Page 41 of Dreaming of Dawson

“Let me help you.”

I kneel before him, making quick work of untying his shoelaces and pulling off his shoes, placing them by the nightstand.

“Better,” he says, nodding his head, and then flopping sideways onto the pillow. He’s on top of the covers, which is hardly ideal, but there’s a throw at the end of the bed and once I’ve lifted his legs onto the mattress, I pull it up over him.

“I’ll let you get some sleep,” I say, straightening the throw.

“Thanks, Macy.”

I have to smile. At least he knows who I am. That’s something.

I wonder about closing the drapes and shutting out the light altogether, but I realize he might need it, if he has to visit thebathroom during the night, so I leave them as they are and turn away, letting out a yelp of surprise when he grabs my hand.

“What is it?” I say, looking down at him.

“You,” he says, his eyes raking over me, just like they did on the stairs earlier, only with more hunger in them this time. “It’s you, Macy. You’re fucking beautiful.”

“And you’re drunk,” I whisper.

I pull my hand from his, overwhelmed with regret and embarrassment. Why did he have to say that… now, of all times? Why is it that the only time he’s ever paid me any attention is when he’s too drunk to stand? It’s humiliating, and I don’t want to stay here, under his gaze, for a second longer.

Without a word, I turn and run.

Chapter Ten

Dawson

What the fuck happened to my head?

And why am I awake already?

It’s barely light, which I’m pretty sure means I should still be asleep for at least another couple of hours.

I reach out and grab my alarm clock, pulling it closer so I can focus on the hands, and the numbers around the edge of its circular face. The problem is, while the numbers are reasonably clear, I can only see one hand. How is that possible? Did the other one fall off? I shake the clock and even check the floor before I realize my mistake and that I’m a fucking idiot. It’s just after six thirty.

Six-thirty?

That’s way too early.

I drop the clock, hearing it thud to the floor, between the bed and the nightstand, and turn onto my back, my head spinning. That’s nothing new for me. I wake up like this most mornings, although not usually this early. That’s not the only thing that’s different, though. Something else doesn’t feel right.

I reach down, discovering I’m fully clothed. That’s also not unusual. Neither is the fact that I’m on top of the covers and not underneath them… although I seem to have a blanket of some kind over myself. I lift it up and recognize it as the throw that lives at the end of the bed.

That was dextrous of me. How did I manage that?

God knows.

So, what is it that’s not quite right? My knee hurts, I know that… although I don’t know why. I bend it up, wincing. I must have done something to it, although I don’t remember…

“Oh, shit.”

I sit up, regretting the sudden movement, my head pounding and my stomach churning, both at the same time, which has the unfortunate effect of making me want to vomit. I won’t. But I wish I’d reacted differently to the memory that flitted through my brain just then… the memory of tripping up the stairs, and of Macy coming to help me.

“Oh, God.”

I run my hands down my face, remembering how I sat at the bar, drinking from the bottle, awash with shame and guilt and confusion… thinking of Macy. Not Stevie. Macy.

I remember wanting to talk to her, wishing she could be there… and yet feeling grateful that she wasn’t. It felt like my humiliation was complete. Stevie left me for another man. It was her subtle way of telling me I wasn’t good enough for her. And Macy? Macy had discovered my biggest failing. The woman I secretly longed for knew my weakness… the one I thought I’d hidden so well, even from my oldest friend.

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