Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Dove
Deacon was stacking crates in the room next door when I walked in, phone still in my trembling hands. Pausing at the sound of my approaching footsteps, he turned. His easy smile faded to an expression of concern as he looked from my phone to my face.
“Are you okay? Do you have news?” He asked so quickly it sounded like one word. “Is everyone okay?”
I nodded, so choked up I could barely speak. His shoulders dropped in relief.
“They made it to the hospital in time,” I said through thick, bleary eyes. “Hannah and baby are doing great. He was born fifteen minutes after the helicopter landed,” I murmured. “If they’d taken the boat . . .”
“They would’ve had to name him Petey,” Deacon teased. “What did they name him?”
I held his gaze as emotions constricted my throat. “They named him Simon.”
I began to blubber, and Deacon closed the distance, enveloping me in his arms and pulling me against his warm, broad chest. His chin dropped to the top of my head, and I felt the words vibrating through him as he said, “After your dad.”
I nodded, certain I was wiping tears and snot across his T-shirt. The fact he remembered my dad's name made me cry even harder. Deacon had known my dad from when we’d been kids, knew how special he was. I hadn’t been expecting Hawk and Hannah to name their son after him. Maybe his middle name, but damn. It hit me in a wave of joy and sorrow. I cried for the new baby and for my dad, light and dark in equal measure. All the while, Deacon held me so tightly that I knew I could easily lift my feet and not drop an inch.
“Shit, Rogue, you're going to make me cry too,” Deacon said, dropping a kiss to the top of my head, his voice wobbling. “Well, fuck it.” He sniffed and then his chest started shaking too.
It was such a relief, such a comedown from the constant panic and adrenaline. Deacon only shed a few mostly stoic tears while I blubbered into his chest for what felt like hours, but I was grateful he was willing to cry with me.
He held onto me until my arms went numb and still I thought I could’ve stood there all night long. I didn’t want to let go, didn’t want to go back to who we were to each other outside of this hug—not the people who would never be together, the thought so laughable that it had made Deacon scoff. It felt like that moment at dinner was a lifetime away now. I wished we could stay like this version of ourselves forever, just Dove and Deacon.
“I’m so sorry,” Deacon murmured into the quiet.
“For what?” I asked, cheek still pressed against his chest, feeling the outline of some round gemstone or trinket beneath.
“I should’ve been there for you when he died,” Deacon whispered, and my heart twanged anew.
“I was the one who ghosted you, though,” I replied. “And you had a big, exciting life by then.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, the sounds of his deep words vibrating where our chests pressed together. “I’m sorry, Dove.”
I stepped out of his hold, my limbs tingling from being in the same position for so long. Deacon’s hands remained poised on my forearms as I looked up at him, and for a second his eyes dipped to my mouth. I wondered what it would be like if I lifted on my toes and kissed him. Twelve-year-old me was begging me to do it, a redo for the teeth-knocking incident the two of us had shared one summer many years ago. But if I kissed him, I wouldn't be able to handle what came next. And the way he’d said “never” at dinner was still ringing in my ears. I was reading into something that just wasn’t there.
So, I cleared my throat and took a step back, and Deacon's hands dropped to his sides. I swore I saw the faint look of disappointment in his gaze as I did. Or maybe he was just a really good actor and he was trying to comfort me with his crocodile tears. I never knew with him.
“Thank you,” I said softly. “For the helicopter and for . . . everything.”
“Anytime you need me,” Deacon said, stooping a little to meet my eyeline and emphasize what he was saying. “Anytime you need me, I will be there for you. Even when you hate me and never want to speak to me again, if you need something that I can help with, ask me, got it?”
“Yeah,” I said as my throat bobbed again.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I should head back. I've got to be up at 4 am for a thing in New York,” he said, hooking his thumb behind him.
“Okay.” I gave him a half wave, unsure of what else to say. Thanks for holding me while I cried? Thanks for knowing I didn’t want to be alone but was too stubborn to ask you to stay? Thanks for knowing me better than I know myself even after all this time? As he turned and headed for the door, I called, “Deacon?”
He paused and looked over his shoulder.
“Sometimes I really, really wish I could hate you,” I said, and he flashed me a soft smile. “But I don’t and I never have. You've always just been you to me.”
I could see the way that hit him. I was probably one of the few people who knew him like that. Just as he was one of the few people who knew me more intimately than almost anyone. And all of that history couldn't be erased, no matter how many years passed or how much I tried. We’d both made mistakes. We’d both become people we didn’t want to become for a while. But I knew who he wanted to be, who he was trying to be in incredible and uncontrollable circumstances. And despite the bravado and many masks he wore, I still saw glimmers of the real him underneath it all.
“You've always been you to me too, Dove,” he said with a genuine smile, one that was goofy and lopsided and not perfect for camera, just a real smile meant only for me.
And I knew then, as he walked away and my stomach danced with butterflies, that I was in deep, deep trouble.