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Dean wanted to talk. I’d rather pretend this drama never happened.
“Steph,” he said, his voice calm. “Tell me what medication you’re on.”
I had nothing to lose by telling him, and since this was a failed one-night stand, we’d never have reason to talk again anyway. He wanted to reassure himself I wasn’t going to flake out on him again. “I take anti-depressants. For anxiety.” Because I was a basket-case.
His brows tugged together. “How long have you been taking them?”
“Nearly six months. I had some issues with the first one I was prescribed, so my GP swapped me onto these. They’re stronger, I think, but better.”
“Okay.” His frown stayed. “And you’re supposed to avoid alcohol?” He’d drunk as much as me earlier, but he sounded sober and in control, while I was a blubbery mess.
“Yes.” I drew out the word.
“Look at me, Steph.” He sounded stern, and I automatically met his gaze. “Why did you drink tonight? Be honest.”
“Because I wanted to lose myself for a few hours.” Because I hated being me.
“And your ex got engaged to someone else?”
Thanks for the reminder. “He wasn’t my boyfriend.”
Dean cocked an eyebrow, and I hastened to explain. “We never dated. I wanted to, but he...” This was beyond hard. Zack thought I was a kid. “He never saw me that way.”
“I’m sorry. It’s his loss.”
That was sweet of Dean to say, but he was only trying to make me feel better. I sipped the tea and bought some more recovery time.
“I understand wanting to lose yourself for the night,” he said. “But meds and whisky don’t ever go together. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Maybe the interrogation was over now?
“I’m curious,” he said. “You say you had issues with the first drug. What happened?”
Oh no. I wasn’t going there. “Just... issues,” I repeated. “Why do you want to know?”
“A friend of mine has been taking anti-depressants recently. Do I need to be worried?”
I peeked at him over the mug in my hands. He gazed back at me, patient and steady. He’d be a good guy to have in your corner if you were in trouble. He’d be a good friend.
“There are different types,” I said, haltingly. “I’m not a doctor, so this is only what I picked up, okay?”
He nodded.
“SSRI’s are the most common, but they can take a while to start working.” My pulse quickened. “And sometimes, it gets worse before it gets better.”
“Go on.”
“That’s what happened to me.”
“It got worse? Your anxiety?”
I felt hot all over. I always went to great lengths to avoid talking about this, so why would I tell Dean? A stranger? I nodded but wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“How bad was it?”
“Bad,” I whispered. I held out my arms. The scars from the slash marks were vivid against my pale skin. “I tried to cut my wrists.”
“Shit.” Dean sat back, putting more space between us.
Nothing like a crazy, drunken, failed-suicide-attempt to put a guy off a girl. My shame was absolute.
“Depression is a really common side-effect.” My voice wavered. “The first one was like turning up the volume on everything. Every fear, every weakness... It was overwhelming. And I thought it was just me. My failure to cope.”
“You said you’re on something different now? And it’s better?” There was an urgent note in his voice, and I dragged my attention back.
“Yeah. I’m coping better.”
He was silent for an age. I braced myself for having to leave the bed, for finding my clothes, and for separating from him. Tonight had been amazing, right up to the point where it became hideous. Best experience to worst, in the space of an hour.
“I just remembered where I know you from.” His voice broke the silence, and I cringed. “It was a call out in Auckland a few months ago. You tried to throw yourself off a piece of scaffolding.”
“No.” I forced myself to look him in the eyes. It was important he believe me. “I wasn’t. I was drunk and depressed, but not suicidal. This”—I waved my scarred arms—“was earlier. I was between meds then, and drinking too much. That was me being stupid.” My default setting.
I wanted to move the conversation somewhere else. “Why is your friend taking them?”
“Lisa is Hal’s widow and the mother to his two small children.”
“You should keep an eye on her. Make sure she has support if she has a hard time with them at first.”
He sighed. “It’s fucking hard, when she’s in Auckland and I’m stuck down here.”
“Does she have family? Other friends?”
“Yeah, but I feel so freaking useless. You know?”
“Yes.” Only too well. I drank some more tea. “This wasn’t how I expected tonight to play out. Thank you for looking after me.”
He shrugged. “Shit happens.”
“I should go.”
“No. Not yet.” He sniffed at his T-shirt. “I need a shower. Stay here until I’ve cleaned up, and then we’ll figure out what to do. I don’t like you being alone. Not after being so sick. Okay?”
I bit back a yawn.
The corners of his lips tugged up. “See? You’re tired. Get some sleep. And promise you won’t run out on me.”
“I promise.”
“I’ll hold you to that, pretty sandy girl.”
I watched as he made his way into the bathroom and left the door ajar. The shower came on, and a woody, citrus fragrance drifted out. I finished my drink and placed the mug on the side table, then lay back against the pillows and thought back over the evening. I’d love to be in the bathroom with him now, seeing the water sluice over him, every muscle up close. I longed to count his abs. They were more like a cobbled street than a six-pack.
The thought made me smile, but then I yawned again. There was nothing like emptying your stomach into the toilet, to make you feel exhausted. I wasn’t sure I had the energy to walk home, even if I meant to.
My eyelids were heavy, but I fought to stay awake. This would be my only opportunity to see Dean in the flesh, and I wanted to burn the image into my brain. Couldn’t do that if I was asleep.
Resisting sleep was worth the effort. He padded back into the bedroom, a small towel slung around his waist.
Yowza. He was gorgeous. And I’d blown any chance I had with him.