Page 81 of Without You

Throwing the blankets off, I storm through the house a little more frustrated than necessary. I take my time eating breakfast, getting through some laundry and busying myself tidying up shit around the place.

A little over an hour and a half later I drive myself to the cemetery. I usually go once a week, no specific day or time.

Since Deacon went back to Seattle, I contemplated not going, feeling a strong pang of remorse at my growing feelings for Rhett’s brother. But there's no use denying them, they’re very much here to stay, and keeping my distance from one of the few places that has brought me comfort isn’t going to change a single thing between Deacon and me.

The weather is freezing, the sky is overcast, and the wind blistering. I tug the zipper of my jacket up all the way to my chin and fist my hands into the warm pockets.

When I reach the marble headstone, a loud snicker involuntarily leaves my mouth.When the fuck did he get here?

Walking closer, I grab the bag of candy corn and shove it into my jacket. So, he came here first? What am I going to do, begrudge him for visiting his brother?

We’re such a fucking mess.

Closing my eyes, I tilt my head up to the heavens and breathe in the frigid air. “You really need to help me out here,” I say to nobody.

I think of the conversations Rhett and Ihad before he died, how many times he told me to move forward and keep living. I know that’s why he wrote the letters, to give me the little push. But I’m not built to go back there, to imagine him alive and having to write those words.

And I don’t want to read them and then wonder if it would all stand if he knew it was Deacon who had me wanting to move forward. Would he want all those things for me if he knew it was Deacon holding my hand? If it was Deacon pushing me to flirt with happiness and be seduced by the idea of a life without loneliness?

Crouching beside the headstone, I lightly touch the picture embedded in the marble.

“I just need to know you understand,” I say to the photo, my voice low and pleading. “Tell me I’m doing the right thing.”

Obviously, the answer doesn’t come, but the splatter of big, heavy raindrops against my head is enough for me to take as a sign that someone heard me. Rain like this is unheard of this time of year, Montana usually dry at the best of times.

Standing, I throw my hands over my head as the rain gets heavier and make the quick dash to my car. By the time I’m inside, ninety percent of my clothes are soaked through, but thankfully there's a tuft of lingering warmth in the car from the heater.

Unzipping my jacket, I shrug out of it, hanging the sopping material on the back of my passenger seat. I blast the heat on, hoping it eases the chill about to settle into my bones.

When my body temperature regulates, I finally manage to get my hands and legs working enough to leave the cemetery. I drive as fast as I can without being too reckless in the rain, my plan to head straight to the Sutton house now thwarted by my need to change into new clothes.

The rain pounds against my windshield, the wipers unable to keep up, as I hit every single red light. When I finally arrive home, I grab my parka, throw it over my head, and race to get inside.

Slamming the door shut, I’m surprised when there’s a knock only seconds after I’ve closed it.

Annoyed I’m still in my wet clothes, I swing the door open. “Can I—”

The words become lodged in my throat as my mouth drops and my eyes widen when I come face-to-face with a saturated Deacon. “What are you doing here?” I stammer stupidly.

Beads of water fall down his face, running down his long lashes, falling off the tip of his nose, and landing on his slightly parted lips.

My gaze lingers on every feature of his face, wanting to catch the droplets with my mouth and taste the rain off his skin with my tongue.

His breathing is heavy, the sound shaky and nervous. Sea blue eyes stare at me, a mixture of truth, fear, and longing on display. His heart’s in his eyes and I can feel the significance in my gut.

This man never takes off his mask. I’ve spent years looking at the face of indifference, but this, lately… It’s blinding.

Him, here, for me. It’s an opening. Small steps. An invitation.

“You think after the last two weeks, and the longest twelve hours of my fucking life,” he says hoarsely, “you weren’t the first person I wanted to see?”

I’m stunned into silence. After the very impersonal way we ended our last conversation, I didn’t expect him to show up here, raw need written all over his face.

“You didn’t say anything,” I croak out.

He runs his fingers through his wet hair and lowers his eyes nervously. “I wanted to surprise you.”

Hating the sudden apprehension and hesitancy, I step out into the cold, forcefully grab his chin, and raise his eyes to mine. “I’m surprised.” There’s no space between us now. His eyes unable to hide his hunger. His breath fanning my lips, the end of his nose touching mine. “Everything about you surprises me.”

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