“Sayin’ that,” Deacon went on, “all a man’s gotta do is look at you, any age he is, and know he struck gold and has to get his shit together to keep it shiny, but more, keep it his. But he didn’t just look at you, he knew you, and doin’ that, no excuse for bein’ the way he was.”
The warmth I got from that settled so deep, I could ride it for weeks in the Arctic with not even a blanket.
“What I’m sayin’ is,” Deacon kept on quietly, “you are not a weight. Those cabins aren’t. Life isn’t. It’s just what it is. It’s part of livin’. It’s part of bein’ together. If it matters, if it’s good, nothin’ weighs it down.”
“I really wish you were here right now,” I blurted, and it was the truth, mostly because I wanted to kiss him and do it hard.
It was then Deacon said nothing.
This lasted some time, so I called, “Deacon?”
“Same here, Cassie.”
He wished he was with me.
And that felt warm too.
Needless to say, after that conversation, I thought we could do it, Deacon taking off, me staying home, us connecting from afar, learning about each other, helping what we had to grow, making it good, then connecting when he got back.
That was, until he left again. And when he did, he never picked up when I called and only twice phoned me back. These were short calls that lasted less than a minute and mostly were him saying he got my calls and couldn’t talk, but he’d call when he could.
But he never did.
And then it began to feel weird, me calling him a couple times a day so he’d see my number on his history and know I was thinking about him, wanting to speak with him, wanting to connect, but he never connected.
Then it didn’t feel weird, it felt humiliating, like I was the girl the guy picked up, had a good time with, thought it might be worth working at, then found she was needy and grasping. Calling all the time. Wanting to connect. Thinking about him way too much, as in creepy-much. All this until it was time to shut it down and shut her out because she was a creepy, stalker freak.
That didn’t feel good so I quit calling, hoping if I did, he’d call.
He didn’t.
He’d been gone nearly five weeks. And of that five weeks, I hadn’t heard from him in four, and hadn’t phoned him in three.
I didn’t know Deacon very well but in the times I was with him, the Deacon I thought I was coming to know wouldn’t leave me hanging for three weeks.
Unless he was going to leave me hanging forever.
Which I had no choice but to assume he was doing. Three weeks was a long time. His last “job” only lasted a week. This one was five. He had to be done with the job by now and moving on.
Moving on.
I just couldn’t believe he was doing it. Not without saying something. He didn’t have to come to Glacier Lily and lay it out for me. In fact, I was glad he didn’t.
But leaving me hanging?
Forever?
That didn’t seem very Deacon.
Which was another reminder that I didn’t know Deacon. I didn’t know what he did for a living. I didn’t know his full name. I didn’t know where he came from or how he became the man he was.
I knew he was thirty-eight, had slept with that same amount of women, (well, with me, one more), he was mellow, didn’t talk much, was great in bed, liked my cooking…
And that was all I knew.
This put me in a bad mood. A bad mood where I sat on my porch in the rain (though I’d do that anyway) staring at the trees, trying not to make a big deal of this. A hot guy, great sex, a feeling of hope it was the start of something beautiful, something that could be forever—women got that feeling all the time and found they were wrong.
I tried to make it that simple.