Chapter Eleven
DEACON
I stood and watched as Winter’s car drove away, as his red brake lights disappeared into the darkness.
I’d been so nervous before tonight, but my tummy wasn’t churning or aching now. Instead, there was an odd flutter in my chest and my heart felt bigger somehow, warmer too.
“Everything okay, sweetheart?” Mom said behind me.
I turned, startled, my hand still to my heart. “Oh, yes.”
“Close the door. You’re letting all the heat out,” she said.
“Oh, yes, of course.” I pulled the door shut. “I was just watching him leave.”
“Dinner went well?” she hedged.
I wasn’t entirely sure why that was a question. “Yes. I thought so.”
“He’s a lovely boy.”
“He’s twenty-eight.”
“He’s a boy to me,” she said with a smile. “Now, did you want hot chocolate or tea before bed?”
“No, none for me, thank you. I’m fine.” Except my heart was still too big. “I’ll go get ready for bed. I have an early start tomorrow.”
“Okay, love.”
“Oh,” I said. “Uh, Winter said his friends are having dinner at the pizzeria one night this week, and he asked if I’d like to go. I said yes. So I won’t need dinner on that night. I’m not sure which night yet but I’ll let you know.”
Her eyes went wide and she smiled. “That’s fine. And exciting.”
I made a face, trying not to think about meeting a group of people. “Well, we’ll see. I might not go yet.”
“Might not go where?” Dad said. “And why are we having this conversation at the front door? Did Winter go already?”
“He said to say thank you and good night,” Mom said. “And Deacon was just telling me he has a date night this week.”
A date night?
“A date night?” Dad asked, grinning at me. “That’s great. Good for you. He’s a nice boy.”
“He’s twenty-eight,” I said. I was about to dispute the date-night claim but then I wasn’t entirely sure that was wrong.
Did I have a date with Winter?
By definition, I think I did, yes.
Oh boy, I had a date with Winter.
Were we dating?
To go on a date with someone would imply dating, or was there a specific number of dates to be had before the term dating applied? I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t feel comfortable asking Mom or Dad that question. Maybe I could ask Google . . . no.
Maybe I needed to ask Winter that.
He’d said if I had questions, I should ask. Would he then think I thought we were dating?
“I’m going to bed now,” I said, before taking my leave. “I have a lot of overthinking to do, and I’d rather do it in my room.”
Dad chuckled. “Okay. We’re leaving at six-thirty in the morning, remember.”
“Of course I remember.”
“So don’t be overthinking too much.”
I knew he was joking, but I narrowed my eyes at him before I went into my room and closed the door.
The sanctity of my room . . .
For all intents and purposes, it looked unchanged. Nothing was out of place, nothing missing. But Winter had been in here, and in my memories, I could see him standing at my bookcase, looking at all my things.
His gentle questions, his bright eyes.
Then I remembered the way he’d touched my arm when we’d stood at the door.
I could still feel the warmth of it. Even though looking at my arm now, it too appeared unchanged.
But I could feel the warmth of it in my mind.
Like I could feel the memory of him being in my room.
Like I could feel the way my heart felt too big and warm when I remembered him. His smile, his eyes.
I didn’t even mind him touching my arm. He’d given me warning and he’d asked permission, and those two things were apparently all I needed.
Or maybe it was because it was him.
I trusted Winter not to overstep. He knew my boundaries, my limitations, and he respected them.
He had made me feel so at ease. We’d had a few communication issues in the beginning, but that seemed to have passed. We were on the same page now.
In my head, at least.
I wanted to ask him if his skin still burned where he’d touched me. If his heart felt too big and too warm. If thinking about me made him smile the way thinking of him made me smile.
I wanted to ask him all kinds of questions.
I wanted to know his mind, his heart.
So after a quick shower, I climbed into bed and instead of reading, I began making a list.
Questions to ask Winter.
I paused work at 8:00 a.m. to send Winter a text.
“My heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils”
I was going to text him my questions but decided to keep those as conversation starters on our date, if that’s what it was. I wasn’t entirely convinced and would need to ask him for clarification later. But he’d made a point of telling me how much he loved the lines of poetry.
The poem from William Wordsworth that I’d quoted was probably too much—and it hadn’t been one I’d selected and written down earlier—but one I’d chosen at 5:00 a.m. when I woke up unable to stop thinking about him.
A fitting poem for him.
For how I felt.
I might not be able to say such things to his face, in person, from my own heart, but I could borrow the sentiment from poets who say it so much better than I ever could.
His reply came through as a gif.
Bugs Bunny with heart eyes fainting to the floor and the word swoon in big, flashing letters.
