Chapter Eight

Dawson

I stare down at her, trying to take that in, even though my brain seems to be working even more slowly than usual.

"Who else knows?"

"No-one," she says. "Certainly no-one's mentioned it to me. As far as I know, I'm the only one here who's aware of it. You hide it well, Dawson."

"Not well enough."

I turn away, hanging my head in shame. I didn't think anyone knew, but if it had been Karl, or Maggie, or Vanessa, I don't think it would have mattered to me as much as it being Macy.

And what makes it worse is that I just opened up to her. I've never done that before, except maybe to Tanner. Even with him, though, I'll hold back. I'll change the subject if necessary and flip it around to him and his problems. He does the same with me, and we both know when we've had enough. That's the advantage of having been best friends for so long.

I can't say that about Macy, though. She barely knows me at all, and yet she got me to talk, and although I'm not gonna say it was easy, I felt better for it. Part of me wanted to say more, too. More, not less, for the first time. Part of me wanted to say that, even if Stevie and I had made a good team at the start, it didn't last. The problem was, that would have involved telling her how it felt when Stevie left. It would have meant telling her about the humiliation and the demeaning sense of not being good enough. And I couldn't do that. I didn't want to see the disappointment in her eyes… like I did just now, when she told me she knew about me drinking.

She coughs, and I turn around, looking down at her. The disappointment has gone. Now, she just looks concerned, and undeniably beautiful… as ever.

She's undeniably kind, too. I worked that out even before this evening… before she listened, and understood, and didn't judge.

It's something that just seems to radiate out of her, in everything she says, and everything she does. Like those notes she leaves for Karl. She doesn't need to do that. He's quite happy to make her a sandwich or a salad before he goes home, but he came out of the kitchen one day last week, not long after he'd arrived, and strolled over to the bar, carrying a piece of paper.

"Who's M?" he asked, and I frowned at him. "It's not Maggie. I know her handwriting, and in any case, she wouldn't write to me, would she?"

"What are you talking about?"

He thrust the piece of paper at me and I glanced down, reading…

‘Karl,

I just wanted to say thank you for the turkey sandwich. It was delicious and very kind of you to make it for me.

M x'

"That's Macy," I said, giving it back to him. "I would have thought you could work that out from the turkey sandwich reference."

"I make quite a few turkey sandwiches during my working day. What I don't get is why she's thanking me," he said, looking down at the note, clearly confused.

"Because she's like that."

He nodded, then smiled. "Hmm… that's cute," he said, and I had to agree. Pretty much everything about Macy is cute, from her attitude to her smile… which is ever-present. And as for the way she looks…

I can't stop thinking about her, or dreaming about her, it would seem.

It's taken every ounce of willpower not to jerk off, despite waking up with a hard-on every single morning since that first dream… since that explosive orgasm.

I haven't come since… not even on her first night here, when I stroked my cock while my pizza cooked. I wanted to. Just like I've wanted to every day, but I haven't, because she confuses me.

Or maybe it's that I confuse myself.

I can't be sure.

I know that thinking about her does crazy things to me, and that my head is never clear enough to understand them. That's why I didn't touch that glass of vodka I poured not long before she arrived today. Usually, I'd have taken advantage of her going out back to drink at least half of it, and maybe top it up again. But I didn't. Why? Because seeing her standing by the door, looking so beautiful, and sexy, and tempting was doing weird things to me. I wanted to be able to think straight for once… to work it out. But even without that extra half glass of vodka in my system, I couldn't do it. I couldn't work her out. I still can't.

"I'm sorry," I whisper and she tilts her head, looking up at me through her eyelashes.

"What for?"

"Because…"

"Because you didn't want me to know you were drinking?" she says, and while that's true, it's not what I was going to say.

"No. Because I shouldn't be drinking in the first place. Not like this."

That's the first time I've admitted that. The first time I've acknowledged it as a problem.

"It's okay," she says, trying to reassure me, I think.

"No, it's not."

She steps closer and I gaze down into her sparkling brown eyes. I don't know if that sparkle has anything to do with the lights, or if there's something more to it, although I know I might be able to work it out better if I were sober.

