Page 26 of Without You

He’s driven by the need to be better, because the right people didn’t tell him he was enough.

“I just tell it how it is,” I answer.

Sipping on more of his liquid courage, his eyes land on mine, holding my stare. “And how exactly is it?”

It’s a subtle challenge, but I don’t back down. Taking a large swig of my beer, I place the brown glass bottle on the coffee table and scoot closer to him.

I find myself wanting to be near him; not sure whether I want to comfort him or rattle him. “I don’t know you,” I answer, honestly. “I knowsomethings,but for whatever reason, I never got the chance to knowyou.But I knew Rhett,” my voice cracks on his name, and my tongue expands, feeling dry and thick. Like a lifeline, I reach for my beer and let the wheaty taste flood my mouth, and cool down my throat, as I will myself to say the rest. “He thought the world of you.”

“I was never here,” he argues.

“You were there when it mattered, and no more than a phone call away.”

“God,” he shouts, shooting up off the couch. “I don’t understand why you’re so nice to me.”

He runs his hands through his hair and starts pacing around the living room, and I can’t help but stand up too.

“It’s infuriating,” he adds. “I’ve never been nice to you. I don’t visit my parents regularly, and I used my job to hide away when it was too hard to visit my dying brother.”

Without realizing it, he’s made his way to me, and we’re once again standing face to face, but this time we’re also toe to toe.

He’s worked himself into a state, his breathing heavy and frantic.

“Deacon.” His name is a strained whisper from my lips. I absently place my hand on his chest, my body trying to soothe him, before my brain can even say no. My palm connects with hard muscle and the contact reignites the heat I was only just desperately trying to douse.

I try to pull myself away, I tell myself to take my hand off of him, but I don’t. I like the way he feels under my skin, and it takes everything in me not to let my fingers roam.

I watch him blink a few times, his eyes dragging themselves up and down my body, like he’s just noticed how close we are. His gaze focuses on my hand, and I expect him to freak out.

Our proximity isn’t logical. Not for us, and not for two men who are barely even friends. This borders on intimate, and I’m sure the role we play in the bigger picture makes this somewhat wrong.

Isn’t it?

But when Deacon unexpectedly covers my hand with his, it doesn’t feel wrong. It feelsanythingbut wrong.

So, I let it happen.

I don’t offer him words of comfort, because they’re not what’s going to make him feel better. Trust me, I know. It doesn’t matter how many times someone tells you, if you don’t believe it, it will never be true. Your own insecurities and your lack of self-assurance will win every time.

So, I let it happen. I let the touch happen, and I wait for the simplest and most overused form of physical contact to blow up in my face. Because that’s the only way this can go, right?

Because Ican’tactually want to be touching him, can I?

“I think I should go,” he announces. He lets his hand fall and takes an exaggerated step back. And I pretend his need for distance doesn’t hurt.

“Yeah, I need an early night.”

To try and take the sting out of this whole situation, I lower my head and walk to the front door. Swinging it open, I wait for him to take the hint.

Knowing he’s only a handful of steps away, I look up to see what’s taking him so long. The question must be written all over my face, because he draws in a long breath before speaking.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“You apologize a lot,” I point out. “And you should really stop. Actually, what would be even better, is if we went back eight hours or so to when you and I never spoke.”

He gives me a small nod, the look of shame on his face unmissable, and a guilt fueled sliver of victory runs through me at having the upper hand.

“Thank you for the battery,” I say.

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