Show Me How

by Molly McAdams

  After an exaggerated huff, he trudged into the warehouse.

  My embarrassment and hurt and anger snapped with the sound of the door shutting. “What did I ever do to you?” I demanded through clenched teeth, and turned to fully face Deacon as he pushed from my car, and rose to his full height.

  “To me? Not a damn thing.”

  A frustrated laugh burst from my chest, but my eyes pricked as tears gathered in them. “Then why have—­why are you—­I don’t understand . . .” I trailed off, fumbling for the words as he slowly closed the distance between us.

  For each step he took toward me, I took two back.

  For as long as I could remember, Deacon had called me “Charlie Girl” and had tried to joke with me in an attempt to bring me out of my shell. But that Deacon had been missing for years. Out of his friends, he had been the fun one and nearly always had a lax smile and booming laugh . . . but that guy was nowhere to be found now.

  Grey always referred to Deacon as a teddy bear. The man in front of me was anything but.

  He was tall and had a large, intimidating frame, courtesy of his love for the gym. His white shirt stretched tight over his chest and shoulders, and was stained with grease, as was his jaw. His dark hair was wild from running his hands through it over the course of the day. And his honey-­colored eyes, darkened with frustration, highlighted the angry set of his mouth, which curled into a taunting smile when I backed into the warehouse wall.

  “You gonna try to finish that thought, Charlie?” he asked in a low voice. “Is the shy, sweet girl trying to find a backbone for once? Oh wait, no, you know all about backs, don’t you? You were probably on yours when you got pregnant.”

  My mouth slowly fell open as his words tore through me. “What?” The word was nearly inaudible, but I couldn’t find my voice anymore.

  “Everyone around here acts like you’ve done nothing wrong, and I don’t fucking get it. Shy, sweet Charlie,” he mocked again. “No one would have ever expected you to try to ruin a relationship—­and who knows how much longer you would’ve gotten away without anyone knowing?”

  “You know nothing,” I choked out.

  He placed his hands on the wall above me, and leaned down. “I know you fucked Grey’s fiancé . . . that’s all I need to know.”

  “It wasn’t—­”

  “It wasn’t what?” he asked in a dangerous tone, cutting me off. “Somehow you have everyone around us feeling sorry for you because you had to “deal” with Ben’s death alone. Had to hide the pregnancy, and then pretend Keith wasn’t yours. None of that would have happened if you’d kept your legs closed in the first place.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  Deacon barked out a sharp laugh. “Why? Because I’m the only one who would dare be mad at innocent Charlie for what she did to a girl who is like my sister? Because I’m not as blind as the rest of them? You somehow twisted the situation around so that everyone was not only mad at, and blaming, Ben for something that you had equal part in, and then lied about for years; but you also had them feeling fucking sorry for you! Forgive me for seeing the situation for what it was,” he said with a sneer, then pushed away from me and turned back toward my car, but called over his shoulder, “Go on, go tell Grey and Jagger so they can feel sorry for you some more.”

  I wiped at the few tears that managed to fall, and gritted out, “I don’t need or want anyone to feel sorry for me. I have never claimed to be innocent, and I will always hate myself more than anyone else could for what I did to Grey. But I will never be able to regret what happened because it gave me Keith, and he is the best thing in my life.”

  “What?” He glanced over at me from where he was now bent under the hood again. “You mean the kid you pawned off on your brother for a year? Yeah, excuse me if I don’t buy your perfect mother act, either.”

  No! A shuddering breath left me as fear and lifelong insecurities clawed at me. He doesn’t know me; I’m not like my mother, I thought desperately.

  As soon as he released me from his cold stare, I turned and slipped inside the warehouse, letting the weight of my body shut the door as I stumbled back against it.

  I looked up at the ceiling and blinked quickly, trying to force the tears away, but my chest still heaved with a silent sob.

  I wanted to hate him. I wanted to hate him so much . . . but I couldn’t. Because Deacon had just said everything I’d been thinking of myself for years.

  Ben, Jagger, and Grey had been best friends for most of their lives, and even though Ben had been with Grey for years, I’d loved him for as long as I could remember. He was my Prince Charming, my white knight coming to rescue me from my tower, my everything . . . even if only in secret.

  It wasn’t until the spring of my senior year of high school that I’d found out my feelings hadn’t been one-­sided.

  “Why do I want you so bad when I love her? And why do I love her when I know she should be with him?” Tortured, whispered words I’d waited years to hear, and words I would never forget.

  For two nights, my fairy tale seemed to come true. For two nights, everything seemed to finally be right in the world. I had Ben, and Jagger would finally have Grey. The way it was always meant to be.

  Before I could even begin to grasp the high Ben had given me, he yanked it away the night he asked Grey to marry him, and drove the knife a little deeper when he told me that what we’d done was a mistake. As I had told Deacon, a mistake I would never regret, because it gave me my son. But months later, just before their wedding, Ben had died from an undetected, rare heart condition. He’d known about Keith, but only for a short time before he was gone.

