One Careful Owner: Love Me, Love My Dog

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  You’re weak, one tiny corner of my brain was screaming. You’ve always been weak. You’re a fucking disgrace. WEAK! WEAK! WEAK!

  But the more I drank, the quieter the words became, slurred and indistinct as I slumped in my seat, retaining just enough focus to keep on pouring, keep on drinking.

  When I tried to make my way to the bathroom, the floor was bucking and rolling like the deck of a ship in a storm. My empty stomach churned in sympathy and I wondered if it was possible to piss whiskey. Man, that would hurt.

  The afternoon passed and the evening rush started to fill the room. I ordered a second bottle before the first was finished.

  “You might want to slow down a bit, dude,” said the bartender. “Have some water with it. Eat something, maybe.”

  I pushed a pile of bills toward him and he shrugged.

  When I made my way back to my table, I was followed by a blonde with pneumatic tits and glaringly-red lipstick that made me squint.

  “You want some company, handsome?”

  I pointed at the bottle—I had all the company I needed. But she took that as an invitation to join me and poured herself a glass then tapped it against mine.

  “Here’s to new friends. I’m Harper.”

  I carried on drinking.

  “Is that a dog collar you’ve got there? I guess you like some kink, huh? That makes you my kind of guy.”

  She laughed coarsely and dug her nails into my arm when I pushed Stan’s collar back into my pocket.

  I felt her tongue in my ear and shook her off as I took another shot.

  At some point she must have gotten bored, because next time I looked up, I was alone. Much better. I was alone and surrounded by people. Stan had been my people, Stan had been my crowd.

  I rubbed my eyes. Not drunk enough yet. I poured another glass. I drank it.

  Pour, drink. Pour, drink. Until my head felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. I decided to rest on the table, just for a moment.

  I don’t know how long I was out, but the next thing I remember was someone shaking my shoulder.

  “Alex, come on, wake up. Time to go home.”

  A woman. She smelled good.

  I smiled and looked up, my vision blurry. Dark hair, dark eyes, tall. Dawn? No, not Dawn. I was surprised when I recognized Stella.

  “Home’s empty,” I slurred.

  “Where’s Stan?”

  I pointed upward.

  “Stan’s upstairs?” she asked, her voice confused.

  “Yeah, golden stairs,” I muttered.

  She huffed quietly. “Alex, you’re not making any sense. Do you think you can walk to my car?”

  I doubted it. I couldn’t feel my feet.

  She tugged on my hand, helping me get upright, and slung my arm around her slim shoulders. Together we staggered and weaved across the parking lot to her car. She propped me against the door but I slid down, the cold metal scraping across my back as my t-shirt snagged on the side mirror.

  “Give me some help here, Alex!” she complained. “You weigh a ton.”

  She fought to help me to my feet, opened the door, then pushed me inside. I was splayed out across the stick shift, ignoring the way it poked uncomfortably into my side.

  “Oh for God’s sake! Can’t you sit upright! You’d better not hurl. Do you have any idea how much it costs to clean this car? I’ll open the window: if you’re going to be sick, stick your head outside.”

  I tried, I really did, and for most of the journey I was fine. But when we started bumping down my potholed driveway, my stomach rebelled, and I vomited whiskey and stomach acid all over the fancy leather.

  She screeched. “I can’t believe you did that!”

  “Sorry,” I slurred.

  She parked the car, and when I opened the door, I fell out, crawling on my hands and knees to the front door.

  “Do you feel better now?” Stella asked tartly.

  I belched loudly.

  “Oh, God!”

  “Gonna go sleep now.”

  “Not like that!” she snapped. “Take off those disgusting clothes and get in the shower.”

  I yanked my shirt over my head, vaguely aware of ripping sounds as I crashed against the doorframe. Stella had to reach into my pants pocket to wrestle my keys free.

  I laughed and thrust my hips at her.

  “You’re drunk and you stink.”

  I nodded in agreement.

