Page 26 of With You

Grabbing his cell off the table, he swipes at the screen a few times before bringing it up to his ear.

“Do you think Dad will have left with Mom by the time we get back?” he asks nonchalantly. “Because I’d really love to pick up Reese and take her home.”

It’s a simple question, but I don’t miss the words he’s not saying.I don’t want my mother to meet our daughter.

“Who are you calling?” I ask, quickly putting another fry in my mouth.

“Vic,” he replies. “I want to pick up Reese.”

Making an executive decision, I lean over the diner table and take the cell out of his hand just as the call connects.

“Hello,” Victoria answers

“Hey,” I greet, my eyes meeting Deacon’s confused ones. “How’s Reese?”

“She’s good,” she coos, her voice taking on that baby-talk tone people do when they’re talking to the kid, about the kid. “She just woke up from her nap. How are things over there?”

“They’re good,” I say, not wanting to give too much away. “We just wanted to let you know it’ll be a little bit longer before we come and pick her up.”

“Of course. Take your time,” she says. “You know she’s safe here. Christy and Wade’s kids are so obsessed, I don’t think they’re ready to say goodbye anyway.”

“Perfect,” I chirp. “We’ll call you soon.”

Ending the call, I hand an unimpressed Deacon back his phone.

“What was that?” he asks. “I wanted to pick up Reese.”

“Baby,” I say gently, reaching over the table to place my hand over his. “You know it can be impossible to talk to one another while we’re fussing over her.”

Dragging his hand out from under mine, he leans back in the chair, almost like he’s moving away from me. If I didn’t know him well enough, I would take it personally and assume he needs space. And he does need the space, but it isn’t from me.

“Tell me,” I prompt. “Nothing has changed. Whatever you say, we do.”

“But everything has changed,” he admits. “She’schanged.We’vechanged. It went exactly and nothing like how I anticipated it to go.”

Our waitress chooses this moment to clear our table. “Can I get you the bill?” she asks while stacking plates on her forearm.

“Yeah, that’ll be great, thanks,” Deacon answers.

Subconsciously, we pause the conversation, and I wait till the bill is squared away and we’re both standing on the sidewalknext to our parked car to continue it. “Do you at least feel better?”

He leans against the car, leg bent at the knee, hands buried deep in the pockets of his jeans. The unseasonably warm weather has him in a white tee, stretched across his broad chest, muscled biceps on full display. He looks exactly like that man I saw standing at the cemetery all those years ago, but his shoulders are less hunched, his expression no longer guarded and harsh.

Right now, more than ever, he looks at peace.

“I feel lighter,” he eventually admits, confirming my thoughts. “It feels good to no longer have that sitting on my shoulders. I know we’ve always spoken about it, and it came up in therapy all those years ago, but it feels good to offload it all to the person who needed to hear it the most.”

Moving toward him, he straightens his stance and opens up his arms for me to step into. Placing my hands on either side of his neck, I let my thumb draw circles over his fluttering pulse.

“Do you forgive her?”

I feel his chest rise and fall against my own as he contemplates his answer. “I think I’ve come to the realization that it was never about forgiving her,” he explains. “I wanted her to know more than I wanted to forgive her. I wanted her to know, out of the horse’s mouth, just how much damage she’s done. And now she does.” He shrugs. “And forgiving her doesn’t change anything. I don’t think we can ever go back. Or forward. At least not Mom and me.”

I rear my head back slightly. “What does that mean?”

He sighs. “It means, if it’s okay with you, I’m okay with her having a relationship with Reese.”

“I-I don’t—” I stammer. “I don’t understand.”

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