"Ugh…hullo?"

Isabella looked at the glowing red light of her alarm clock that rested firmly on her orange wooden nightstand. The red lights glared back at her defiantly, informing her that it was after two o'clock in the morning. A twinge of panic coursed through her; nobody ever calls at this time unless it's an emergency.

It had been seventy-two hours since she had given John her phone number, and he hadn't phoned. She supposed he wasn't ready for friends or help yet, but she felt a little better knowing that she at least made the offer. Christmas was coming fast, and nobody deserved to be alone during the holidays.

"Good morning, Ma'am. You don't know me. My name is Ray Wasson, and I work at the Cheetah Club. I'm a bartender," he added quickly. Isabella yawned; the Cheetah Club sounded like some seedy strip club. The guy sounded almost embarrassed to admit that he worked there.

"Can't say I've ever been there," she yawned again. She was a little irritated, being pulled out of a good dream. If only she could remember what she was dreaming about…

"It's on Roosevelt, just on the outskirts of town. Look, I normally wouldn't phone somebody at this time of the night, but you were the only number on this guy's person and he's refusing a taxi. He's really hammered and making a scene about leaving between getting sick in the john. He's talking some nonsense and angry as hell that I took his car keys. I know it's late, and you're really tired, but do you think you could come and get him?" There was a twinge of fear in his voice, and Isabella knew he was referring to John. She couldn't blame him; a big, muscular guy drunk and making a scene? It's a recipe for disaster. She suddenly found herself awake and alert.

"Yeah. I'll be there in ten."

"Thanks, Miss. The bar is closed, but just come on in." He hung up and she turned on her bedside lamp, her eyes squinting and adjusting to the light. With a groan, she got out of bed and put her hair into a messy, half-assed bun. She slid on a pair of black yoga pants that were strewn on the floor and a white sweater from the closet before she grabbed her keys. Before she left, she wrote a note to her roommate Ruby Simmons. Just in case she woke up to find Isabella missing.

Isabella had to roll down the window and blare some Esperanza Spalding to stay awake for the ten minute drive. She was worried about what she was going to walk into. It sounded like John was drunk and belligerent; it took her back to their first encounter at Starbucks only four days before.

Turning into the parking lot, she parked the car and took a moment to catch her breath. Knowing that the best thing to do would be to just dive headfirst into the fire, Isabella climbed out of the car and walked into the bar. She wasn't surprised to find that it was one of those bars where patrons threw peanut shells on the floor. A real dive.

No wonder this Ray guy is embarrassed to work here, she thought to herself with a grimace. Pinup girls were lit up in neon green and pink along the walls. The party had long since died, the jukebox shut off. She approached the shiny wooden bar, where a sandy haired man with freckles stood, wiping out a martini glass. He turned to her, startled.

"I got a phone call earlier from Ray…" she started, and he nodded.

"That would be me. Nice to meet you, Miss. Sorry to call under such circumstances. He's in the men's room. Don't worry about going in since we're closed." She nodded and went towards the dark wooden door with the illustration of a stick man on it. She knocked softly before she entered.

John was in the last stall, clutching the bowl as he threw up profusely, his entire body heaving and convulsing. It looked absolutely painful and sounded even worse. Isabella went to his side, fitting into the stall as best she could, rubbing his back gently as he emptied what little he had left in his stomach into the bowl.

He pulled back and turned to her. "Lisa…" His hand reached out and caressed her face. It was rough, calloused. Isabella was surprised by his show of affection, and at the slight tingle that rushed through her at the contact of his touch. Placing her hands softly on his wrist, she pulled them away from her face.

"It's Bella, John. Not Lisa. Come on. The bar is closing, it's time to get you home." He looked disoriented and confused. She knew that kind of drunkenness all too well; her grandfather did it many times throughout his troubled life.

Not intending to, she stole an inadvertent glance at the toilet bowl. It looked like there was no food in his system. She was alarmed to find blood. She flushed.

With great struggle - Ray had to step in and help - John was helped into her car. "Where do you live?" she asked after Ray had buckled him in and shut the door. She buckled her seatbelt.

"Nowhere."

Her last nerve was starting to give. "What do you mean, nowhere?"

"I don't wanna go home," John slurred. "Too painful. She's not there. She's never there." His tone sounded so lost, so heartbroken that it made Isabella ache. "I should go home," he said after a minute or two. Then he opened the passenger door and dry heaved. Thankfully, nothing came up. When he was finished, he closed the door and gave Isabella his address, fumbling with two or three numbers before getting it right. They drove, the only sounds in the car the soft music and his soft cries. Lisa. Isabella assumed it was a dead lover or relative, someone he had been very close to.

