wanted to be dream girl to a drunk?
“Fucking idiot,” he muttered.
She cautiously stepped into the kitchen to find him leaning with one hand on the counter, guzzling a glass of water.
“Shit,” he said when he’d drained the glass. He wiped a hand over his face again. “I’m shitfaced.”
At least he had no delusions.
He weaved toward her and she sidestepped to let him into the living room. He stood with his hands on his hips surveying the mess of curtains. He made a strangled noise.
She came up beside him, shocked to see his eyes moist and his lips pinched in distress.
“I’m so sorry, Haley-girl.”
Her heart broke. Something bad had happened tonight, and drinking had been his way of dealing with it. For a second, she worried something had happened to Haley, but the look on the man’s face wasn’t grief. It was regret, an emotion she knew all too well.
He scrubbed a hand over his face again and a look of determination replaced his sadness. He walked deliberately down the hall, only needing to brace himself on the wall once, disappeared into the laundry room, and returned a few minutes later with an orange extension cord coiled around one shoulder and a power drill dangling from his hand.
She watched in anxious helplessness as he spent the next hour hanging curtains in the living room, office and his bedroom. Using power tools didn’t strike her as a healthy activity for the inebriated, but he operated the drill like it was an extension of his hand. The task seemed to sober him. By the time he had a set of silver blinds hung over his bedroom window and elegantly masculine sheer navy curtains draped to the floor, he seemed almost back to his usual self.
She suspected at any time she could climb up on the bed and let him know she was there, but she didn’t. She simply stood in her usual corner right next to the window and watched him work. He said things under his breath that made her think he’d had a fight with his ex-wife. He’d muttered “judgmental bitch” a few times, but each time, the words held less venom and more thoughtfulness. Sometimes he paused in his work and shook his head as if angry with himself.
“I hear ya, buddy,” she said. “Sucks to want a do-over, doesn’t it? Well, life doesn’t give do-overs. Trust me. I know. You just have to make it right going forward.”
She would take her own advice. As soon as he started dreaming, she’d live up to her name and give him something to smile about.
* * * *
Derek was a shithead.
He’d messed up his marriage. He’d upset Haley. He’d pissed off Deidre. And now, he’d stayed up so late he was going to be worthless at work tomorrow. It was almost one in the morning, and he’d have to get up at five instead of his usual five-thirty so he could walk back to Brick and Mortar and get his truck. He couldn’t believe he’d made it the whole mile and half from the neighborhood bar back to his place on foot last night. He didn’t remember a single step of the walk. Oh, wait. He remembered pissing in a shrub. Jesus, he hoped nobody saw him.
Shithead was too mild a word. He was a disgusting drunk.
He’d turned out just like his father.
He ought to crawl into bed and never get out. The world would be better off without him. Haley would be better off without him.
The thought made his jaw clench. No, she wouldn’t. She was his Haley-girl.
He loved her, and he made sure she knew it. He told her all the time, and that by itself made him a better father than Dan Summers.
But Haley deserved even more from him. He didn’t want to be merely better. He wanted to be the best. The best protector. The best provider. The best supporter. The best dad.
Good dads need sleep.
He wiped a hand over his face for the fiftieth time that night. If Deidre were here, she’d scold him for it. Stop doing that. You’re going to give yourself wrinkles.
“Judgmental bitch,” he grumbled, but he’d lost his angry
“Fucking idiot,” he muttered.
She cautiously stepped into the kitchen to find him leaning with one hand on the counter, guzzling a glass of water.
“Shit,” he said when he’d drained the glass. He wiped a hand over his face again. “I’m shitfaced.”
At least he had no delusions.
He weaved toward her and she sidestepped to let him into the living room. He stood with his hands on his hips surveying the mess of curtains. He made a strangled noise.
She came up beside him, shocked to see his eyes moist and his lips pinched in distress.
“I’m so sorry, Haley-girl.”
Her heart broke. Something bad had happened tonight, and drinking had been his way of dealing with it. For a second, she worried something had happened to Haley, but the look on the man’s face wasn’t grief. It was regret, an emotion she knew all too well.
He scrubbed a hand over his face again and a look of determination replaced his sadness. He walked deliberately down the hall, only needing to brace himself on the wall once, disappeared into the laundry room, and returned a few minutes later with an orange extension cord coiled around one shoulder and a power drill dangling from his hand.
She watched in anxious helplessness as he spent the next hour hanging curtains in the living room, office and his bedroom. Using power tools didn’t strike her as a healthy activity for the inebriated, but he operated the drill like it was an extension of his hand. The task seemed to sober him. By the time he had a set of silver blinds hung over his bedroom window and elegantly masculine sheer navy curtains draped to the floor, he seemed almost back to his usual self.
She suspected at any time she could climb up on the bed and let him know she was there, but she didn’t. She simply stood in her usual corner right next to the window and watched him work. He said things under his breath that made her think he’d had a fight with his ex-wife. He’d muttered “judgmental bitch” a few times, but each time, the words held less venom and more thoughtfulness. Sometimes he paused in his work and shook his head as if angry with himself.
“I hear ya, buddy,” she said. “Sucks to want a do-over, doesn’t it? Well, life doesn’t give do-overs. Trust me. I know. You just have to make it right going forward.”
She would take her own advice. As soon as he started dreaming, she’d live up to her name and give him something to smile about.
* * * *
Derek was a shithead.
He’d messed up his marriage. He’d upset Haley. He’d pissed off Deidre. And now, he’d stayed up so late he was going to be worthless at work tomorrow. It was almost one in the morning, and he’d have to get up at five instead of his usual five-thirty so he could walk back to Brick and Mortar and get his truck. He couldn’t believe he’d made it the whole mile and half from the neighborhood bar back to his place on foot last night. He didn’t remember a single step of the walk. Oh, wait. He remembered pissing in a shrub. Jesus, he hoped nobody saw him.
Shithead was too mild a word. He was a disgusting drunk.
He’d turned out just like his father.
He ought to crawl into bed and never get out. The world would be better off without him. Haley would be better off without him.
The thought made his jaw clench. No, she wouldn’t. She was his Haley-girl.
He loved her, and he made sure she knew it. He told her all the time, and that by itself made him a better father than Dan Summers.
But Haley deserved even more from him. He didn’t want to be merely better. He wanted to be the best. The best protector. The best provider. The best supporter. The best dad.
Good dads need sleep.
He wiped a hand over his face for the fiftieth time that night. If Deidre were here, she’d scold him for it. Stop doing that. You’re going to give yourself wrinkles.
“Judgmental bitch,” he grumbled, but he’d lost his angry
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