“My honor,” he told me.
I felt my brows draw together, but even so, my heart didn’t skip a beat at that.
It squeezed.
Deke kept looking me right in the eyes.
“My honor, Jussy, to be that man who’s there for you.”
Okay…
Now what did that mean?
I didn’t ask and I didn’t know why.
Maybe it was because I was scared of the answer.
“Now eat your dinner, gypsy.” He was back to ordering but still speaking gently.
Before he could take his hands from me, because I really did not want him to take his hands from me, I asked, “Can I thank you for my fried bologna sandwich?”
I saw humor flare in his eyes as he replied, “Yep.”
“And my massive mound of Bugles?”
“You can thank me for that too.”
“Then thank you.”
His fingers slid back and up into my hair before he used them to press in so I tilted my head forward. Once he had me in that position, he kissed the top of my hair.
After that, he let me go and went back to his skillet.
It was better than my hair being tousled, probably not as good as a touch on the lips, though I’d never know.
But it was from Deke. Being gentle with me. Taking care of me. Looking out for me.
So I’d take it.
* * * * *
I lay in Deke’s bed, alone, staring at the ceiling.
In the shadows I could see there were blank spots there but he was covering them up. The last white to his life’s canvas was that ceiling, ready to be filled.
It’d be cool to help him fill it. So fucking cool to have a part in that canvas, look up and not just see the roadmap of Deke’s life, but also see memories.
Deke was on the couch.
It was dark, late.
It was also after we ate bologna sandwiches and I won the argument that I had to move or my entire body would lock in place, never to loosen again, so I made him let me help with the minimal cleanup. And last, it was after he’d won the argument after that cleanup that we were watching The Fighter.
He might have won it but I got the last laugh because I liked that movie too so I didn’t mind losing (and I knew before I even suggested it (something I didn’t hesitate to do anyway) that I wouldn’t get Deke to watch Ben Stiller’s version of The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, or at least not without more energy for the fight and some buildup of bargaining power).
Eventually, I started getting drowsy. Deke noticed it so I was now in his bed and he was on his couch. And I didn’t know what he was doing because he didn’t seem drowsy when he sent me to bed but he did turn off the TV and I suspected this was because, in that small space, it was impossible for it not to disturb my efforts of getting rest.
I was now seeing the drawbacks of accepting the friendship Deke could offer.
I was totally down with falling asleep lying on his chest, listening to my dad serenade me.
I was down with movie-watching and bologna-sandwich-eating and banter.
I was down with examining his space and discovering in a lot of ways that there were a myriad of things to discover about Deke Hightower (including his last name).
I was not down with being separated from him.
I could push it. I knew with the way he was with me that day, all I had to do was call his name and he’d be with me in a shot. He’d climb into bed with me. He’d hold me. Or he’d not hesitate if I wandered down the hall and cuddled with him on his couch (bed was definitely the better of those two options, his bed was a decent size, the couch, no).
“Deke,” I called.
“Yeah, baby,” he called back.
Baby.
God.
I drew in breath.
But as that oxygen came in, I knew I couldn’t push it. He’d been so cool. Honored to look out for me.
God.
Deke.
I needed to look out for him too.
“We should switch,” I told him.
“Switch what?” he asked.
“I can sleep on the couch, you take the bed.”
“Entry’s here, Jussy,” he told me. “Twyla’s out there but no way in fuck you’re gonna be on this couch with you closer to the door than me.”
I hadn’t thought of that.
I told him what I had thought of. “You’re a big guy.”
“You think I haven’t passed out on this couch and not been good?” he asked.
I had a feeling he’d done that more than once.
“Right,” I said.
I grew quiet.
Deke didn’t break the silence.
I stared at the ceiling some more.
Then I called, “Deke?”
“Right here, Jussy,” he called back.
“How do you have electricity out here?” I asked.
“Generator,” he answered.
Oh.
Interesting.
“Water?” I asked.
“Fill up the tanks, babe.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to connect to a water source?”
“It would, but don’t have one out here.”
“In other words, no long showers,” I quipped.
“Not hard to fill up the tanks, gypsy princess. You want a long shower, you take it.”
God, it was like he’d give me anything, all of it beauty, which meant all of it exacerbated the yearning for the thing I most wanted that he wouldn’t allow me to have.
But with what he gave me, that being beauty, I’d take it.
“Can the water company not lay anything?” I asked. “Or the electric company doing the same thing so you don’t have to use a generator?”
“Own this land but it’s protected. Not allowed to build on it. No water. No electricity. Nothin’.”