Page 42 of Dreaming of Dawson

I had nothing more to lose.

So I drank the bottle dry.

I don’t recall getting to the stairs, or how I came to fall up them.

What I remember is the sight of a pair of feet… bare feet, right beside my head, and the words, “Let me help you.”

It was Macy, and I turned to look up at her, trying to take in the sight before me. I wondered if I might be dreaming again, but I wasn’t. She was there, looking even better than she had as a figment of my imagination. There was a light coming fromabove us, and even though it was an effort to focus, I could make out her shapely thighs, leading up to white lace panties, a narrow waist, flat stomach, and matching bra encasing truly magnificent breasts. I let my eyes linger. It wasn’t a dream. I knew it wasn’t. Her nipples were hard, clearly visible, and straining against the delicate fabric that was cupping them. That secret longing almost overwhelmed me. I wanted to reach out… to hold her and kiss her.

To make her mine.

But what could I do? I couldn’t even stand.

She tried helping me to my feet, like she wasn’t standing next to me, wearing practically nothing. But we both realized she wasn’t strong enough, and I knew I’d have to make the effort to get up by myself. I wanted to, in a way, to prove to her I could. That I wasn’t a complete loser.

I remember feeling dizzy once I was upright, but trying hard not to let it show.

Climbing the stairs was more difficult than I’d expected. It felt as though I was going to fall backwards, and Macy must have sensed that, because she put her arm around my waist, letting mine rest on her shoulder. It felt good to hold her body close to mine, even if I wasn’t the one doing the holding. I was more clinging than holding, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it.

I think I said, “That’s better,” before we started climbing again, and while I don’t know how she interpreted that, I remember thinking how good it was to feel her soft skin, and be able to touch her, and lean on her… in more ways than one.

How she got me in here, I don’t know. My only memories once we got to the top of the stairs are of darkness, and an overwhelming need to be horizontal.

She achieved that. Somehow. But like I say, I don’t know how.

I wish she hadn’t had to, though.

I wish she hadn’t seen me like that, or had to help me.

And I wish I hadn’t drunk so much.

I lie back and close my eyes before the shame engulfs me, although I don’t know why I’m bothering. It’s too late. I’m already mired in it.

Deservedly so.

Before Stevie left, I barely drank at all. I might have shared a glass of wine with Tanner when he came in, but otherwise, I regarded it as my duty to stay sober. Of course, I had no idea back then that my capacity to drink and remain in control for most of the day would be as great as it is.

I’m not proud of that. It’s nothing to boast about, but the fact of the matter is, Stevie left and it hurt… and that’s when I started drinking. As time’s gone on, it might have become more to do with forgetting, but the catalyst was her departure, and the pain that went with it.

Except, the more I think about it, the more I have to admit, it doesn’t hurt anywhere near as much as it used to. Everyone around me probably assumes it does… just like they assume I must miss Stevie. But that’s not the case at all. It’s not Stevie I miss. It’s having someone special in my life… someone who loves me, and who’ll let me love them.

I know I’ve told Tanner on more than one occasion that I’ll never let another woman in my life, and I’ve meant it. But I suppose the question is, can I?

If I want to have that ‘someone special’, then I’ll have to find a way, won’t I? I’ll have to overcome my feelings of inadequacy, the legacy of not being good enough, and my fear of being hurt again.

It feels like an impossible mountain to climb, but so did those stairs when I looked up at them last night, and I got up them. With Macy’s help, of course.

Macy…

I open my eyes again, images of her sweet smile, her kind voice, and her perfect body flooding into my mind. She looked amazing, and although it didn’t enter my head to question her last night, I can’t help wondering why she didn’t put some clothes on before she came to my rescue. Not that it really matters. The point is, she was there when I needed her… and I really needed her.

I hate myself for that… for being too drunk to climb the stairs, or thank her properly, or even string a sentence together, if I remember rightly.

I’d managed that earlier, when we were in the bar together. I’d talked to her then, a lot more than I usually would, and it felt good.

I wanted more of the same. But more than that, I wanted her, and my cock hardens at the thought, because although I know I was incapable of doing anything last night, I wish things had been different. I wish…

I sit up again, my head spinning, although I do my best to ignore it, and focus on the wall at the end of the bed. There’s something nagging at me. A memory…

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