Page 56 of Without You

Unable to make my mouth move, I unscrew the bottle top and shake my head. He looks apprehensive as his gaze flicks between me and the front counter. “Are you sure you’ll be okay if I leave you?”

“I’m a big boy, Deac,” I manage to say. I grab my wallet out of my back pocket and hand him a twenty. “I don’t need you to be my knight in shining armor.”

He eyes the cash, ignoring it, and reluctantly leaves. I maneuver my seat so my back is now resting on the cool concrete wall. Closing my eyes, I let my head fall back, and try to focus on steadying my breathing.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

“Did you fall asleep?” a close voice asks.

Begrudgingly my eyes flick open, and he’s standing there with a large pizza box in his hand. “That was really quick.”

“Can you make it home? Or do you want to try to see if the food can soak it up?”

I hold my hand out for the pizza and he takes a seat in understanding. Flipping the box open, the smell of pepperoni pizza makes my stomach growl.

“This is going to go one of two ways,” I warn. “I’m going to feel better after this, or one hundred times worse.”

“I can take you home,” he reiterates.

“Let’s just enjoy the pizza,” I say, ignoring him. Picking up a slice, I set it down on a paper plate in front of me. “It was your idea to get absolutely wasted, and you’re not even remotely affected.”

“That’s probably because I slowed down while you went overboard celebrating pool wins with Peter.”

“It wasn’t that many.”

He narrows his eyes and gestures his hand up and down my body. “Case in point.”

“I told you I hadn’t done this in a very long time.”

“Did you have a good night?” he asks, sincerely.

Thinking back, even digesting the mixed bag of feelings I have toward Deacon, I give him a soft nod. “I think I forgot what it was like to have fun.”

“You should do it more often.” He takes a bite of pizza and washes it down with his own bottle of water. “You’ve earned it.”

“How does one earn a night out?” I slur.

“You spent so many years putting yourself last.”

“We’ve already been over this,” I supply.

“We have, but I think you’re forgetting that you don’t have to do that anymore.”

“So, what am I supposed to do, Mr. Know-it-all?”

He shrugs. “I don’t think I’ve earned the right to give you my opinion.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not someone who you respect or value in your life.” He takes another bite of his food, his mood indifferent, like the self-deprecation is just fact. “And rightfully so, which means I don’t qualify for input in life-changing decisions.”

“That’s not true,” I reprimand.

“Which part?”

“I value you.” Sobering up, I lean over to him. “If you want me to start fresh, then you have to too.”

“What am I supposed to start fresh with?”

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