Homeport

dogs.
    She’d gotten her wish, he thought as he stumbled downstairs. If he felt any worse, he’d be dead.
    When he saw there was already coffee, brewed and waiting, he nearly wept with love and gratitude for his sister. With hands that fumbled and trembled, he shook out four extra-strength Excedrin and washed them down with coffee that scalded his mouth.
    Never again, he promised himself, pressing his fingers to his throbbing, bloodshot eyes. He would never drink to excess again. Even as he vowed, the slick longing for just one glass shuddered through him. Just one glass to steady his hands, to settle his stomach.
    He refused it, telling himself there was a difference between overindulging and alcoholism. If he took a drink at seven A.M. , he’d be an alcoholic. At seven P.M. now, it was fine. He could wait. He would wait. Twelve hours.
    The ringing of the doorbell split through his skull like a keen-edged blade. He very nearly screamed. Instead of answering, he sat at the long trestle table there in the kitchen, laid his head down, and prayed for oblivion.

    He’d nearly dozed off when the back door opened, letting in a frigid blast of air and an angry woman.
    “I thought you’d be curled up somewhere feeling sorry for yourself.” Annie set a grocery bag on the counter, slapped her hands on her hips, and scowled at him. “Look at you, Andrew. A pitiful mess. Half naked, unshaven, bloodshot, and smelly. Go take a shower.”
    He lifted his head to blink at her. “I don’t wanna.”
    “Go take a shower while I fix your breakfast.” When he tried to lower his head again, she simply took a handful of his hair and dragged it up again. “You’re getting just what you deserve.”
    “Jesus, Annie, you’re going to yank my head off.”
    “And you’d feel considerably better if I could. You get your skinny butt out of that chair and go clean up—and use some industrial-strength mouthwash. You need it.”
    “Christ Almighty. What the hell are you doing here?” He hadn’t thought there was room for embarrassment in the rage of the hangover, but he’d been wrong. He could feel the flush—a curse of his coloring—work up his bare chest toward his face. “Go away.”
    “I sold you the liquor.” She let his hair go, and his head fell back onto the table with a thunk that made him howl. “You made me mad, so I let you keep drinking. So I’m going to fix you a decent breakfast, see that you get yourself cleaned up and go to work. Now go take a shower, or I’ll take you up and toss you in the tub myself.”
    “Okay, okay.” Anything was better than having her nag at him. With what dignity he could muster in his boxer shorts, he rose. “I don’t want anything to eat.”
    “You’ll eat what I fix you.” She turned to the counter and began unloading the bag. “Now get out of here. You smell like the floor of a second-class bar.”
    She waited until she heard him shuffle away, then closed her eyes and leaned on the counter.
    Oh, he’d looked so pathetic. So sad and sick and silly. She’d wanted to cuddle him, to soothe, to stroke all those poisons out of him. Poisons, she thought guiltily, she’d sold him because she was angry.

    It wasn’t the liquor, not really, she thought. It was his heart, and she just didn’t know how to reach it.
    She wondered if she could if she only cared about him a little less.
    She heard the pipes clunk as he ran the shower, and it made her smile. He was so much like this house, she thought. A little threadbare, a little damaged, but surprisingly sturdy under it all.
    He just couldn’t see that Elise, for all her brains and beauty, hadn’t been right for him. They’d made a stunning couple, bright and brilliant, but that was all surface. She hadn’t understood his foundation, his need for sweetness, and the ache in his heart that came from not believing himself worthy of love.
    He needed tending.
    That she could do, Annie decided, pushing up her sleeves. If nothing else, she could bully him into finding his feet again.
    Friends, she told herself, stood by friends.
    The kitchen was full of homey scents when he came back. If it had been anyone but Annie, he might have locked himself in his room. The shower had helped, and the pills had shoved the worst of the hangover away. The edges of it were still churning in his stomach and rolling in his head, but he thought he could manage now.
    He cleared his throat, worked up a smile. “Smells great.”
    “Sit down,” she