"Even if that's the case, there's no reason for you to apologize to me."

"Yes, there is. You… You shouldn't have to walk home on your own late at night," I say, trying to stick to the point.

"You think that's the priority here?"

"Yes."

She shakes her head. "I don't agree, but we already covered my journey to and from work," she says with a smile. Her eyes sparkle even brighter now, suggesting the lights have nothing to do with it at all.

"What does Bernie have to say about it?"

She blushes, and then bites on her lip, and my cock hardens, which in my current condition is nothing short of a miracle.

"She doesn't know," Macy whispers.

"Why not?"

"I told her I was getting a ride, or calling a cab."

"So you lied?"

"Yeah. I didn't want her to think I needed to use her car all the time… not that I could have done, since it's been at the auto shop. But the thing is, she's done so much for me already, and since my uncle died, she likes to get out to see her friends, and I didn't want her to feel she couldn't do that anymore, because I needed the car."

"I see. But do you think she'd like to know you've been walking home alone?"

"Probably not."

"I'd say definitely not."

"I've been okay." She raises her chin with just a hint of defiance. It's not something I've noticed in her before, but like her blush, and everything else about her, it's really cute. "Like I say, I've enjoyed it… at least until tonight. There's no way I can walk in this."

"No, you can't," I say firmly. "And did I hear you say Alison can't do anything for you, either?"

"Who's Alison?" she says, frowning up at me.

"The lady at the cab company. She said she couldn't help?"

"Yeah. She suggested I should find somewhere to stay for the night. I—I was wondering about here?"

"Here?" The thought of her sleeping here hadn't even occurred to me. Although I don't know why. Where else can she go?

"Yes," she says, looking embarrassed. "I don't know anyone else in Hart's Creek… except Peony and Ryan, and they're too far away."

"Yeah, they are…" I let my voice fade and she steps back, looking down at the space she's created between us.

"Obviously, if it's a problem," she murmurs.

"It's not. Honestly. I should have offered, not waited to be asked." I feel even more embarrassed now, but she shakes her head.

"I don't want to be any trouble. I can sleep on the couch."

"There's no need. I've got a guest room. The bed's already made up."

She nods her head, smiling, and to cover the awkwardness of the moment, I lock the door and turn away, getting all the way to the back of the bar, to the door marked ‘Private' before I realize she's not behind me.

"Are you coming?" I say and she saunters over, waiting for me to open the door and then passing through ahead of me.

I unlock the door that leads up to my apartment, and let her lead the way, taking care not to focus too much on her ass, although it's difficult. It's directly in front of me, and looks amazing, encased in skin-tight denim. Even so, I need to concentrate. Macy's presence may have prevented me from drinking quite as much as usual over the last few weeks – for various reasons – but climbing the stairs is still a little tricky at this time of night, I'm ashamed to say.

I'm relieved to get to the top, and I flick on the lights, blinking against them for a second, and then checking around to make sure the place isn't too untidy. Fortunately, it's okay, and I step around Macy into the kitchen.

She's still standing by the door, looking beyond the dining area into the living room, and the balcony that overlooks Main Street.

"Was this the one room you and your wife had to live in while you fixed this place up?" she asks. "Because if it was, it wasn't exactly a hardship."

I shake my head. "No. The only decent room, other than the bathroom, which was just about serviceable, was the bigger of the two bedrooms. It's at the front, and has a balcony too, so we used to eat out there."

"I hope it was summer."

"Late summer and fall, but the weather was kind to us."

She's doing it again… dragging details out of me, even when I least expect it.

"So this room was uninhabitable?"

"Mostly. It had been flooded at some stage, and the floor had rotted right through in several places. Fortunately, there wasn't too much damage downstairs, but up here it was a disaster."

"It sounds like you had your work cut out for you."

"It was a crash course in carpentry, plastering, plumbing. You name it, I can do it."

She moves a little further into the room, looking around. "You did a good job. It's lovely."

I follow the line of her gaze, beyond the dining table and chairs, to the living area, where there's a couch, covered in soft cream fabric, and two matching chairs.

