Page 49 of Dreaming of Dawson

“I know. She knew it, too. But she said she wanted us to do something together. It felt like we’d spent long enough doing different things, and fixing up this place would give us a shared interest. That was what she said. We didn’t discuss anything longer term… not back then.”

“Okay, but what about later? Once the bar was fixed up? You must have talked about it then?”

“Why? Neither of us was unhappy… or so I thought. She certainly never mentioned wanting to do anything else, and in fact, she often used to say how much she liked the freedom this place gave her.”

“Freedom? Working the hours you do?”

“She didn’t work the same hours, though. Most people assumed she did, because she was in here every evening, serving behind the bar, but during the day, she used to do her own thing.”

“I assume you’re not talking about a job?”

“No.” I shake my head. “But you have to remember, I don’t really need to be down here until eleven, or thereabouts, so we’d spend most of the morning together, having brunch before I came down to start work. She’d maybe go out with some friends in the afternoon, or go to the beauty salon, or shopping, then she’d come back and we’d have something to eat before working the evening shift together.”

“I thought you said you made a good team.”

“We did. But that didn’t require us to spend every moment of the day together. I think I already said to you, she was better at paperwork than I was, so if she was here during the day, she’d be upstairs doing that, and I’d be down here. We weren’t in each other’s pockets.”

“But she said she wanted you to spend more time with each other,” Macy says, looking confused.

“She did… and we were. When we were at college, I was working from five until midnight seven days a week. The only chance we had to be together was first thing in the morning, up until maybe eight, or eight-thirty, and sometimes for an hour during the day, if we happened not to have lectures at the same time. We had weekends, but Stevie used to study, and I’d usually catch up on my sleep.”

“And you did that for four years?”

“Yes.”

“That must have been hard.”

“It was. But I thought the fact that we got through it proved something.”

“It did. It proved you loved each other.”

“Maybe we did back then. But I don’t love her now.” I feel like that needs to be said, and she looks up at me, her eyes fixed on mine. “I don’t miss her, either. That’s not why I drink, Macy. You’re wrong about that.”

“Then why do you?” she asks.

“At the start, it was simply because she’d left me… because she’d gone, with no warning. She just announced she was leaving, packed her bags and walked out.”

“So it was shock?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what it was. Although I’m not sure I’ve ever realized that before. I didn’t understand why she’d done it. I still don’t.”

“Okay, but you can’t still be drinking because of shock.”

“I’m not. As time’s gone on, I think it’s more to do with wanting to obliterate the knowledge that I wasn’t enough.”

Have I ever put myself out there this much? I don’t think so. Not even with Tanner, and certainly not when I’ve been sober. It’s an odd feeling to be this exposed… this vulnerable, and I stare into her sparkling eyes, waiting for her response, which starts with a shake of her head.

“You can’t say that,” she says. “You can’t say you weren’t enough.”

“Yeah, I can. Otherwise, why did she even have to look for another man, let alone sleep with him, or leave me for him?”

Macy reaches out, placing her hand on my arm, and even though my shirtsleeve forms a barrier between us, I can’t help the gasp thato leaves my lips. This isn’t the first time she’s voluntarily touched me. She practically carried me up the stairs last night, but I was drunk then, and I’m not now. I’m not even all that hungover anymore, and her touch is enough to ignite long forgotten memories of what it’s like to feel a woman’s fingers… a woman’s hands… a woman’s lips.

“None of that was your fault,” she says before I can get around to going too far with those thoughts.

“That’s what Stevie said, but even if it’s true, I must have done something to make her go. It can’t have been all her. Because it takes two to make a marriage work, you know? That means it must take two to make it fail.”

She grips my arm just a little tighter. “You really think that?”

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