Overcoming Fear (Growing Pains #2)(28)

“Monica stalking you really bothers you doesn’t it?” Krista said, pushing down her memories and fear and trying to keep Monica as the focus. “It’s hard when you get involved with someone at work. You can’t repair what inevitably breaks.”

As he realized the double meaning, the spark in his eyes dulled. His desire pulled back into himself.

“Maybe you should give in, make her stop,” Krista continued with regret. She was chasing him away, but it was for the best. For both of them.

“It was always going to end like this anyway,” Sean said robotically, looking at Krista with a sober expression. “I was shortsighted for thinking we were two adults about all this.”

Ouch.

He looked at her with a level expression. She was sitting at one end of the couch, he on the other, but he seemed to float away. The distance between them became a deep chasm. Krista could actually see the distance growing. His body language pulled back. His engaging eyes turned elsewhere.

She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She’d caused that, and she felt like a complete shit for it. But at the same time, she felt cut loose. It felt like danger was passing. It also hurt so bad it felt like she was stabbed.

“Anyway, I should go,” Krista said quietly.

Sean didn’t make any effort to stop her.

They walked to the door in silence, Krista trying desperately to hold back the tears.

“Well, I’ll see ya,” Krista said. It was goodbye. Sean knew it.

Sean watched her walk away down the street, not having offered to walk her home. He was at a loss.

Chapter Seven

Halfway home the smoke cleared. It was then that the dam burst, reducing her to sobs. She walked and cried. Partly she cried out of frustration, and partly because it felt like something was breaking deep inside. Breaking and floating away, like an iceberg in Alaska.

Being that she was crap at dealing with her problems, she did the only thing she could think of, the thing she always did when she felt like this; she went home and got raging drunk. By herself. Like a real alcoholic. If she was a poet, she would have written some prose and then stuck her head in the oven, Sylvia Plath style.

She must have passed out on the floor sometime during the night because she awoke to light filtered through the cloud cover above. Ben was sitting on the couch watching TV with a bowl of cereal. He looked down at her when she roused and said, “Good morning. What’s the crisis?”

“Uuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhh,” She grabbed her swollen head.

“You polished off a bottle and a half of wine on your own. You emptied two, but I think you spilled half on the floor. You’re lucky Abbey didn’t come home last night.”

“Uuuuuuuhhhhhhhmmmmm.”

“I was supposed to remind you that you are supposed to be on a train in about an hour to go to the Folsom Street Fair.”

“Not going.”

“I was supposed to remind you that you promised to go, and not going would be unacceptable.”

“Don’t care.”

“I was then supposed to say that if you don’t go you will have to rely on your department to help you, because your two good friends will not.”

“Anything else?”

“No. Kate said that if that didn’t work, you should probably be in the hospital.”

“I hate her.”

“Yes.”

“You going?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

“I didn’t think you were a homophobe,” she said, getting up painfully. It felt like she slept on razors.

“I’m not. Krista, my God you look like shit.” For Ben to say it, with a swear word and everything, it meant that it was probably true. Being that she also felt like shit, there wasn’t much of an alternative.

The mirror in the bathroom revealed exactly as Ben had said. Holy. I look like I got run over by a train. Then caught at the bottom of a stampede. Then thrown up on.

It was going to be an ugly, painful day.

She showered, dressed, and threw up. She put on some make-up and threw up again. She put her hair in a ponytail, grabbed her handbag, and contemplated throwing up one more time. She held strong, however, and headed out without saying goodbye to Ben. She couldn’t waste the energy.

It was a long, miserable bus ride into the general area she needed to be. She would not answer phone calls from the girls, but she did answer texts telling her where to go, getting updates on status, and other useful information for someone who cared. Krista didn’t.

Off the bus she sat on a bench next to a homeless man, needing a minute to steady her stomach. Needing to make sure she wasn’t going to throw up again.

“Hair of the dog,” the dirty man croaked next to her. He had his face turned toward her. “Hair of the dog. Only thing for it.”

He gave her a salute with his peach flavored wine before turning away.

It was bad when bums were on a level with you before noon. She had to agree, though. And well, he would know.

She staggered away, hearing him yell “Hair of the dog!” in her wake. She got about one block before she had to lean against a building to make sure she didn’t upchuck. As she rested, she saw the strangest thing. A transvestite had a bag of bread--buns it looked like--and was chucking them at people. No evident reason for it, and no one was singled out, but anyone within firing range had the threat of getting pegged with a bread roll.