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Grey laughed. Jagger just shrugged and said, “Deacon said he’s funny. Keith’s been out there most of the time with him, and Deacon hasn’t gone into hiding yet. I’m sure he’s fine.”
But I’m not.
Not to mention I was terrified that Deacon’s hatred for me would eventually bleed over to Keith.
I was walking toward the door before I knew I was moving, and once I had it open and those light brown eyes snapped up to me and hardened, I realized I hadn’t thought of a real reason to pull Keith away.
I ignored my racing heart and fluttering stomach, and the embarrassment that still filled my veins, and looked down at Keith with a forced smile on my face. “Come on, buddy.”
“Mommy,” he said in disappointment.
“I’ve been gone all day, I want time with you too.”
Deacon’s disbelieving sneer forced my eyes back up to him, but he didn’t say anything.
He doesn’t know me; I’m not like my mother. He doesn’t know me; I’m not like my mother, I reminded myself, and forced myself not to react. I refuse to be her.
“Besides, I’m sure Deacon will be leaving soon,” I said through clenched teeth; the hint that I wanted him gone was clear.
He laughed haughtily and nodded as he glanced back into the car. “Yeah. Yeah, kid, I’m done here, just need to clean up.”
Keith nodded, as if he’d been waiting for Deacon’s dismissal, and walked toward me. “See ya later, Deaton!”
I shut the door before Deacon could respond, and turned to see my brother and his wife watching me with expressions ranging from worried to curious.
Not willing to let them question anything they may have interpreted from Deacon’s or my tone, I clapped and turned to my son. “What do you say we watch Iron Man while I start making dinner?”
He sent me a cheesy smile. “Watch myself? Mommy . . . you’re silly.” But he still turned and raced toward the couches. “Last one there’s an egg!”
For the first time since I’d arrived home, my smile was genuine. “It’s rotten egg, buddy!”
“That’s what I said!”
But throughout Iron Man, dinner, and relaxing with my family . . . I was distracted. Deacon’s hateful words had long since slipped from my mind, and been replaced with a messy scrawl I couldn’t stop seeing.
Every glance at the clock with the hopes that it would be an acceptable time to go to sleep left me trying to convince myself that my restlessness was simply because I had purposefully left my soul at Mama’s in the form of a notebook.
But I knew I was lying to myself.
I knew I was letting my mind run wild with possibilities.
I wanted to get to work the next day to see if the stranger had come back. I wanted to see if I would find out anything more about them—about him, I had decided based on the messy scrawl. I wanted to see if he would have anything to add or change about the song. I wanted to know if he would still care at all once he knew I had no plans to take my own life.
The thought that something would be waiting for me the next day had a ridiculous smile creeping across my face, and a giddy excitement coursing through my veins.
Deacon
May 30, 2016
AFTER LEAVING THE warehouse, I stopped by the garage to see if there was anything else my dad needed before the day ended, then hurried to clean up before racing over to Mama’s Café. I barely acknowledged the familiar voices and faces when I stepped inside, my attention immediately going to the top of the greeter’s desk.
To anyone looking at me, I was calm.
On the inside, it felt like I was dying. It was as if I’d just finished running a race, when instead I’d driven over here and walked inside. My chest felt tight and my stomach was churning. The past hours could have meant something I refused to think of for someone I didn’t know. And all I could think of was that if I had stayed in the café, if I had waited for the owner of the journal to come back, I might have changed their mind.
But then my eyes fell on the journal—exactly where I had left it. For a moment, the sight of the brown leather left a sinking feeling in my gut until I noticed the small slip of paper below it, with the words: Please leave here, neatly scrawled across it.
The handwriting looked too familiar not to recognize. I doubt I would ever forget it after having stared at it for so long earlier—after trying to decode the words they’d formed.
