And she read me because I wasn’t. I’d had my heart broken by a stranger. I didn’t know how that happened. I just knew that it did.
I actually didn’t know how I was moving, standing, and breathing instead of lying in bed sobbing.
But since I was, I was going with it.
I could fall apart tonight, when I was alone in my bed (again) and nothing needed to get done until tomorrow.
“I’m just tired,” I answered, luckily with the truth. Just not all of it. “There was a lot of drama last night and I didn’t get much sleep.”
She nodded then told me, “Manuel worries, you being here alone.”
He, apparently, wasn’t the only one and that didn’t just include John Priest/Deacon Whoever, but by the look on her face, Milagros.
“I’ve been doing this for six years, honey,” I reminded her.
She let me have it all when she replied quietly, “We just worry.”
“I’ll be okay.” I forced a grin. “I’m a tough broad.”
She grinned back but I knew she wasn’t committed to it, just like me.
For me, I was heartbroken.
For Milagros, she didn’t like what went down last night and Manuel, being a dude with three daughters and two sons who shared during my frequent dinners at their house that he’d kicked around for a while so he knew how the world could fuck you (though he didn’t use those words), would like it less.
Then she said, “You need to take a night. Manuel and I’ll come; you go out with your girls.”
She was right. I did need to take a night, call some friends, and plan something not Glacier Lily related.
Though, that something wouldn’t have the normal girl talk that should include, say, your story about the man who somehow managed to steal into your heart over six years then he broke it in one night.
In fact, I’d never tell them about Deacon. I’d never tell anyone about Deacon. Not just because I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t understand why I was feeling all I was feeling, but because I knew down to my soul he wouldn’t want me to breathe a word about him to anybody.
That was the last thing I had to give him, I was going to give it.
“I’ll let you know,” I said to Milagros.
“That’d be good,” she replied.
I tucked the sheets close and gave her a small wave.
She waved back and turned to the machine.
I walked the sheets up to my shed, where there was a large industrial washer and dryer that I used to do the laundry for the cabins. I shoved the sheets in, filled the detergent and fabric softener slots to the max, squirted in the gel bleach, and set it to going.
Then I went to my house, sucking in a breath and holding it as I opened my door, eyes to the ground, sure I’d see the key to cabin eleven there.
Deacon’s Suburban was gone when I’d walked down to the cabins, which meant Deacon was gone. But he wouldn’t leave without giving me back my key. And if I were him, I’d avoid me doing it, as in, wait until I left the house before shoving it through the slot and disappearing forever.
My breath came out in a soft gush when I saw there was no key.
He’d told me when he’d checked in that he was going to be here for five days.
He couldn’t mean to stay the whole visit after all that had gone down.
Could he?
And if he did, would that mean in a month or three or eight he’d come back and take us back to the way we were? I’d see him at check in, he’d shove his key though the slot as his way of checking out?