Page 71 of Without You

And why did he leave when I specifically recall him saying he was staying, because he wanted to work things out with his family, and he wouldn’t put a time limit on how long it was going to take.

“I’m pretty sure he’s coming back for Thanksgiving,” Bill informs me, probably noticing the distress on my face.

Shaking my annoyance off, I ask. “How do you think things went between him and Elaine this weekend?”

“I think that’s why I’m so fucking happy,” Bill exclaims. “It was so effortless. Even when he said goodbye, I didn’t feel panicked that she may have pushed him far enough that he might not want to come back.”

I’m relieved. For Bill and his family. For Deacon.

“That’s great news, Bill,” I say sincerely. “You guys deserve something to look forward to.”

As I stack the empty tumblers, a beefy hand lands on my forearm. “Everything okay, Bill?”

“I actually came here to talk to you about something.” I raise an eyebrow in question. “Deacon may have mentioned you need to move out of your place soon.”

That motherfucker.

“It’s no big deal,” I brush off.

“Well.” He clears his throat. “I wanted to make sure you know our place is always open to you. Permanently or temporarily. Our doors are always open while you get on your feet.”

Begrudgingly, I smile. “Thank you, Bill. I appreciate the offer. It means a lot.”

And it does, but it doesn’t mean I have to take him up on it.

I steer clear of Bill after our conversation, and it doesn’t take him too long to notice my annoyance, and call it a night.

The last two hours of my shift drag even slower than the first four. By the time I get home, I’m on my last nerve, ready to explode with anger and frustration. Grabbing a beer from the fridge, I shove the door closed a little too hard in irritation.

How dare he share my business with them?

By the time my beer is empty, I’ve thought about it long enough to know I’m not mad he told his parents I needed to move. I’m just mad at him. Period.

Dragging my cell out of my pocket, I drop onto my couch, kick my feet up on the coffee table and click on the messages icon.

I scroll through my contacts and click on his number. It opens up an empty message box, and it hits me that I’ve never texted him. I haven’t ever called him either.Is this even his number anymore?

Fueled by adrenaline, I quickly type out a message.

Me: I can’t believe you told your parents I was getting evicted.

The message is more of a lead in to what’s really bothering me, needing an outlet but feeling a little too wrung out to lay it all on the table from the get-go.

Not wanting to stay up all night staring at the phone, I power it down and head for the shower.

By the time I’ve finished my nightly routine and jumped intobed, curiosity gets the better of me and I turn my phone on. It’s already past one a.m., and I’ve set my expectations for a response very low.

I tell myself I don’t care if he doesn’t respond, but when my stomach erupts in flutters at the succession of messages that show up on my screen, there’s no denying how disappointed I would’ve been if he didn’t acknowledge me.

Sliding on one of the notifications, I watch the screen light up with a barrage of texts.

Deacon: Was it a secret?

Deacon: They would’ve found out anyway.

Deacon: What’s the big deal?

Deacon: Why would you text me if you’re not going to answer me?

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