Page 107 of Without You

“But despite all that, he was my brother, and I know, with every fiber of my being, he would want nothing more than for you to be happy. With someone or on your own, here or halfway across the world. Just. Be. Happy.”

“I want to be,” I admit. “I just feel like I’m saying goodbye, and I don’t want to.”

“The way you feel about him and the choice you make to move forward are not mutually exclusive,” he explains. “Missing him doesn’t mean you have to be miserable, and being happy doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten about him.”

“When did you get so wise?” I try for humor, but my throat feels too thick from emotion.

“You’ve given me a lot of thinking time.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says with sincerity. “If we never talk about this we’ll never move forward.” He pauses. “And I’m still holding on to hope that you and I are moving forward.”

We are.

“W—” I don’t even get the one syllable word out.

“That wasn’t an opening for you to answer me,” he says. “You wanted time and that time isn’t up. But on Christmas Eve, I’m coming for you. None of this limbo shit we’re in.”

I smile to myself. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Good. Now tell me what you’ve been doing since you left.”

I do. I tell him about how quick it was to pack up most of the house, and the enjoyment I got out of selling the things I didn’t need, and how a man named Lou and his house-sized son came to pick up the couch.

Our couch.

It’s amazing what honest communication can achieve; the huge distance between us becoming very much non-existent. Deacon would dismiss his strength, but I know not every man who’s lived in their brother’s shadow would man up the way he did.

To put his truths on the table, for my benefit. To put my needs and worries above his own is just another one of the multitude of reasons as to why I love him.

And I do.

The hows and whys don’t matter to me anymore. All I know is I’m irrefutably in love with Deacon Sutton, and for the first time in a long time, the idea of that doesn’t scare me.

I feel hope.

I feel promise.

From the boy who lost his way, not once, not twice, but three times, I finally feel like I’m home.

* * *

I checkthe time and estimate that it’s another fifteen minutes till Deacon gets here. For the past week, we’ve fallen back into an easy and familiar routine of late night/early morning phone calls and all-day texting.

It will be a welcome change to be in each other’s space again. To touch him. To hold him. To love him.

Every part of me misses him, and I can’t wait to tell him we’ll never have to miss one another like this again.

Like clockwork, the knock on the other side of my door sounds. I look around the mostly empty room and make sure everything is in order.

Racing to the door, I swing it open, my face already splitting into a smile based on nothing but pure anticipation.

When he comes into view, the look on his face is as elated as mine. I jump into his arms because seeing him in the flesh and not being held by him is a wrong that I waste no time rectifying.

He catches me with ease, squeezing me, ensuring I’m real.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he murmurs into my shoulder. “Please tell me we never have to do that again.”

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