Page 18 of Without You

The attempt at light humor falls flat as he wordlessly twists off the bottle cap and hands it to me.

“I’m going to watch the game on television,” he announces to no one specifically. Not one for sports, I wouldn’t know whether or not he’s lying, but his hurry to be away from Elaine is an obvious motivating factor.

“How long till we eat?” I ask Elaine, trying to break the tension. “Maybe I could set the table.”

“Deacon and his father will probably mope around and skip dinner, it might be easier if you and I just eat here at the breakfast bar.” She stills and raises her guilty looking eyes to meet mine. “They’re both just as stubborn as the other,” she mumbles in justification.

“It’s bound to be a tough time for everyone,” I say, trying to acknowledge her feelings, while not really wanting to get involved in their family feud. “Emotions are high.”

Thankfully she doesn’t push the issue and instructs me to set the table however I like. Much to Elaine’s dismay, the conversation is a little bit stilted from here on out, an unexplained irritation preventing me from wanting to exchange any more pleasantries.

Once I’m done, I excuse myself to check on Bill and find myself sitting beside him in an odd but comfortable silence. We’re both staring at the screen, not really watching when he says, “Why don’t you go upstairs and tell Deacon that the food will be ready soon?”

Taken aback by the request, I turn and stare at him in confusion. “I don’t think that’s a really good idea. You should go up and do that.”

He shakes his head and takes another sip of his beer. “He doesn’t want to see me.”

Wanting to argue, but knowing there isn’t really a point, I leave the room, and trudge myself up the stairs. With heavy steps, I make it to the top and just stand there, staring at every closed door. I haven’t been up here in so long, so close to Rhett’s childhood bedroom. The place he took his last, labored breaths.

I fight the urge to step inside. The urge to reminisce, to unlock my feelings, and let myself miss him. Instead, I psych myself up to knock on Deacon’s door.

I quickly rap my knuckles on the wood. When there’s nothing but silence on the other side, I knock again; still nothing. I should be relieved, I should just walk back the way I came from and tell Bill that he should come and call Deacon down himself.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I take hold of the metal handle and push down. Expecting to come up against a struggle, I’m completely unprepared when it opens with no problem. I steel myself not to stumble inside and step in slowly.

With nothing but complete silence surrounding me, I stop and stare at the heap of muscle lying down on the bed in front of me. I stiffen, panicking that he’s about to tell me off for entering uninvited, but when my eyes land on his face, I’m relieved to see he’s asleep.

After the long drive, and the visit to the cemetery, I don’t imagine it being that hard to have succumbed to slumber.

Feeling bold, I let my eyes linger over his body. Forced to fit in his childhood, twin size bed, he’s splayed out on his back, looking even bigger than he actually is on the too small mattress. Still in jeans, his long legs are bent at the knees, stopping them from hanging over. My eyes shift higher and take in the expanse of exposed skin above his waistband. He’s tucked his hand underneath the bottom of his shirt, causing the material to rise. His hand is resting on top of his taut, defined, stomach; covering a light smattering of hair that extends to a place I have to forcefully stop myself from looking at.

Surprised by my own train of thought, I drag my gaze up the rest of his body, and immediately regret my choice. No longer covered by the heavy layers of clothing from earlier, I take in his beautiful, sculpted form, and internally scold myself for even thinking that way about him.

When was the last time I thought that about anyone?

Even with his arm over his eyes and the peaceful rise and fall of his chest, it’s impossible to miss the vitality and masculinity he exudes. I’m reminded of the night he wrapped those arms around me. Held me. Became the strength I needed to get through that very moment.

A small lump forms in my throat, and I turn away from him, not enjoying the trip down memory lane.

Focusing on anything other than Deacon, I check out the four walls around me instead.

I’ve been in this house no less than a million times and I’ve never stepped foot in this room.

Deacon’s room.

I didn’t have a reason to. It was off limits and we weren’t friends; in reality, we hardly knew each other.

Cautiously, I walk to the side of the room, and inspect his large and full bookshelf, and realize westilldon’t know each other.

I let my fingers skate across the spines as I read the assortment of titles, trying to understand why there’s this wall between us, who put it up, and why it’s suddenly starting to bother me.

I look back at Deacon and drag one of the books out of its formation. It’s obvious this room is his sanctuary, and safe place. I want to feel bad for invading it, but his annoyance is something I’m accustomed to dealing with, and it’s not enough of a deterrent for me to walk out that door right now.

I’m curious.

Inexplicably so.

“What are you doing here?” With nothing but the sound of sleep in his question, I turn to find him sitting up, his elbows digging into his knees, his hands steepled together.

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