Page 14 of Without You

I turn my head to face him, and my thoughts stumble at the man looking back at me. Julian’s cheeks are flushed from the cool, brisk air; his chocolate-colored eyes no longer the same lifeless orbs I encountered a year ago. Instead there’s a low light that flickers, like he’s stuck; unsure whether to burn bright or let the remaining sliver of life be doused out of him. It’s a good look on him.

Taken aback by my own observations, I reluctantly pull my gaze away from his, and clear my throat. Swallowing, I lick my lips, ridding myself of the dryness in my throat before asking, “You remember that?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “There’s not a lot I forget.”

I lower my head, staring at my boots, and shove my freezing hands into my jacket. My gut and the ensuing pause in the conversation tells me he’s referencing the last time we saw one another. The night I held him in his bed.

Getting lost in our own thoughts, we briefly give that single moment in our life the acknowledgment and reverence it deserves.

It’s crazy to think I was party to such an intimate moment, and even crazier to contemplate the fact that he wanted me there… that I wanted to be there.

“So,” Julian says, disrupting the quiet. “You visit a lot.”

Perturbed, I snap, “Is that a question or a statement?”

“More like an observation,” he answers, unruffled by my mood change. “I see that packet of candy corn here on his headstone every two weeks.”

“Can I not visit my brother?” I bark out defensively.

He turns and looks at me exasperated. “I didn’t say any such thing.”

“Whatever,” I mutter. “I should just go.”

“Deacon.” He places his hand on my forearm, stopping me. “You don’t have to do that.”

I pull my arm away from him, and he apologetically slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “What I was trying to say was, Seattle isn’t really that close.”

“I’m familiar with the distance,” I say dryly.

I hear him sigh heavily. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

The apology sends a boulder of guilt to the pit of my stomach. Anybody would question why I would drive ten or more hours every other week just to drop off a ‘gift’. It probably gets eaten by birds or squirrels, but once the idea came to me, I couldn’t stop. I wanted to revisit those good times between my brother and I, and enabling his sugar addiction was one of them.

“You don’t need to apologize. I’m just being a dick as usual,” I say with much more self-deprecation than needed. “I really do have to go though.”

He nods at me but keeps his eyes trained on the ground. Without another word, I leave him to his visit. My time with Rhett is exactly that;mytime. No matter what happened between us that one day, or how surprisingly comfortable it was to stand beside Julian, that isn’t something we do. We’re not friends, we’re not two people trying to fill that gaping hole in our lives by leaning on each other.

I won’t let it happen. I’m not his new best friend and there’s no way he’ll be a replacement for my brother.

Climbing back into my truck, I slip the key into the ignition with the intention of starting it, but when I catch Julian crouching down in front of Rhett’s headstone in my peripheral, I can’t help but stare at him.

Why the fuck can’t I stop staring at him?

Rising off the ground, he reaches for the clear packet of candy and shoves it into his pocket. Every part of me wants to rush out of the car and call him out on it. Ask him what he’s doing and why he’s taking something that doesn’t belong to him.

Has he taken all of them?

Twisting his body, he notices my car and stares directly at me. I don’t know what expression I expect to see on his face, but I at least anticipate apprehension or even remorse for his petty theft, but neither appear.

His face is blank, and his eyes are indifferent, and it shocks me. He walks to his shit box of a car with long, purposeful strides, completely ignoring me, and it takes me a moment to recognize my own reaction to his dismissal.

I’m angry.

How dare he steal from me and then act like I don’t exist? Aggravation courses through me, and before I can retreat or convince myself to simmer down, I’m opening the car door and stalking toward him.

“What are you doing?” I spit out, coming up behind him. He stills. With his back to me, he keeps his hold on the door handle, refusing to answer my question. “I asked you a question.”

Turning, I expect a man ready to fight and argue with me. I expect him to tell me to mind my own fucking business, but all I get are eyes full of empathy and a smile so sad it hurts.

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