stuck in the snow, and we're not taking any bookings."

"None at all? It's just I don't have a car, and I live a mile and a half away."

"I'm afraid there's nothing I can do, hun," she says, sounding more friendly. "Where are you now?"

"I'm at Dawson's Bar."

"Look on the bright side. You could be the woman who drove her car into a ditch about a mile outside of the town. The sheriff had to rescue her."

"Oh. Is she okay?"

"She's fine. Her car's stuck, but she's just fine."

"That's good."

"It doesn't solve your problem, though, does it?"

"No."

"But at least you're in town. Is there someone you could stay with for tonight?"

I can't think of anyone. The only people I know, apart from Aunt Bernie, are Peony and Ryan… and Dawson.

I glance up at the bar. The lights are still on inside and although I doubt he'll welcome me, I can't see what choice I have.

"I'll work something out," I say into the phone. "Thanks for your help."

"Take care," she says, and we end the call.

I put my phone back in my pocket, and suck in a breath, hoping Dawson hasn't locked the door… because I'm not sure he'll hear me if I have to knock.

I try it, and luckily, it opens, and I step inside.

"What happened?" Dawson asks, putting down his glass and quickly hiding the vodka bottle under the bar.

"It snowed… a lot. Goodness knows how we didn't notice it, but…"

"The windows are tinted," he says, like explaining our lack of observation is the most important thing here. "At night, you can't see anything outside, except lights. If it had snowed during the daytime, we'd have seen it."

"I guess."

He steps out from behind the bar and comes over, opening the door behind me, and we both look out.

"Fucking hell," he says, and then glances down at me. "Sorry," he murmurs. "I didn't mean to say that."

"Yes, you did."

He shrugs and I have to smile. "It hasn't snowed like this for years," he says, looking outside again. "And I guess it explains why it's been so quiet tonight."

"Yeah. It also explains why I'm still here."

He turns again, frowning down at me. "Because you don't like driving in snow?" he says.

"It doesn't bother me, one way or the other, but the problem is, I don't have a car, and the lady at the cab company has just told me it's too dangerous to get someone out to me. She said the sheriff had to rescue a woman who drove her car into a ditch."

"Brady will have loved that," he says, shaking his head.

I can't comment, never having met the man, and I'm about to explain when he closes the door and turns to face me properly.

"What do you mean, you don't have a car?" he says, like that part of my explanation has only just filtered into his head.

"Exactly that. I don't have a car."

"Your aunt has one. Haven't you been using that?"

"No. That's her car. And in any case, it's still being fixed."

He frowns, then pushes his fingers back through his hair. "No. That's not right. I remember Levi telling me it was only gonna take a couple of days. He said so. He was sitting right there." It's like he's piecing the scene together in his head. He even points to the bar while he's talking.

"That's what he told Aunt Bernie, too. But he couldn't get the parts he needed. They only came in over the weekend, and I'm supposed to collect the car tomorrow."

"So, how do you get here? How do you get home?" he says, facing me again, and stepping just a little closer. It's not close enough to crowd me, but it's close enough that I have to crane my neck to look up into his darkening eyes.

"I walk," I say.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes. I like it… especially the walk home. It's refreshing."

"You're kidding. Are you telling me you've been walking home every night, all by yourself?"

"Yes."

"Why the hell didn't you tell me?" he says, although he doesn't raise his voice.

"What would have been the point?" I ask and he tilts his head, like he's trying to work out the meaning of my question.

"I could have given you a ride," he says.

I shake my head. "No, you couldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because by the time I leave, you've had too much to drink."

He steps back, his eyes widening. "You noticed?"

"Of course I noticed."