It made me laugh.
Dad clapped his hands to get my attention. We were in a barn with twelve goats. “Work now, smile at your boyfriend later.”
Embarrassed, I pocketed my phone and got back to work. We had to be back at the clinic in half an hour, so we were on a time crunch. I needed to focus.
But . . . boyfriend?
Smile at your boyfriend later, Dad had said.
My boyfriend?
That word made me feel positively giddy and jittery, and swoopy and . . .
And then a ram escaped my hold, and Dad had to grab it, and it was the jolt of reality I needed.
To focus.
Focus now, think about the word boyfriend later . . .
And think about it, I did. I thought about seeing Winter again. I thought about dating. I thought about the word boyfriend, And I thought about what that meant.
Overthinking, overanalyzing, over and over . . .
I barely slept. My stomach ached too much to eat breakfast, and I considered not going to work. But that would just mean I’d have the whole day to overthink and make everything worse in my head.
Because that’s what I did, and I was incredibly good at it.
But I was certain of one thing.
I didn’t want to meet his friends at the diner. I didn’t want a date where there would be other people. I wasn’t ready for that.
I knew Hamish, that was true. But I didn’t know the others, and I was sure they were all lovely, but I didn’t want to put myself in a situation I wasn’t ready for.
I didn’t want to freak out in front of them, in front of Winter.
Once I’d made the decision not to go, I expected to feel better, relieved. But no . . . I was disappointed.
Mostly at myself.
I was grateful for work and being busy. The thing with Dad was he knew when I needed to be pushed and snapped back into focus, and then other times, he knew when not to push and to just let me process the mess in my head.
Like I was today.
At eight o’clock, instead of the line of poetry I had planned to send, I typed out something else.
Something I knew by heart.
“I’d rather end up wishing I hadn’t than end up wishing I had.”
Then I watched as his reply bubble appeared, disappeared, then reappeared, my stomach churning.
Quoting Tolstoy at eight o’clock in the morning. Are you okay?
I rolled my eyes at myself because, of course, he would be familiar. I typed out my reply.
Not particularly
I expected his reply bubble to appear, but my phone rang instead. Winter’s name appeared on screen.
I considered not answering but didn’t want him to worry. “Hello.”
“Deacon, what’s wrong?” He sounded so concerned. “You said not particularly. What happened?”
“Nothing, I . . .” But I had to tell him.
I’d said I’d go with him and now I couldn’t and I felt bad, but I had to tell him.
“I can’t go with you to dinner. To the pizzeria with your friends.
I know I said I would, but I’ve thought about it.
It’s all I’ve thought about and I’m not ready for that, and it wouldn’t be a good idea. ”
“Oh. Okay. That’s fine.”
Fine?
Did he not care at all that I wouldn’t go with him?
“What do you . . . why is it fine?”
“Because you said you weren’t ready.”
Oh.
“And not being ready is perfectly fine,” he said. “I’m sorry you thought about it a lot.”
“I want to see you but I . . .”
“You’re not ready,” he said. “Deacon, it’s okay.
I want to see you too but not if it makes you uncomfortable.
It doesn’t have to be with all those guys.
We can have dinner at my house on Sunday night if you’d prefer?
Or you can help me at the store on Thursday evening.
I’ll be open a little longer for the late-night shoppers. ”
That sounded much better, and the knot in my stomach loosened.
“Okay.”
“Okay, yes?”
I chuckled. “Yes.”
He sighed. “Good. And thank you for telling me.”
“Telling you what?”
“That you weren’t comfortable and that you weren’t ready.”
My face went all hot and I was glad he couldn’t see me. “Oh.”
“You can tell me these things,” he added. “There’s absolutely no rush, okay?”
“Are you . . . are you not sad or disappointed? Because I . . . wish I wasn’t like this. I wish . . .”
“I wish you weren’t any different from exactly who you are,” he said. “I happen to like you exactly as you are.”
I was smiling now.
Now I wished I’d thought to tell him sooner instead of tormenting myself.
“There’s no rush, Deacon. We’re going along at our own pace, and that’s perfect for us. No pressure, okay?”
“Okay,” I said, my voice a whisper. “I feel better after talking to you. My tummy hurts less.”
“Oh, Deacon,” he murmured. “You were so stressed. I feel better too. I was worried when I got your text. I mean, I love Tolstoy’s work, but oof, it can get dark.”
“I love his work too.”
“I know. I’ve seen your bookcase.”
I laughed at that, but I could hear clients in the reception area. “I should go,” I said. “I have clients. Thank you for calling.”