He listened.
And again.
And repeat.
He didn’t sleep.
He didn’t eat.
And early the next morning, he checked out and drove three states to help some asshole, piece of shit, dregs of humanity take care of his shit.
* * * * *
It was raining when Deacon slid his Suburban up to the little, tidy house on the street filled with little, tidy houses in Iowa.
The steps up to the house were near to covered with pots filled with flowers, only a narrow clearing was available to make your way to the house.
That was his mother. She liked her flowers.
Like Cassie.
He looked to the windows and saw his dad in a lounger, TV on, game playing.
He’d given up the farm.
He’d had no choice. He got old and his son had no interest in it. Never did. Always went his own way.
Until he just went away.
Deacon watched through the rain into the window until he saw his mother come in, two glasses in her hands, an iced tea for her, Deacon knew, an Arnold Palmer for his dad.
His dad took the drink. His mom bent to kiss his cheek.
She sat in the lounger next to her husband.
Deacon kept watching as he put the truck into drive.
Then he looked to the street as he pulled away from the curb.
* * * * *
It was still raining the next day when Deacon stood by the grave, eyes on the headstone.
Jeanine Ann Gates. Beloved wife and daughter. Always remembered.
Her parents put that shit on about beloved wife.
She was.
Then she wasn’t.
“You broke me,” he whispered to the headstone.
If she was there, she’d start crying. She’d mean those tears. She felt hard, when she let herself feel, which was why she did everything in her power to stop feeling.
She succeeded.
Spectacularly.