Page 27 of Without You

The second his two feet step over the threshold, I slam the door, not even caring how he’s going to get home. Frustrated with myself for feeling anything else other than the numbness I’ve been so accustomed to.

Filled with anger, I do the only thing that will calm me down. Picking up the unfinished beer bottles, I throw them in the recycling bin and switch off all the lights in the living room.

I walk into my bedroom, strip off my clothes and take the spot in the middle of the bed. I reach over and pull the box to me. Holding it close to my chest, I hug the wood. As if it’s Rhett, I hug it hard and hug it for dear life.

Tears stream down my face and my solitary living arrangement means I let them fall. I cry for the year that’s passed, I cry for the man that’s gone, and for the first time, I cry for me. I felt something tonight.

Something for Deacon?

Something with Deacon?

I feltsomethingand I hate that for a split secondfeelingfelt good at all.

When my emotions have mellowed themselves out, I place the box in front of me. Like a well-practiced ritual, I lift the lid and start picking out the letters. One by one, I give the unopened envelopes the reverence they deserve.

Thank you, Rhett, for thinking of me. I’m sorry you’re not here.

My hold lingers on the one that says “One Year Anniversary” and I contemplate opening it. Curiosity has me wanting to, but self-preservation screams at me to keep it closed. The loss of Rhett is more than just a broken heart. It’s more like the universe stole away and ripped every good thing in my life, tearing it into unrecognizable shreds.

It’s an impossible heap of pain that can never be put back together, because there’s too much missing, and what’s left is too damaged. Too scarred. Too ruined. And opening those letters will only decimate that damaged fraction of what’s left of me.

Finally ready for bed, I curl under the blankets and pray for a few hours of peace before tomorrow. I don’t know what I expected this weekend to be like. Actually that’s a lie. With all the reminiscing and the sadness; I expected emotion, heavy hearts; I didnotanticipate Deacon.

In any way, shape or form, I expected Deacon Sutton to be the very last thing I thought about before I finally fell asleep.

* * *

Takingthe last sip of my now ice cold coffee, I turn the tap on and run the mug under thespray, rinsing out the excess liquid. Sighing, I wipe my wet hand on my black jeans, wishing I didn’t spend half the night tossing and turning, rendering me a complete mess this morning.

When I finally fell asleep, my thoughts of Deacon morphed into a constant reel of Rhett. Young Rhett, teenage Rhett, sick Rhett, healthy Rhett. Dead Rhett. Lots of dead Rhett.

My brain working overtime to dig up old memories and turn them into what felt like a live stream of dreams. The past meshing with the present, my subconscious playing tricks on me, messing with my reality.

Now, this morning, I’m just exhausted. Mentally, I can’t sort through my thoughts fast enough, and my feelings are all centered around the debilitating ache in my chest.

I rest my hands on the bench and try to focus on my breathing.

In and out.

In and out.

My blood feels like lead, and it’s making it hard to move. And I need to move if I’m going to make it anywhere on time. My eyes fall on the glowing numbers on the microwave, and I push myself into action.

When I make it to the front of the house, I pull my jacket off the hook that’s nailed to the back of the door. Slipping into my thick coat, I grab my phone and wallet out of the bowl that’s sitting on top of the buffet and tuck them into either of my pockets.

Just as I’m about to lock up, a knocking sound comes from the other side. Needing to leave, I pull it open, wanting to get rid of the unwanted guest, when I see Deacon staring back at me, looking equally fresh and weary.

I hold on to the solid wood for support, neither my body nor my mind prepared for his visit. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

Avoiding my eyes, he scrapes his hand through his hair. “I told you I’d pick you up.”

I look away from him, and then over his shoulder at my car. “You replaced the battery in my car. It works now,” I remind him. “And not to mention…”

The incomplete sentence is self-explanatory, as his gaze finally meets mine.

“Not to mention last night,” he finishes.

I raise my shoulders and shake my head at him. “What do you want, Deacon? I thought I made my feelings very clear.”

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