He said nothing.
“Say something,” I repeated, my eyes burning now for a different reason, tears fighting to be unleashed.
Deacon just stared at me. His gaze dropped to the picture I held his way in my lap. Then it came back to me.
And still nothing.
“You need to say something, Deacon. You need to give me something, anything.”
He didn’t speak.
“You said you’d give me anything,” I accused.
A muscle ticked in his jaw and he finally spoke. “Told you I’d give it if I had it in me to give. You don’t get that.”
That didn’t make any sense.
“You’re married,” I hissed.
“Trust me.”
Was he crazy?
“How?” I cried, tossing an arm out and throwing the picture across the room to make my point. It fluttered a few feet and fell, face down.
“You don’t get her.”
I didn’t get her?
What the hell did that mean?
I stood from the bed. “That doesn’t make any sense, Deacon.”
“You don’t get her,” he repeated.
I leaned toward him and shrieked, “That doesn’t make any sense!”
He again said nothing.
“Explain it to me,” I demanded.
He stood there, body wired and alert, the room filled with something vicious, and…he…said…nothing.
“Explain it to me!” I screamed.
Deacon didn’t explain it to me.
“Say something,” I snapped. “You have to. You don’t get that, Deacon.” I jabbed a finger to the picture on the floor. “You don’t get that from me. You don’t bring that in my house. To my cabins. To my bed.” I sucked in breath and screeched, “Say something!”
“Cassidy, you gotta believe in me.”
“Fuck that,” I hissed. “Fuck you. Fuck not knowing your name or your birthday or anything about your life before me and when you’re away from me. Fuck that!”
“You got it all from me.”
He could not be believed.
“I have nothing from you except what you give to me when you take from me, and you know precisely what I mean,” I shot back maliciously.