Page 38 of Dreaming of Dawson

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.

Chapter Nine

Macy

I finish taking off my coat and wait for a moment, until I can’t hear footsteps on the stairs anymore, and then I crack open the door. It sounded as though Dawson was going slowly then, but he probably needs to, just in case he falls. I don’t like that thought, but I can’t afford to linger on it, any more than I can afford to linger out here. He said he was just going downstairs to turn out the lights, which means he’ll be back soon, and I think it’s best for him if I’m not around when he does. He needs to sleep… and so do I. It’s late, and while I know I said I’d send a message to Aunt Bernie, there’s no rush. She’ll be asleep by now, anyway, and what’s more important at this moment is that I need the bathroom…

I duck outside and go along the hall, pushing open the bathroom door and turning on the light. It’s bright, revealing a modern room, with white tiles and an enormous walk-in shower, alongside which is a roll-top bath. I imagine that was Stevie’s choice… like everything else up here, according to Dawson. It seems like a more feminine addition to a bathroom, and I imagine it’s quite a comfortable place to relax after a hard day’s work.

I’m aware of Dawson’s imminent return, though, and I don’t waste any time, darting back to the bedroom the moment I’m finished.

I can see yet more feminine touches in here. There’s no pink to speak of, but there are floral patterns on the green and cream drapes, and the matching pillows on the bed. It’s made up with white bedding, and the oak nightstands on either side provide homes for tall lamps with bright green shades that seem to be the same color as the desk against the far wall. I take a moment to admire the beautiful landscape picture that hangs above it, and then I remember… Aunt Bernie.

I pull out my phone from my back pocket, sitting on the edge of the bed while I send her a message, explaining the situation. She won’t reply, and I reach over and put my phone on the nightstand, checking the time. It’s nearly midnight, which I suppose could explain my sudden tiredness, and I pull back the covers, wondering if I should sleep in my clothes. I doubt that will be very comfortable, though. I’m used to sleeping naked, but that feels like a step too far, so I compromise and quickly strip down to my underwear before climbing into bed.

It’s chilly, although I assume that’s because I know there’s a thick layer of snow outside, and I wonder about getting up and closing the drapes… except I don’t want to. It’s warming up in here already, and I snuggle down, staring up at the ceiling and wishing I didn’t have to be alone… especially as Dawson is so close.

So close, and yet so far away, because nothing can ever happen between us, and I have to keep reminding myself of that.

It’s getting harder and harder all the time, especially now I’ve seen him with his guard down… just a little.

He was worried that I knew about his drinking. That much was obvious. But I think his reaction was quite positive. He wasn’t defensive. If anything, he seemed ashamed. He certainly apologized. And that response is more likely to lead to himgiving it up, if you ask me. Not that I’m any kind of expert in these things… but that’s how it felt to me.

As for everything else he told me tonight, that’s a little more complicated.

He seems to be caught up in his memories. Not in denial, but confused by them. I can’t be exactly sure why that is, but maybe if I can get him to talk some more – preferably when he’s sober – then I might understand it, and maybe then I can help him. Because I think he might want to be helped, even if he’s not willing to admit it yet.

Dawson smiles down at me, caressing my cheek with his fingertips, his lips grazing gently over mine.

“I love you so much,” he whispers, gazing into my eyes.

“I love you, too.”

He smiles, kissing me again, more deeply this time, his tongue dancing with mine as he lowers his other hand, letting it rest on my ass and pulling me onto him. I can feel his arousal and I moan into his mouth while he rolls me onto my back, and although we were just fully clothed and lying on a couch, we’re now naked and in bed, the green and cream drapes billowing in the breeze. I stir, almost waking, but my dream reclaims me as I spread my legs and he settles between them.

Neither of us says a word, although I gasp, feeling him enter me. He hesitates, checking I’m okay, and I nod my head, reaching around and placing my hands on his ass, pulling him closer.

“Whoa, babe,” he says, chuckling. “Not so fast.”

“Why not? I want you.”

---