Page 77 of Without You

“Hey,” he greets, sounding both tired and relaxed. “Are you already driving?”

“Yeah, I’m about to round up to my third hour. What about you? How was work?”

A low groan comes through the phone. “I’m glad it’s over. When people don’t have to go to work the next day, they drink like it’s their job,” he complains. “It’s so busy and messy.”

“I don’t know how you do it, I couldn’t handle interacting with that many people,” I say.

“It’s the only reason I work there,” he states.

“What do you mean?”

I hear a loud sigh leave his mouth, as well as the sound of a door opening and closing.He’s stalling.A mixture of other noises fills up the empty void, and I’m almost tempted to tell him to forget I even asked when he finally speaks up.

“I didn’t leave the house, or speak to anyone for six weeks after Rhett died.” His confession sits in the silence, percolating between us. His voice lowers significantly. “I was in a pretty bad way.”

I don’t have to imagine what ‘bad way’ means. I saw it that night with my own two eyes, and to think he was some version of that for six long weeks, all alone, has me clenching my hands around the steering wheel.

Seeing him like that, knowing how he was, I berate myself for not telling someone to check up on him more regularly and selfishly a part of my mind wanders off somewhere completely unexpected.Can I compete with the depth of his grief? Am I just something like the bar to make his days a little more bearable?

“I had quit the bar when Rhett was nearing the end, but I eventually managed to lug myself out of bed and ask Steven, the manager, for my job back.”

I know there’s more to the story, but I don’t push, because what he’s revealed is enough, and I don’t want to think of him hurting like that. It hurtsmeto think of him hurting like that.

“I’m glad you got yourself out of bed,” I say softly.

“Me too.”

The quiet lingers longer than is comfortable, and I’m almost certain he’s fallen asleep.

“Julian,” I whisper.

“Yeah.”

“You should go to sleep.”

“No,” he protests through a yawn. “It’s my favorite time of the day.”

“The early morning?”

“No,” he says gruffly, and I imagine him shaking his head on the other side of the phone. “Talking to you.”

I don’t tell him that it’s mine too, that my favorite part about all of this is that when the rest of the world is asleep, it’s our time. Just the two of us.

Unaffected, uninterrupted, real time with one another.

“I wonder if you’ll still feel that way when I ask you if you’ve thought any more about where you’re going to move?”

I bite my lip in anticipation of his answer, because over the past two weeks this has been the biggest point of contention between us. He’s living in denial, hoping for a miracle, while I’m here quietly hoping he’ll let me help him.

“Do we have to talk about this?” he whines.

“Do me a favor,” I say. “Are you in bed?”

“Are you trying to get me naked?” he smarts.

“The first time won’t be over the phone.”Did I just say that?“Fuck, I didn’t mean it,” I stammer. “It just came out.”

“You want to see me naked?” he teases, the humor evident in his voice.

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