  I fell over trying to kick off my boots in the hallway. One landed in the living room and the other . . . I have no fucking idea where that one went. Then I unzipped my pants as I started up the stairs, tripping and falling to my knees.

  I dropped the pants halfway up the stairs and used the banister to haul myself up the rest of the way.

  The boxers were left somewhere else, and then I found myself in the bathroom. It took two attempts to turn on the shower and then I stepped inside and slipped, banging against the soap dish and kicking over a bottle of shampoo. I guess wearing socks in the shower was a big no-no.

  I tried to dry myself with a towel, but it seemed like too much effort so I stumbled out dripping wet.

  I heard a sudden intake of breath behind me, but by then consciousness was a losing battle. I fell onto my bed and passed out.

  Waking up the next day was one of the worst experiences of my life. My mouth tasted like I’d eaten something puked up in Hell.

  The thumping hangover was bad, but the shame was far, far worse. I felt bitterly disappointed that after all this time I still didn’t have a better control of myself.

  Then the pain of losing Stan spiked through the fog, and the wound felt fresh. I remembered everything in vile clarity: Stan, Dawn, running away, the whiskey and . . . my throbbing head and stomach rolling with nausea was a stark reminder of how lost I was, how screwed up my world, how pointless my existence.

  I lay there feeling sorry for myself when I heard the soft rush of water in my bathroom, and I sat up.

  That was a mistake. My head felt so fragile I was half afraid it was going to shatter if I moved again. I reached out cautiously and felt the sheets next to me. Shit, they were still warm.

  How the hell had I gotten home last night? And who the fuck was in my bathroom?

  The answer walked out wearing one of my t-shirts.

  Stella.

  What the fuck had I done?

  I screwed my eyes shut and groaned.

  “Jeez, Alex, you don’t have to look so happy to see me!” she snorted, her hands on her hips and an amused expression on her face.

  I eyed her warily and her gaze softened.

  “You look like hell. How are you feeling?”

  I tried to speak, but my voice was so hoarse that I sounded like I’d smoked ten packs of Marlboros as I grunted at her.

  She smiled and shook her head.

  “That was some bender you were on. I have to say I was pretty surprised to see you in a bar. The bartender said you’d been there all afternoon drinking your body weight in whiskey. What set it off?”

  I looked away from her, almost amazed that she couldn’t see blood dripping from my wide open heart.

  “S-stan d-d-d d-died,” I said, my voice breaking on the second syllable.

  “Oh,” she said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

  There was no possible response.

  She paused, then handed me the glass of water she was holding.

  “I can’t make that better, but I can help your hangover. It must be horrendous.”

  I took the water with shaky hands and swallowed down the two pills she held out.

  “You should take another shower,” she said firmly. “You’ve been sweating whiskey all night, and I have to say it isn’t pleasant.”

  I shifted my legs to the side of the bed, willing my stomach to quit heaving.

  “Oh God, not again!” Stella yelped, turning around and shielding her eyes. “I saw enough of your dick last night. I don’t need a repeat performance!”

  I froze. As
if the morning wasn’t bad enough.

  She looked over her shoulder at me, peeking through her fingers.

  “Oh, don’t look so worried—we didn’t have sex. You just decided to do a striptease on your way to the shower last night. And by the way, I’m officially insulted that you look disgusted at the thought of sleeping with me. There was a time when . . . well, never mind. Just let me get out of the room first.”

  The door closed and I heard her yell, “And put some damn pants on!”

  My head hurt too much to process why she was here, so I took a long shower, emerging feeling cleaner and slightly more sober. Or slightly less drunk.

  My mind cleared, too, and grief threatened to overwhelm me. But there was shame, so much shame. For nearly a whole year, I’d been sober. Eleven long, hard months. And now I was back at square one. Stan hated me drinking. He’d be pissed at me for last night.

  Christ, shamed by my dog. I needed therapy. Well, I’d tried that already, but in the end, Stan had been the best therapy.

  I lurched back into my bedroom to dress.

  Stella had opened the window to the frigid air, but she was right: the room smelled rank and I knew I’d have to change the sheets before I could sleep in that bed again.

