by Alyssa Kress
CHAPTER SEVEN
Wake up! Wake up, there, kid. Jeez, kinda young to be in the gutter, ain't ya?
Brennan woke with a start. He sat up at once, his heart pounding in pure terror. Where was he? No. Surely this couldn't be happening again. He couldn't be passed out on a sidewalk in downtown Sacramento—again.
Slowly, the outlines of the furniture in the room around him eased out of the darkness: the wardrobe against the wall, the shades pulled down over the window, and the cushioned chair by the balcony French doors. He was at home, he was alone, and it was dark outside: probably the middle of the night.
He blew out a breath and ran a hand through his hair. God, he hated this dream. It was too real, too like the memory of the actual event, that miserable night he'd passed out on the stoop of a pawnshop in downtown Sacramento and been woken the next morning by the irritated owner. Brennan had really tied one on that night. He'd gotten fired from his first real job and had Lois dump him all in the same day. No amount of alcohol had been enough to dull the pain of failure and rejection. Finally, he hadn't felt anything at all. Until getting his feet kicked by a disgusted older man in a sweater vest and a plaid golf hat.
Definitely did not appreciate this dream.
Gotta get up. Experience told him that if he didn't, he'd spend the next couple hours lying in bed repeatedly reliving the whole episode from his past. So he threw the covers to one side and swung out of bed.
"Jeez, it's cold." He opened his closet and hunted for a robe. After pulling it on over his pajama bottoms, he tied the belt and started down the hall. Maybe he could make himself something to drink, something warm and soothing.
At the head of the stairs, Brennan flipped the light switch. He could see the stairs and the living room below. The sight comforted him with its immediacy, pushing the dream further from its semblance of reality.
Blowing out a breath, he started down the stairs. He supposed it wasn't a big surprise he'd had this particular dream tonight. It made sense he'd be remembering Lois and her rejection. His unconscious was reminding him that he should be happy that Erica, too, had rejected him. Yes, much better that it should happen now, before he'd gotten too into her or fallen in love with her or anything dire like that. Right, better to happen now than later.
He did not want to live through another breakup like the one he'd had with Lois.
In the kitchen, Brennan switched on another light and blinked at the brightness. Good. Bright, so he could really wake up here. Get those nasty memories out of his head. Brennan opened the refrigerator and wondered what he actually wanted. Warm milk sounded pretty dismal. Coffee was obviously a bad idea. He had the makings of a meal—fresh vegetables, cheese, and lunch meats—but did he want to go that far?
Hot chocolate, Brennan decided. He'd make it from scratch, too, rather than using a powdered mix. Do it right. He reached for the milk carton.
But even as he busied himself getting a pan, pouring in some milk, and turning on the flame, he couldn't rid his mind of the memories of that dark time in his life, the era remembered in his dream. Unfortunately, he could probably never delete from his brain those six weeks following his morning wake-up call on the Sacramento street. They'd comprised a painful cycle of sobering up just enough to convince Lois he was 'better,' begging her to take him back, and then going out on a binge after she sent him away each time. Lois was no fool. Brennan hadn't been 'better.' He hadn't even acknowledged he had a problem.
Sighing, Brennan searched the pantry cabinet for a box of real cocoa. He found it and concentrated on carefully measuring the appropriate amounts of cocoa and sugar. But the banal, physical activity was not enough to crowd out the worst part of his memories.
The worst part had come after he'd hit bottom. Only then, during the agonizing period of his recovery, had he become sober enough to realize what was actually going on. The woman he loved did not love him back.
He'd had to deal with giving up alcohol at the same time he'd had to deal with giving up Lois. That had been torture. It was a torture he was determined never to repeat.
He would not be able to survive repeating it...or at least not without falling back into ruin.
"Damn." The milk was boiling. Brennan twisted off the flame and then skimmed the skin that had formed on top. He next poured the hot milk into his mug and stirred in the cocoa-sugar mixture.
Now, that smelled good. Just what the doctor ordered. He picked up the mug and took a careful sip, not wanting to burn his tongue. Yup, tasted as good as it smelled.
Brennan briefly closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he deliberately allowed his gaze to go out the kitchen window, the one that overlooked the driveway—and toward the Carmichael house beyond that. He couldn't see the house in the darkness, especially from his brightly-lit kitchen. But he knew Erica was asleep somewhere inside.
Her angry reaction to his confession had stung. The pain of that had taken him off guard. He hadn't thought her rejection would hurt, but something about Erica evidently poked through the emotional wall he usually kept around himself.
He now realized that a small part of him had hoped, by some miracle, that Erica would have understood his situation. Yes, he fought his urges every day, but at this point he had some confidence that he'd win the battle. She might have had that confidence, too. She could have believed in him, maybe even supported him.
Brennan shook his head. Yes, some small, stupid part of him had felt that way. But a far bigger part of him had felt relief that she'd so decidedly rebuffed him. Her repudiation meant there was no risk he could fall in love. Since Lois, he didn't do that sort of thing. Never got too involved with the women he dated. Never felt more than a little vague affection.
Erica had tested his restraint. But now he didn't have to worry about that.
Brennan looked down into his hot cocoa and took another careful sip. Right. All that mattered was the end result: they were not getting involved.
For that, Brennan felt profoundly grateful.
He took three more sips of hot cocoa, set his nearly full cup in the sink, and went back upstairs, determined to get back to sleep.
Life went on, and he had work tomorrow.