Page 79 of Without You

“You have no idea.”

I bite my bottom lip to keep the unintelligible moan that wants to jump out of my mouth at bay. “I’m going to hang up and shower real quick,” I announce. “Don’t miss me too much.”

“I’ll try not to,” he says playfully.

“Drive safely,” I say, before hanging up.

Pushing myself up off the couch, I begin undoing the buttons on my shirt and jeans, leaving a trail of clothes behind me as I head into my bedroom, and straight for the shower. It’s a really quick wash as I’m eager to get back on the phone with Deacon, and I don’t want to be tempted to touch myself, even if he’ll never really know.

By the time I’m dry and dressed, I’m climbing into bed with the phone to my ear waiting for Deacon to pick up.

“Hey,” I greet.

“Hey.”

“How’s the drive going?”

“Let’s just say I’ve never once wanted to replace my car ride with a plane ride until now.”

I smile to myself. “I’m flattered,” I tell him. “How long have you got left?”

“About another seven hours,” he huffs. “I usually stop for an hour when I hit the halfway mark. Have a power nap, refill my coffee, and top up the gas.”

“Don’t worry,” I appease. “I’ll keep you company.”

“Are you in bed?” he asks.

“Yes,” I answer warily, worried we’re about to repeat the last half an hour, and thinking I can’t withstand it a second time.

“Then you’re not going to keep anyone company. You’ll be asleep in less than forty-five minutes.”

“You want to bet on it?” I taunt.

“No,” he says sternly. “I just want to know if you’ve looked at places to stay when you have to move out.”

“Why are you so hellbent on this?” I argue.

“The better question is why aren’t you? Where are you going to live?”

I imagine the vein in his forehead protruding because of his exasperation. I’m not purposefully trying to be vague or appear indifferent, but there’s so much to think about, and so much of it has barely anything to do with the fact that I’m moving houses.

It’s just forcing me to take a long, hard look at the way I’m living, and I can’t help but be a little disappointed in the shell of a man I’ve become. Do I want to move this whole house, sad memories and all, into a new building and just continue to work nights in something so uninspiring?

“Close your eyes,” he demands.

“What? Why?”

“Just trust me.”

And because I do trust him I lay on the flat of my back and close my eyes. “They’re closed,” I inform him.

“Now, just imagine yourself somewhere,” he instructs. “Anywhere, really, but what would you be doing? What would your days be filled with? Your nights? What do the four walls around you look like?”

A lump forms in my throat as he continues to rattle off all the hypothetical scenarios he wants me to conjure up.

They’re simple requests, but they’re poignant.

As if he’s listened to all my unspoken insecurities and found a way for me to embrace them.

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