  Then I glanced down at Stan’s bed next to mine. The blankets were cold, but they still smelled like him. I’d always loved the way his fur smelled when he’d been sleeping in the sun—warm and rich like fresh bread or baking cookies.

  Tears stung behind my eyes and I swiped them away angrily. Better to be angry than sad.

  I listened to Stella moving around my kitchen and wondered again what she was doing here . . . and whether I would stomach the coffee that I could smell wafting up the stairs.

  Suddenly, there was a frantic pounding on the door. It was too early and too loud and it made my head throb even worse as I tentatively made my way down the stairs. At the same moment, Stella came out of the kitchen.

  “I’ll get it,” I muttered, groaning as the thunderous knocking started again.

  I pulled the door open and saw Dawn.

  “Oh, thank God! I didn’t know . . .”

  She stopped mid-flow, her eyes narrowing and her mouth clamping shut. “Stella,” she said, her voice dripping ice.

  I glanced over my shoulder at Stella, still wearing my t-shirt, her legs bare and hair mussed.

  Stella’s eyes were wide with shock and alarm.

  “Oh, shit,” she murmured.

  Dawn didn’t stay to listen to excuses. She threw me a venomous look as I tried to force out words, but before I could say even a stuttered syllable, she turned on her heel and left. I was in no shape to chase after her.

  Stella walked up to me and rested her hand on my shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry. I promise I didn’t want to mess things up for you. Either of you.”

  I let the door slam, wincing at the noise, and staggered into the kitchen where I slumped into a chair.

  “Why are you here, Stella?”

  She sighed and sat down on the opposite side of the table, pushing a cup of coffee toward me.

  “I saw your truck outside Mike’s bar. I was surprised because, well, after what you told me . . . you know . . . that you were an alcoholic. When I found you, I could see you were in pretty bad shape, so I thought I’d better take you home. I would have called Dawn . . . well, I probably wouldn’t, but I knew that you couldn’t get home by yourself.” She paused. “I’ll take you to get your truck when you’re sober . . . which isn’t yet.”

  I squinted up at her. But then I wondered why she was wearing one of my t-shirts. I raised my eyebrows.

  She rolled her eyes.

  “You threw up in my car and all over me.”

  I hung my head.

  “I didn’t dare leave in case you were sick in your sleep. So I grabbed this. You weren’t quite so modest. You have a very impressive dick, by the way. I didn’t really mind you showing it to me.”

  Her laugh was soft.

  “I’ll talk to Dawn,” she said, although her expression wasn’t very reassuring. “She thinks I’m a slut, but she knows I’m not a liar. I think she’ll listen when I tell her the truth. There’s a chance she might believe me.”

  I was so confused. Why was she being so nice to me? The last time I’d seen Stella it had gotten very ugly . . .

  It had been a few days after Spen’s party, and I’d been working on my truck when Stella had driven up to the cabin. She said she was just being neighborly, but I’d recognized the calculating look in her eyes. I recognized it because it reminded me of Charlotte.

  But she was also Dawn’s sister, so I’d given her the benefit of the doubt. Against my better judgement, I’d offered her coffee. She’d wanted a lot more than my best Colombian with cream and sugar. And then she’d invited me to dinner.

  When Dawn had asked me about Stella two months ago during our not-a-date, I’d admitted that her sister had hit on me—but it had been a lot more than that.

  The memory was unpleasant, and I felt demeaned by what had passed between us, by the way I’d behaved.

  We’d been sitting on my deck, and I remembered her watching me that afternoon, a hungry expression on her face . . .

  “I was just wondering if you’d like to come over one evening. No strings, Alex. I just get . . . lonely. And you’re out here all by yourself . . .”

  I was blunt. I’d told her I couldn’t be around anyone who drinks. It had gone downhill from there. Like most alcoholics, she didn’t want to believe it when faced with the ugly truth.

  “Oh for God’s sake,” she’d said, her voice strident with irritation. “I have one or two glasses of wine in the evening, that’s all. It’s not like I’m an alcoholic or anything.”

