Page 16 of Without You

I lower my head, hiding the embarrassed flush that I can feel spreading across my face, and reluctantly drag my hands away from his, the intimacy making me feel uncomfortable. “It’s not a big deal.”

Appearing unaffected by my withdrawal, he continues, “It is. Do you care that I took them?”

Shaking my head, I reach for the small packets. “I may have been his big brother, but you were always his right hand.” Even though there’s nothing but truth in my words, the admission still hurts. “It’s only right that you keep these for him.”

Closing the box, I slide it closer to Julian and rise from the chair. “I should go.”

Brown eyes watch me with interest. “Why do you drive all this way to bring them?”

“We don’t have to do this, Julian,” I say a little too aggressively.

He looks at me with confusion. “Do what?”

“Pretend we have things to talk about. You explained the candy corn thing and now I can leave.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he settles back into the chair and looks at me with disdain. “You always do this,” he says.

My whole body stiffens at his accuracy. Disbelief and resentment at his observation coursing through me. He glares at me, his chocolate eyes challenging me.

I’m torn between wanting to reach over the table to grab him, shake him and ask what the fuck he means, or tell him to shove his opinion of me up his ass, because he’s the last person on earth I’m going to try and make nice with.

Instead, I school my features and talk myself off the ledge. “Thanks for the chat, Julian.”

Without waiting for a response, I turn and head to the front door.

“Deacon,” he calls out. I don’t look back at him, but the fact I’ve stopped moving acknowledges my interest in whatever he has to say. “I’ll see you at your parents’ house.”

The reminder of why I’m here in Montana, and that this isn’t the last time we’ll be crossing paths, has me walking out without a second glance. It’s bad enough that I’m going to have to sit through hours of watching my mother ineffectively deal with her grief, doing it in front of an audience isn’t something I’m looking forward to.

Driving away, I contemplate going back to the cemetery for a few hours and delaying the inevitable with my parents, but the rain pelting down on my windshield makes the decision for me.

The weather doesn’t slow down traffic as much as I want it to, and it takes less than half an hour to pull up in front of their place. Aware that my sister and her family aren’t showing face till tomorrow, I keep my duffel bag in the back seat, still unsure if I’m going to stay.

Playing with Lia is the only upside to this whole visit. My niece is the light of our lives, the only real, and true thing holding us all together. And if she’s not here to be the center of attention, I can’t predict how long it will be before I feel like leaving.

Trying to take Wade’s advice, I tell myself not to overthink the visit, and to not let the foul mood I’m in set the tone for the rest of the day. I’ll take it all as it comes, and focus on the fact that I do miss my parents, and my sister and her family and hopefully that’s enough for us all to tolerate one another for the next forty-eight hours.

Just as I’m about to climb out of the truck, I notice my father waiting at the front door. A mixture of nostalgia and anxiety washes over me as I take in his warm smile. He’s the thread connecting me and my mother. The voice of reason, the one person I can depend on.

I don’t even make it halfway up the steps before my dad is standing there with open arms, waiting for me.

“Deacon, it’s so good to see you,” he says. We hold on to each other, and I let myself enjoy the comfort and familiarity of being in my father’s presence. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” I answer honestly.

“And the drive?”

“Long. But you know how much I love the open road.”

Together we make our way up the rest of the steps and through the front door. I’m immediately engulfed by the strong smell of my mother’s homemade lasagna. Conjuring up memories of my childhood, and a reminder that irrespective of the loss and strain between us, not everything has been tainted.

“Your mom’s in the kitchen,” he informs me. It’s a subtle request to gotry and make nice, and I take the hint.

Heading to the kitchen, I stop and lean on the nearest wall and watch as she hurriedly cuts some vegetables. Wearing an apron Rhett, Vic and I made her when we were younger, covered in different colored handprints, she furrows her brows in concentration; her sole focus the task at hand. “Do you need any help with that?” I say as a way of announcing my arrival.

“Deacon,” she gasps. “I didn’t even hear you come in.”

She gives me a quick once over and then frowns at me. “Where’s your bag? Did you bring a bag? Are you not staying for the weekend?”

---