John lived in a big house with a long driveway. She was sure the place had been beautiful once, but the grass and the weeds were slowly starting to overtake it. Isabella parked as close to the door as she could and set about helping him into the house. Since he couldn't see anything in the darkness, she was tasked with opening the door. When she pushed the front door open, she was greeted with the strong stench of whiskey, among other things. "Jesus Christ, it smells like something died in here!" Isabella breathed. She looked at John, who was double her size, and wondered how she was holding him up.

"She's all around me, but she's not here," he informed Isabella adamantly. "All the pictures and all the presents don't mean shit without the real thing."

Isabella wasn't sure how to respond. "Come on. Let's get you to bed." She kicked the front door shut with her foot and proceeded to help John half-stumble up the stairs. She wasn't surprised to find his bedroom looked like it had been ransacked in a drunken fit of rage.

Pulling back the navy bed sheets, she put him in bed and settled him in, putting the blanket up past his shoulders. She was sure to lay him on his side, in case he was sick during the night and couldn't get up. Exhausted, Isabella was more concerned about John's well-being than her good night's sleep. She turned to leave, but his hand shot out of the covers and clasped her wrist, catching her by surprise.

"Don't go…I just don't want to be lonely anymore," he sobbed. Isabella was so taken aback and stricken by his words. Everything between the two of them had happened so fast, but he was crying for help. Where was his family, his friends? She felt like it was too soon, and not the right time to pry for information. So far all she had was a name. Lisa. "Stay with me. I just need someone close."

Isabella nodded, sitting down beside him on the bed. She stroked his hair soothingly. It didn't surprise her that he was asleep in minutes. She saw the empty bottles on the nightstand and wondered how he was still standing.

Quietly, she collected the empty bottles and took them downstairs as quietly as she could. She rifled around the kitchen for a black garbage bag, placing the bottles into the bag and into the front closet. In the same closet, she found a knitted blue blanket and took it to the couch. Just in case he needed anything, she wanted to be close by. She was worried he was going to drink himself to death.

It was clear to Isabella that John Cena had been unravelling for a long time. There was a plastic Christmas tree erected in the living room, complete with dusty, wrapped presents underneath the tree. She sighed; there was no way she was going to be able to sleep.

At around three-thirty, she got up to get herself a glass of water. She found another empty whiskey bottle on top of the refrigerator. Isabella wondered how she could have missed it as she went to the open closet and put the bottle inside the bag.

She was sure John wasn't going to wake up in the morning. Returning to the kitchen, she looked at the dirty dishes that cluttered the countertops. She found the dish soap and filled up the sink with hot soapy water. In minutes she had filled the dish rack, and decided to let some pots soak while the other dishes were drying. A couple of them were mouldy and smelly. Isabella was surprised that John hadn't made himself sick. By the time all of that was done, it was quarter to four. She folded up the knitted blanket and put it back in the closet.

The place looked like it hadn't been cleaned in years. Isabella, being a neat-freak, found herself twitching at how dirty the house was. He had really let himself - and everything around him - fall to pieces. Isabella promised herself that she wouldn't give up on him until he was at least back on track.

She wondered how he survived when she saw the inside of the fridge. The stench inside made her turn away and gag. "Jesus, something definitely died in there," she whispered. On first glance, it looked like he was surviving on a steady diet of whiskey. With soapy water and a rag, she threw out the mouldy and rotted food in the fridge and washed out the smell. By the time that was finished, it was quarter after four, and her exhaustion was officially gone, in exchange for a second wind.

He hadn't made a noise since she put him to bed. She didn't think he would. Quietly, she crept upstairs with an ice cream pail to put beside him. She checked to make sure he was still breathing, relieved to see his body move with each soft breath. It had been years since she'd seen somebody so drunk. It reminded her why she didn't drink.

Turning, she saw the overflowing laundry hamper beside the tall dresser. She took the hamper downstairs, hunting around until she found the door to the basement. Down there, in the dank, dusty room, she found a washer and dryer that hadn't been touched in a long time. She was surprised to find he had so many cleaning products, considering he hadn't used any of them in a long time. Isabella felt ridiculous, cleaning a stranger's house, but she was pretty sure that he would appreciate clean clothes and dishes and a fridge that didn't smell like somebody had stored a corpse in there. She started the washer and timed an hour on her cell phone.

