Page 13

JULIAN

W hile Deacon and his mother deserved privacy, Bill and I clearly weren’t comfortable or confident in giving it to them. My eyes zero in on Deacon’s body language, while the quiet house makes their exchange easy enough to hear.

He looks resigned and defeated, and I have to wonder if her apology is truly just a little too late after all. I hadn’t been expecting much, but I think we were both expecting a little bit more than what she’s giving.

Time has changed her, and yet there are things about her that are exactly the same, and that includes her inability to be vulnerable for Deacon’s sake. She’s still too defensive and argumentative, and what he needed was the apology first and everything else to come second.

Instead, that man sliced his chest open and bled on the floor for all of us to see, and she doesn’t possess the skills to clean up the mess.

Deacon’s eyes dart away from his mother, finally noticing me and Bill for the first time. Straightening his spine, he tips his head to the side, gesturing for me to stand beside him. And I do. With both pride and purpose.

Elaine steps back as I move in closer, and Deacon extends his hand, closing the small gap between us, almost like the smallest distance between us is unbearable. I don’t bother paying her any mind, my husband being my priority.

He pulls me into him and presses a kiss against my temple.

“Want to go for a drive?” he whispers into my ear.

Catching me off guard, I turn to face him. “Now?”

“Let’s leave them here,” he says, referring to his mom and dad. “I need a minute or two. Just you and me.”

Deacon isn’t usually the spontaneous type, so his request for alone time feels more like a cry for help than a rendezvous. I don’t have an objection to Elaine being in our space, because I trust Bill implicitly, and Deacon’s needs are always going to be what’s most important to me.

When I think about just how much we’re dealing with today, it’s to be expected that a conversation about the future would be on the horizon. We have a lot to talk about. We have a lot to think about, and right now, between the family and the drama and all the expectations, our house has become unintentionally suffocating.

Glancing over to Bill, I notice him watching us, clearly eavesdropping on our conversation. He gives me a subtle nod, and I take it as our cue to leave.

“Come on.” I tug on Deacon’s hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I don’t remember the last time I ate a burger this good.” Deacon groans as he takes the next bite, and I feel the edges of my mouth tip up in a smile. In this moment he looks young and relaxed and so free of the hurt that was in his every expression earlier today. “I also don’t remember what it’s like to eat a meal without sharing baby duties.”

“Mhmm,” I agree, shoving a handful of french fries in my mouth. “We took those child-free date nights for granted.”

We’re at a hole in the wall diner that had been recommended to me by some of my colleagues at work. It’s nothing more than a room with a few tables pushed together and a kitchen out back. But the food is mouth-wateringly good.

“We should try and get into a habit of scheduling them more, maybe have Christy and Wade babysit,” Deacon muses before quickly shaking his head. “That’s a terrible idea. I don’t want to have dinner without Reese.”

His answer has me chuckling into my food. He’s rambling about nothing in particular and everything all at the same time. And it would be unobservant of me to not notice that this is extremely unusual for him. I don’t want to pressure or probe him into delving into his feelings, but I can also see that his decision to avoid the tougher conversations isn’t sustainable either.

I want him to talk when he’s ready, but I also need him to be okay. And there’s a fine line between both those things.

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’s changed. We’ve changed. 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 sidewalk next 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.”

“You said it yourself this morning,” he states. “There’s no such thing as being loved too much. And I don’t want to deny Reese of that. Because the truth is, I have no doubt that my mother will, if she doesn’t already, love Reese.”

I mull over what he’s saying, trying to work out how that makes me feel.

I know the woman has a lot of love to give, because that’s what she gave me. And that is what I want to give other children who need that extra love and attention.

But I will forever struggle to reconcile the woman who welcomed me into her home and the woman who pushed her son out of his.

“There’s going to have to be some stipulations,” I say. “Surely, some more groveling. I don’t want her thinking that she can just waltz back into our lives with a smile and an apology, and everything is okay.”

“I completely agree,” he assures. “No waltzing and no smiling. We’ll take it slow and make sure she knows there is no relationship with Reese if Victoria and Dad aren’t on board. I’m not ashamed to say we need their help to make this work, and if they can’t help, then that’s okay too,” he explains. “And her having a relationship with Reese does not mean it’s happy family times for her and us.”

“And what about her and us?” I ask, treading carefully, wanting to cover all the bases. “I heard what you said after you asked her about the wedding.”

Deacon brings his hands up to cup my face, lowering his mouth to mine. “I know where you belong.” Kiss. “You know where I belong“ Kiss. “Rhett knows where you belong.” Kiss.

“You’re my heart.” Kiss. “My world.” Kiss. “My love.” Kiss. “Mine.”

Feeling every bit his, I attach myself to him, his mouth on mine. My tongue licks at the seam of Deacon’s lips, seeking entry, wanting more, wanting to taste him and claim him. Needing nothing more than the surety of his sweet declarations to subdue the jumble of nerves rioting beneath my skin. I kiss him and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him till a light bulb of an idea takes root in the back of my mind, and I can’t help but drag my mouth off his and ask, “Does that mean you’ve changed your mind on how many children we show love to?”

It probably isn’t the best time for me to bring this up, but we’re under a time crunch, and I feel like his reference earlier to our conversation this morning has opened the door.

Chuckling, Deacon gives a slight shake of his head. “I see what you did there. Kiss me stupid and just see what you can get out of me?”

“Well?”

“I never said I only want one child,” he clarifies. “I’m just scared about having two.”

My head and shoulders sag momentarily, hating his rejection of the idea and knowing I have to accept and respect it. I know it’s more than likely a timing issue than him being completely closed off to the idea. But the thought of turning this little boy away, brings back memories of being that little boy.

“But I know how much it means to you.” Deacon places a finger beneath my chin and tips my head up so I’m looking at him again. “And I know how amazing you are at being a parent and a husband. And I know when it gets rough or rocky, you’ll know how to walk us through.”

“You’re too good to me,” I tell him, my gaze getting lost in his. “But I can wait. Unfortunately, there will be more children who need––”

“Julian,” he interrupts. “I want to do this with you.”

“You’ve dealt with a lot today. So many emotions,” I ramble. “We can talk tomorrow.”

“Julian,” he repeats, his voice stern. “Today has been a perfect day”

This catches me off guard. “It has?”

“It has,” he reiterates. “I started the day with a perfect husband and a perfect child, and I’m going to sleep with a perfect husband and maybe two perfect children.”