Bounty

Deke and Max had both told me that, with the added crew starting on Monday, it still would take at least two, maybe three weeks to finish the rest of the house. There was a kitchen to install. Acres of floor. Stairs. Bathrooms. The chimney hood.

And as I wandered to my room, it was the first time I thought I could wait. I could wait to have it all.

And I could do this because getting it in two to three weeks meant it would no longer be just me and Deke.

Then again, as the days got colder and shorter, cuddling with Deke by an inside fire after having eaten some magnificent Crock-Pot recipe I’d made for us wouldn’t suck.

I hit my room, lifted the strap of my bag over my head and went to a nightstand. I twisted the light on but only to a dim glow, moved to the dresser, dropped my purse to it but did this only after I pulled my phone out.

I engaged it, went to my texts and saw Lauren had sent me four versions of our group selfie, only slight nuances of differences in each, in all of them I was surrounded by people that were coming to be my people and smiling.

I had it, it was within my grasp. Hell, I was holding the evidence of it in my hand.

My less that was more.

I was living it and all I had to do was take care of it, nurture it, make it stronger.

Then it always would be mine.

Everything I’d ever wanted.

My place in this universe.

And it felt amazing.

So much so, my thumb started to move over the picture in order to save it to my phone so I could forward it to my dad and do what I always did with Dad. A habit. The habit we both had.

The habit he’d taught me because he’d started it, sitting under stars, on tour buses, in dressing rooms, whenever we had a quiet moment.

And when our lives led us separate ways, we kept at it with texts, sending photos.

Sharing our blessings.

My thumb stopped and I felt a sharp stab of pain pierce clean through my heart.

I lifted my head, turning it to look into the night. All I could see was the faintly filtered silvering of moonlight on pine trees.

My feet took me to the light on the nightstand I’d switched on so I could turn it off.

They then took me to the windows and I stared into the dark.

And for the first time since he passed, having held it back, unable to cope, terrified it would crush me, the full weight of his loss bore down on me as images assailed me.

These images were photos that would never be taken, all of them chasing themselves in quick succession through my mind.

Dad on my deck, the fire pit blazing, a big smile on his face, his feet up on the flagstone, a guitar on his lap, pads of his fingers on the frets, the other hand to the strings.

Dad in the morning—his morning, like mine, that being late morning—slouched over the marble I’d chosen for a countertop for the kitchen island. His hair a mess, his face creased with sleep, the fingers of one hand hooked through the handle of a coffee mug, his other arm wrapped around the hips of Dana, who always stood close to Dad like Deke had that night stood close to me.

Dad in my study, making music with me.

Dad at Bubba’s, telling stories of the road, making everybody laugh.

Dad at my dining room table, shoveling Thanksgiving turkey and stuffing into his mouth, his favorite holiday, his favorite meal.

Dad sitting on one of the couches I’d ordered for the great room, a bottle of beer in his hand, Dana curled into his side, his eyes across the space, a smile on his face.

This smile would not be aimed at me.

It would be aimed at Deke, who I was curled into on our own couch.

It would be a smile of male camaraderie. A smile of happiness. The smile a dad would have that I’d never see. A smile he’d have safe in the knowledge his only daughter had found the man who’d make her happy until she was no longer breathing.

A hand touched my waist lightly and, caught up in these images, I gave a slight twitch in surprise at the touch when Deke called softly, “Baby?”

I stared into the dark, into trees my father would never wander through, not able to see through the dark to the river that he would have sat on the deck, listened to and known peace.

“That night, back when, when we were in Wyoming,” I spoke to the window, “before I saw you at that fence, I was moving out of the bar to get some air. To take a breather. Get away from my thoughts or maybe give into them because my head was fucked up and I needed to clear it. Or at least sort it out.”

I felt Deke get close to my back, felt his words stir the top of my hair, heard in his tone that he felt my vibe and was falling into it, so I knew he’d bent to me there when he asked, “How was your head fucked up?”

It would be hard to share this, especially with Deke, all I’d had, all he didn’t.

But even knowing it would be hard, deep inside I knew he’d get it.

“It sounds bad,” I told him. “I know it does. But that doesn’t make it any less true that at that bar, I’d begun to realize that in all I had, I didn’t have what I wanted.”

I shook my head, still staring at the night, Deke’s hand moving from my waist to my belly, his other arm wrapping around my ribs below my breasts.

I felt his chin hit my shoulder and I kept talking.

“The thing is, it wasn’t about what I wanted. It was about what I needed.”

“Yeah?” he asked when I didn’t go on.

“Yeah,” I said. “I had it all. I was uneasy because I had it all in a way I had it but I wanted something else. Something more. And I was uneasy because it felt like I was being ungrateful. All I had, all I could get, and I wanted more.”

Deke’s hold on me tightened. “Did you know what you wanted?”