Page 25 of Without You

I have no doubt he’s more than capable. I mean, hell, he’s been fending for himself his whole life, but knowing Icouldhelp… that made me feel something else entirely. The solution was within my reach and there haven’t been many instances in my life where I haven’t been the disappointment in someone’s story. Where I’ve had the chance to be helpful, if not a hero.

“I could afford a new battery, that wasn’t why I wasn’t getting it,” he says defensively.

“Hey,” I say firmly while putting my hands up in surrender. “That thought didn’t even cross my mind. It was a simple fix. I’m a mechanic and you needed a battery.”

There’s a fair amount of logic to my argument, and while it seems to be enough to hold off his rebuttal, there’s a long indecipherable lull hanging between us, as we both stare at one another.

His brown eyes bore into mine, and I stand there, waiting, wondering what it is he sees.

I could go, I could will my feet to move, but something in the way he looks at me makes me want to stay. It’s not hostile or strained, but it’s not comfortable or familiar either.

It’s more of a pull. An inquisitiveness. A niggling feeling that’s wrapping itself around my body like a vine, keeping my feet planted on the ground.

Knowing I’m not going anywhere, I offer a shrug, because I really just don’t know what the hell is happening or what the hell I’m feeling right now. But I’m here, and I may as well ride it out.

“So,” I droll. “What do you say about that drink, huh?”

6

Julian

Adrink? Shit. Yes. I asked him in for a drink. “Anything in particular?” I ask as I take hurried steps into the kitchen.

“Whatever you’re having is fine with me,” he calls out.

I open the fridge and stand in front of it, hoping the cool rush of air will extinguish the overwhelming tornado of heat swirling inside my body.

I try to process that Deacon—the very same man who has dismissed me more times than I can count in the last twenty-four hours—is at my house, swooping in with his grand gesture that brings up feelings I’m nowhere near emotionally equipped to deal with.

Curling my fingers around the two bottlenecks, I pull the beer out of the fridge and slam the door. Expecting to see him sitting on the couch, I’m surprised that he’s still standing in the same spot I left him.

Nervously, I hand him the drink. “You don’t have to stand up the whole time,” I joke, hoping to break the tension.

“Yeah. Thanks.” He shakes his head as if to rid himself of something and then takes the beer out of my hand. He walks to the two-seater, and against my better judgment I follow. Sitting on either end, I maneuver myself into the furthest corner of the couch, bringing up my legs to cross and resting my back on the couch arm.

Deacon’s posture is a little more stiff and I wait for the awkward and closed off version of him to return. When the silence lingers for a bit too long, I gear up the courage to break the ice, but once again he surprises me.

“Is it hard living here?” he asks. “Without him, I mean.”

I want to say it’s hard without him period, but I know that exact answer will shut down any further conversation, and I don’t want that. This is the one thing we have in common, and as painful as it is to open those wounds, something in my gut tells me he doesn’t speak about his brother or his death very often. That he needs this.

“Surprisingly, we didn’t have as many memories here as I thought we would,” I answer. “This place reminds me more of all the things that could’ve been, you know?”

He offers me a small nod before taking a sip of his beer.

“What about you?” I ask, cautiously. “Does living in Seattle help?”

Shifting his body, his position soon mirrors mine. He lowers his head, and absently begins picking at the label, clearly lost in thought.

“I make the trip down here more now that he’s dead than when he was alive.” There’s a slight crack in his voice, a hint of vulnerability I wasn’t anticipating. “I just wanted to be on my own when I got older. It wasn’t personal, I just wanted to pave my own way.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” I tell him. “You couldn’t have known how it all was going to play out.”

He rubs the heel of his palm across his chest. “Are you always so glass half full?”

I want to lie, because when it comes to me and my life, I live and breathe negativity. I wallow in nothingness and convince myself life is better on my own. With no feelings, no friends, no family.

But for whatever reason, I don’t want that for Deacon. He needs to reprieve himself of the guilt and sense of blame that oozes out of his pores. Every word. Every look. Every move.

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