Page 72 of Without You

Noticing the time stamp, I realize he wasted no time responding, and his last message was sent half an hour after the rest. I’m not going to lie, I find his impatience extremely satisfying.

Me: The big deal is I’m not their charity case.

Deacon: Caring and charity are not the same thing.

Me: What do you “care”? You didn’t even tell me you were leaving.

Before I have the good sense to turn my phone off, it vibrates in my hand. Stubbornly, I decide I’m not going to answer.

The ringing lasts longer than usual, and I just place it down on the mattress and wait for him to give up. He doesn’t.

Eventually, I decide to put him out of his misery and answer.

“Yeah,” I answer.

“Well, hello to you too.”

His voice is hoarse and tired, putting a halt to my smartass comeback. I wonder if my first message initially woke him up. “What time do you get up for work?” I ask him, my concern evident.

“Shop opens up at seven,” he answers gruffly.

“You should get to bed,” I suggest.

I hear some movement on the other side of the phone. “Did you work tonight?”

“I got home not that long ago,” I tell him.

Propping another pillow behind my head, I try to find a comfortable position, while waiting for him to pick up his turn of the conversation. The line is filled with nothing but our alternating breaths, laced with nervousness, neither one of us rushing to say anything.

Glad to be in bed and off my feet, my eyes grow heavy, enjoying the quiet.

Just as I can feel myself slipping under, I hear a low, but very audible. “I’m sorry.”

I keep my eyes closed, and stay silent, because I really don’t have anything to say. Beyond the anger and the confusion, I know how impossible this is for both of us.

But, unfortunately, his apology doesn’t dull the twinge of pain I’ve felt inside my chest all night. I wish I could predict the future, orshake a magic eight ball so I can ask if any of this is worth it and have it tell me ‘The answer is yes.’

Instead of elaborating or expanding on something we have no control over, he asks me. “How did you know I told my parents about your place?” he asks.

“Your dad came in for his usual weekly drink and let me know that if I needed help he was there,” I answer. “But it was more like a ‘you can always move in with us’ type of thing.”

“My dad comes in for a usual weekly drink?” He sounds concerned, and I cringe at my loose lips.

Mulling it over, I decide on being honest, it’s not like the man is hiding an alcohol addiction. “He’s been coming one night a week since Rhett died.”

“Fuck. I feel like I should’ve known that,” he scolds himself.

“You couldn’t have known that. I don’t even think your mom knows that,” I pacify. “And to be honest, I really think he just used it as an excuse to check up on me.”

“Is that why you got defensive about the house thing?” he asks cautiously.

Rubbing a hand over my tired face, I sigh into the empty room. “I think I’m having a small existential crisis.”

“Sounds serious,” he retorts, injecting humor in his voice. “Anything I can do to help?”

“You’ve done plenty, thanks,” I joke. When I hear a deep chuckle through the phone, I’m glad he took the comment with the lightheartedness in which I meant it.

“Let’s not focus on how fucked up things are over here in my head,” I say dismissively. “Your dad may have mentioned you left on a good note with your mom.”

---