  “I am,” I said, meeting her eyes.

  Several seconds passed as she stared at me, her eyes widening. She seemed stunned. “You?”

  I nodded and I could see awareness sweeping over her.

  “But you’re so . . . you seem so . . .”

  “S-s-sober n-nine months now,” I’d said, staring out at the lake again. “It’s been h-hard.”

  She gazed at me appraisingly.

  “We all knew you were running away from something. My guess was divorce.”

  I winced and she smiled coldly, knowing she’d made a hit.

  “So, I was right about that. I’m not surprised—you’ve got the look. Hell, I’ve been there, Alex, I know.”

  She’d leaned forwards and run her hand through my hair. I ducked my head away and frowned into my coffee.

  “Sure I can’t persuade you? Have a bit of fun for a change? Or did my little sister get there first?”

  I glared at her, my anger building.

  “Oh, come on!” she laughed. “I saw the way Dawn was all over you. The frigid little bitch is never that friendly. It was obvious. Does she know? About you?”

  I was really regretting telling her anything, and I shook my head.

  “N-no! N-n-n-no one!”

  “Oh, don’t worry that I’ll say anything,” she said huffily. “I can’t stand all those gossiping hens. I’ve been their target too often, believe me.” Then she paused. “So, if my little sister isn’t pressing your buttons, who is?”

  She was refusing to take a hint.

  I stood up and poured my untouched coffee on the ground, hoping she’d realize it was time for her to leave.

  “Why so coy? Am I shocking you?”

  “Don’t p-push me,” I warned.

  Instead she laughed again.

  “Come for dinner. I’ll keep the wine on my side of the table.”

  She was igniting the fury that burned inside me, and she didn’t even realize it.

  “You know you want to,” she said, stroking my hair again.

  I gripped her arms suddenly and she jumped.

  “You want sex, Stella?” I said, my voice low and hard. “You want a quick fuck, no emotions involved? Then let’s go.”

  �
��Well, I didn’t say ‘quick’,” she said, her eyes flaring with excitement.

  She took my outstretched hand and I pulled her up. As soon as she was vertical, I pushed her backwards hard, hearing her body thud against the side of the house. She didn’t even notice.

  I pinned her against the wall with my hips and forced my mouth down onto hers. Her hands clawed against my back as her tongue fought with mine. I pulled her hair hard with one hand, forcing her head back, then roughly dragged my other hand up between her thighs. She groaned and writhed.

  Then I yanked on her panties until they slid down past her knees.

  “Not here! Not on the deck! Alex, please!”

  I didn’t stop, fury and rage burning away my humanity.

  I saw the slap a split second before it made contact and raised my arm to block her.

  “No!” she yelled, and I backed away, staring at her.

  “Isn’t this what you wanted, Stella?” I said, ice freezing my voice. “No emotions, no connection, just sex? Isn’t that what you’ve told everyone anyway, that you’ve already fucked me? You’re just using me, right? Like you said. No strings.”

  “You bastard,” she hissed. “I’m not surprised your wife left you! I can’t believe I thought you were a nice guy.”

  “No, you didn’t,” I said evenly. “You thought I’d be grateful and you thought I’d be easy. Or maybe just convenient.”

  With a look of utter loathing, she ducked down to pull up her panties, trying to maintain a few shreds of dignity.

  “Fuck you!”

  . . . She hadn’t spoken to me again after that, and I hadn’t seen her since that day. I assumed that was deliberate.

  It was awkward and humiliating for both of us, remembering that day. We’d both traveled a long way since then, weathered the storms, grown older, maybe grown wiser.

  “You h-hate me?” I muttered questioningly.

  Stella stared out of my kitchen window. “I did, for a while. You were a complete bastard, but I had to admit that my own behavior wasn’t quite as pure as the driven snow. It was as if you held up a mirror—and I didn’t like what I saw in the reflection.” She shrugged. “I feel bad for what I said and did that day. And despite everything, I’m glad you and Dawn are together.”