By eight o'clock in the morning, Isabella had washed, dried, folded and stored his laundry. She even put it away, surprised that he didn't stir or make a sound when she crashed into things. The dishes were finished and put away. She took the garbage out to the edge of the driveway before going to the store to pick up breakfast stuff. He was going to be undoubtedly hung-over, and she was going to be ready with a greasy breakfast to sop up whatever alcohol was left in his system. She had so many questions she wanted to ask him; she knew that she had to tread carefully, though.

Taking out two frying pans, she cracked six eggs and added some milk and pepper, scrambling them with a fork. She plugged in the toaster and put some bacon on.

Upstairs, John was first aware of the clanging and the banging downstairs. His head was throbbing, and he couldn't remember anything about the night before. Even worse, his mouth tasted like he had swallowed an ash tray. He was alarmed that somebody had broken into his home.

On shaky legs, he got out of bed. He didn't notice the laundry hamper missing because he was too hung-over. With a groan, he went into the bathroom adjoining his bedroom and brushed his teeth. He could hear sizzling downstairs. His face darkened; had he brought a woman home? Even on his most drunken of nights, he had yet to do that. He was still too wrapped up in Lisa to even contemplate it.

Making his way down the stairs, holding onto the railing for support, he saw his laundry hamper on the couch. The clothes inside were neat and folded. He cocked an eyebrow; it had been forever and a day since he had clean clothes. He wondered if his mother had let herself in to look after him.

Stepping into the kitchen, he found the barista behind the counter making breakfast. She was dressed normally, in a fluffy white sweater and yoga pants. There was nothing on her face to indicate they had done anything. "You."

"Good morning to you, too, sunshine." She looked exhausted. He sat down at the island counter as she pulled out two plates. The sharp smell of chemical cleaners greeted him, made him feel nauseous. "Before you get any ideas, John, since you were so drunk, we did not do anything." John sighed in relief. "Do you remember anything?"

"No. Not really." Those were the good nights.

"I got a call from the Cheetah Club at closing time. You were drunk, sick, and refusing to leave. They found my number in your hoodie and asked me to come get you."

"Sorry, but…is that coffee?" She nodded and fixed him a cup. He was surprised to find she was so familiar with his home. It was a little off-putting to him. He thanked her and sipped his coffee. "Have you slept, Bella?"

"Not really. I kind of got sidetracked straightening up. I hope you don't mind. It started that I was hunting for a blanket. You told me to stay, and I don't want you to think I'm the kind of girl that just hops into bed with men I don't know. Anyway, I ended up collecting your empty bottles when I put you to bed, and it just kind of went one thing after another. I also cleaned your fridge. I think something bit me when I was in there, but I'll know for sure if I change at the next full moon." John hung his head in his hands and chuckled.

Four pieces of toast popped up from the toaster. She slid the eggs onto the plates. "What kind of jam is that?"

"Strawberry."

"I'll go for that." He remembered the days when Lisa used to cook him breakfast. He wanted a drink. Cooking breakfast was such a personal thing, he found. He wasn't all that bothered by Isabella doing it; he figured it was because she looked so much like Lisa. "I can reimburse…"

"Don't worry about it. Friends do stuff like this for each other."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, it's fine. Just eat. Sop up some of that booze." She slathered jam onto two pieces of toast and cut them diagonally.

"You really didn't have to do this…"

"I know. But you could probably use something home cooked. There were a ton of takeout boxes in your fridge." She wasn't going to start lecturing him about all the booze. She didn't get rid of it, either; even though it felt like enabling, she didn't think that it was her place to do it.

She put breakfast in front of him and he dug into it right away. He didn't realize how hungry he was. He looked up at Isabella, who picked and poked at a piece of bacon. John suddenly felt self-conscious. "Do you have a family in the area, John?"

"Not here. They're all back in Massachusetts," he confessed. "They don't really want anything to do with me."

"I'm sure that's not the case." Isabella decide to drop the subject, judging by the flaming look in his eyes. She looked out the sliding glass door; it was snowing. "I, uh, picked up some Gravol, too. Just in case you needed it today."

"Thanks."

They hated the stilted awkwardness of the conversation. John wondered why he had to be so defensive when all she wanted to do was help. He shovelled the last of the scrambled eggs into his mouth. "Who was she?"

"Who?"

"Lisa. You called me Lisa last night."

John instantly felt the burning red flush of rage and embarrassment. "None of your business," he snapped. He got up. "Feel free to head home anytime you'd like. I'm not going to die."

He turned back to Isabella, who looked stung. Even though he felt a little remorseful, he turned and disappeared up the stairs.