Page 37 of Dreaming of Dawson

“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 themost 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.

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