"Thanks," I murmur. "It didn't start off like this. Once I'd completed all the structural work, we painted it white and put rugs on the bare floors. Stevie sourced some cheap furniture, and we made do with what we had for a few years. Making a success of the bar was our priority."

"You've certainly done that," she says, smiling up at me.

"Not if tonight is anything to go by."

"Tonight was a blip." She comes over, standing in front of me, and looks up into my eyes. It's a little unnerving, especially now we're up here, but I can't look away. "It's just the weather."

"I know. I'm not worried." Not about the bar, anyway.

"So, who chose the furniture?" she asks, looking around again.

"Stevie. She totally remodeled this place about five years ago. It needed doing by then, and I—I haven't changed a thing since she left."

"I don't know when you'd have found the time," she says, shrugging her shoulders and tilting her head at me, like it wouldn't have been completely normal for me to want to eradicate my ex-wife from my life… to obliterate her and our memories from the place that used to be ours. But I guess Macy's right. I've worked non-stop since Stevie left, and for the most part, I've barely noticed my surroundings… and I've been too drunk to care.

"Shall I show you to your room?" I say, feeling ashamed again.

"Sure."

She waits and I lead the way, going beyond the breakfast bar that separates the kitchen from the formal dining area, and then turning left into a short corridor. At the end, there's a door straight ahead.

"That's the bathroom," I say, nodding toward it, and pushing the door open. "There are towels in the closet and soap and toothbrushes in the cabinet above the sink. Feel free to use my toothpaste."

"Thanks," she says, and I turn to the left and take a few paces down the short hall, opening the door and flicking on the lights. Macy follows me in, and I step aside so she can put her purse on the bed. Once she's done that, she unzips her coat, and I step outside.

"I'll leave you to make yourself at home," I say. "My room's at the other end of the hall."

I don't know why I said that, but it's too late to take it back, and she nods her head. "I'd better send a message to my aunt, so she knows where I am."

"Okay. I—I'll just go downstairs and turn out the lights."

She nods and I close the door.

Why did I do that?

It's not like she was going to undress in front of me. And there was nothing beneath her coat I haven't seen before. Hell, I've been working with her all evening. She won't have changed out of her blouse into something different in the last thirty minutes.

Why was I suddenly so nervous?

Because we were in a bedroom?

Because her naked body has haunted my dreams?

Probably.

And the last thing I need is for her to open the door and find me loitering. She'd be bound to ask why, and I honestly wouldn't know what to say.

I take my time getting back down the stairs. Going down is even more dangerous than climbing up, but when I get there, I take a look around to make sure the place is as tidy as I remember. It seems to be, which means there's nothing left to do except turn out the lights. They're at the back, on a panel between the kitchen door, and the one that leads to the restrooms, and I'm about to head in that direction when I catch sight of my glass. It's the one I was drinking from earlier, when Macy came back in the door. It's still got some vodka in it, and I wander over, picking it up, and sitting on the closest stool as I stare at the clear liquid.

I know I should leave it. Drinking it is hardly going to improve my state of mind… and yet, not drinking it won't help either. It seems I can't win, and if I'm going to lose, on the whole, I'd prefer not to remember what that feels like.

I empty the glass, swallowing down its contents, and let out a deep sigh.

I was right. Nothing feels any better. But it doesn't feel any worse, either. I'm still humiliated, embarrassed and ashamed. I still don't understand what's going on, or why just thinking about Macy makes me feel the way I do.

Which means there's only one thing for it.

I lean over the bar, reaching around beneath it until my fingers find the bottle I stashed there earlier, thinking I was doing a good job of hiding it from Macy.

"You fucking fool," I mutter, pulling it out, and unscrewing the top.

The ice in my glass has melted, but it's too much effort to get up and fetch some more. In fact, it's too much effort to even pour the vodka into the glass, so I raise the bottle to my lips and tip it up, swallowing until I feel the cold liquid dripping over my beard and down onto my shirt.

I put down the bottle again and glare at it, relieved Macy can't see me now… although oddly, I wish she could. I wish she was here to talk me out of this, because I need her to, more than I've ever needed anything in my life.

She's not, though, is she?

She's upstairs.

And I'm not her problem.