So she stayed that way.
I finished the lyrics, had set the notebook aside and was tapping them into a text to Stella when I heard a knock on the door.
I looked up to my wall of window to see it was still raining, not hard but coming down.
I threw my phone with my unfinished text on the bed, crawled off, walked to the door and opened it.
Deke stood there.
No.
Deke carrying a white deli bag stood there.
Lord, he’d gone out to get lunch.
Apparently, for me.
He held it out, (yep, for me).
“Tuna melt,” he announced. “Sourdough. Cheddar cheese chips. Shambles is all about caramel today, so it’s one of those cookie-lookin’ brownies, not chocolate, but with caramel.”
I took the bag, my poet’s soul keening, my lips muttering, “Thanks.”
“Wood says they’ll be done with your truck around four. Just needs you to phone in with a credit card. He’s good with a couple of his boys bringing it up.”
“I’ll call him.”
“Also said, your truck is so kickass, he wants to buy it. I told him not to go there.”
He told him not to go there.
Looking out for me.
I could do nothing but say, “Thanks again.”
He nodded and shifted as if to move away so I continued on a blurt.
“My dad died not very long ago. We were tight. It’s fresh but I’m…I…” I shook my head, “I’ll never be over it. Brings up other stuff. Like Granddad dying even though losing him was a while ago. I overreacted then sulked. I’m sorry.”
Deke nodded briskly. “Lost my dad when I was two so I don’t know what you’re feelin’ since I don’t remember the man. Still know it sucks not to have a dad and I get where you’re at so you don’t have to apologize for me puttin’ my foot in it.”
Damn, he’d lost his dad when he was two.
Two.
That keening turned to longing, to touch him, soothe him, something.
Anything.
I could do nothing except defend him against himself.
“You didn’t know.”
“That don’t mean I didn’t put my foot in it.”
This was true.
I let that go and said softly, “Sorry you lost your dad, Deke.”
“Long time ago,” he noted.
“I’m still sorry,” I pushed.
“I am too.” After he said that matter-of-factly, he put an end to that part of the discussion with, “We good?”
I nodded, preposterously overwhelmed that he bought me lunch, unhealthily overwhelmed he wanted us to be “good.”
With me having nothing more I was willing to give him on a blurt or in any way, I had nothing more to detain him when he turned and walked away.
* * * * *
At around eleven thirty the next day, I wandered from my deck, through my room, down the hall and to the utility room.
Yesterday, Deke had primed it and painted it the soft blue I’d chosen.
Right then, smooth, wet, concrete floors were drying.
I moved down the hall, all of which was now drywalled (but not taped), what Deke had done when I was picking up the stuff and between paint and cement drying. Following the noises, I found him in the powder room which it was clear upon stopping in the doorframe he’d just begun to start with the sheetrock.
Our communications yesterday afternoon and this morning were subdued.
I needed subdued with Deke. I needed a giant step back.
But I was learning something new about myself.
Apparently, I had an iron will when it came to saying no to snorting coke, dropping acid, throwing back a variety of pills to speed me up, slow me down or make me unconscious, drowning myself in bourbon.
But I had no willpower whatsoever when it came to Deke.
In other words, I was done with subdued.
“Pizza today,” I declared into the powder room and his attention came to me.
“Again, you do not have to feed me,” Deke stated.
“I think it’s been made pretty clear my hearing is functioning so this has been noted. I just don’t care.” I allowed my lips to quirk. “And you might not have had the briefing, but gypsy princesses tend to get their way. They do this by being stubborn and adorably annoying.”
He rested the sheet of drywall he was wrassling against the wall so he could turn fully to me and plant his hands on his hips.
I couldn’t tell if he was amused or annoyed.
Or relieved.
Though I was fascinated to note he looked all of those.
However, he said nothing.
“What do you like on your pizza, or you can answer the alternate question of what don’t you like?” I asked.
“You goin’ all out on pizza, you gonna skip La-La Land?” he asked back.
“Hell no,” I gave him the obvious answer.
“No pineapple or peppers and I don’t mind anchovies.”