Page 105 of Without You

Me: Let me.

Julian: You can’t.

Me: How can I help?

Julian: Trust me. Trust us.

24

Julian

Stepping out of the shower, I hear a knock at my door.

“Shit.”I wasn’t expecting anyone for another hour.Quickly drying myself, I clumsily throw on a t-shirt and step into my sweats.

“I’m coming,” I call out. When I swing the door open, I find a short, older man on the other side of the door.

“Are you Julian?” he asks.

“Yes,” I respond. “Are you Lou?”

“Yeah, I’m here for your couch.” I look out the door and see his truck with a trailer attached in my driveway.

“It’s all here ready for you.” I gesture inside. “Do you need help carrying it out?”

“No, I’m fine. My son is in the truck. I brought him along to help,” he explains. “He can put those quarterback muscles to work.”

Chuckling, I open the door as wide as it will go and wait for his son to climb out of the truck.

Since returning from Seattle I’ve been diligent in emptying the house, cleaning the house, making sure it’s pretty much left the exact same way I found it all those years ago. I initially thought it would take the whole three weeks till Christmas, but as I hit the middle of the second week, I realize the only thing I’ve got left is the one thing I’ve been avoiding.

My emotions haven’t seemed to acknowledge the deadline, and as every day passes, I delay the inevitable. My chest tightens in panic at the thought of having to go through Rhett’s belongings. There isn’t much. Between hospice and often returning to his parents’ place when he was doing chemo, the stuff that’s left here is more significant to the two of us.

Which ultimately means it’s harder for me.

The thought of having to part with any of it—potentially throw it out—makes me nervous. I know his family would love to have some of it, and while I wish I were comfortable with the idea of Elaine, Bill, and Victoria coming here and taking what they want, I’m not.

I’m too possessive of this moment. Too scared to break, and, quite frankly, a little bit worried I won’t. I don’t need an audience to witness the most bittersweet moment of my life.

The guilt to Rhett for moving forward. The guilt to Deacon for looking back.

I’ve been going over the last year, namely the last couple of weeks, in my head, and wondering if it’s too soon to feel this way with Deacon. But when I think of the alternative; think of walking away from him, it hurts.

A life without him would hurt me, and grief isn’t supposed to feel like a punishment.

I haven’t been able to sleep in my bedroom since I returned. Instead, I sleep on the couch by myself, every night, in a desperate attempt to feel closer to him.

The reality is, it has been nothing but torture and borderline masochistic, because I can’t even hold a functional conversation with him. I rush off the phone every time we speak. Scared to say too much, scared to hurt his feelings. Most of the time, I cowardly resort to text messages, giving just enough information so he won’t feel like calling.

I know I need to tell him my plans. That he is a part of my plans. But I need to let go of my past first. I need to let myself out of this voluntary exile I started after Rhett died, and I haven’t figured out how to do that yet.

Logically, I know I have to move out of this place regardless, but knowing where my next steps will be has my subconscious roaring at me, questioning my love, questioning my loyalty.

“Seems like you’ve cleaned the place out,” Lou says, interrupting me from my thoughts. He waves over to his son to hurry up, and then looks back at me. “If he can get his head out of his phone, he’ll be here before the year ticks over.”

I watch his mountain of a teenage son trudge up to the house. I’m almost certain a kid that size can carry the couch himself. My eyes dart between Lou and his son, perplexed by their size difference.

“I know,” he says, calling me out. “I don’t know how he got that big either.”

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