  Upon my mom’s demand, I kept the pregnancy a secret, pretended it was her child, and didn’t tell anyone the truth until Keith was two years old.

  I’ve never felt so free as when those words left my lips.

  Not because a secret that had been weighing on me was finally out in the open, but because after years, I was finally allowed to grieve for the only love I’d ever had.

  And now, four years after his death, and I still hurt. It felt like a weight was pressing on my chest when I thought of him, making it nearly impossible to breathe. It felt like something vital to my body and soul had been ripped from me.

  Four years later, and I still wanted to hate him for what he’d done to me, and the way he’d treated me, in those last months. I wanted the chance to yell at him face to face for telling me that he loved me, but wasn’t in love with me, after taking everything from me and making me believe that we could have it all.

  Four years later, and I was still so sure that I was in love with him despite everything. I had a feeling the greatest love I would ever know had been taken from me too soon—­and I would never know anything like it again.

  Four years later, and guilt still clawed at my chest whenever I thought of how I betrayed Grey, even though she had clearly found her happy ever after with my brother.

  And Deacon Carver had taken it, all of my grief and my hatred and my guilt, and thrown it in my face.

  Fast, little footsteps sounded down the hallways, headed in my direction.

  I quickly swiped at another tear that fell free, and blew out a slow, calming breath before pushing away from the door. I turned just in time to watch Keith fly into the living room—­his smile was wide, and his face smudged with black streaks.

  “Look, Mommy! Now I’m like Deaton and Uncle J!”

  My stomach clenched, but my smile didn’t falter as I lifted him into my arms to get a better look at his charcoal-­covered face. “Wow, look at you! Is Uncle J drawing?”

  He nodded enthusiastically, then began squirming. “I wanna go show Deaton!”

  “Uh . . .” I sucked in air through my teeth, and scrunched up my nose. “How about not right now, buddy? He’s busy, remember?”

  Grey and Aly emerged from th
e hall, quickly followed by Jagger.

  “What do you think?” Jagger asked, beaming at me. Just like Deacon, he had black smudges on his jaw, and his hands were stained the same.

  Only difference was Jagger created art to earn those stains, and Deacon was probably destroying my car out of spite.

  Before I could answer, Keith repeated, “I wanna go show Deaton!”

  I hesitated before letting him down. “Okay . . . but only for a second!” I added on quickly. “He’s busy.”

  “All right!” Keith shouted, and rushed out of the building.

  I didn’t realize I was staring at the closed door, chewing on my bottom lip until Grey bumped my shoulder with hers.

  “You look red, you okay?”

  “Huh?” I said quickly, and turned to look at her and a sleepy Aly.

  “I said you’re red. Are you okay?”

  I tilted my face away from Jagger when he came toward me. “Yeah, just a long day.” At least it wasn’t a lie.

  Grey’s calculating eyes roamed over me, but Jagger spoke before she could.

  “What’d Deacon say?”

  My next breath got caught in my throat, and my body stilled as I finally met Jagger’s gaze. My voice came out breathy as I fought against the trembling I had only just succeeded in stopping moments before. “What do you mean?”

  “About your car?” he responded slowly, drawing out the words.

  “Oh.” I hoped the relief that washed through me wasn’t noticeable. “Um, I’m not sure. Car talk I don’t understand.” I glanced back at the door and mumbled, “I should get Keith before Deacon freaks out that a child is near him.”

  Grey laughed. Jagger just shrugged and said, “Deacon said he’s funny. Keith’s been out there most of the time with him, and Deacon hasn’t gone into hiding yet. I’m sure he’s fine.”

  But I’m not.

  Not to mention I was terrified that Deacon’s hatred for me would eventually bleed over to Keith.

  I was walking toward the door before I knew I was moving, and once I had it open and those light brown eyes snapped up to me and hardened, I realized I hadn’t thought of a real reason to pull Keith away.

  I ignored my racing heart and fluttering stomach, and the embarrassment that still filled my veins, and looked down at Keith with a forced smile on my face. “Come on, buddy.”

  “Mommy,” he said in disappointment.

  “I’ve been gone all day, I want time with you too.”

  Deacon’s disbelieving sneer forced my eyes back up to him, but he didn’t say anything.

  He doesn’t know me; I’m not like my mother. He doesn’t know me; I’m not like my mother, I reminded myself, and forced myself not to react. I refuse to be her.

  “Besides, I’m sure Deacon will be leaving soon,” I said through clenched teeth; the hint that I wanted him gone was clear.

  He laughed haughtily and nodded as he glanced back into the car. “Yeah. Yeah, kid, I’m done here, just need to clean up.”

  Keith nodded, as if he’d been waiting for Deacon’s dismissal, and walked toward me. “See ya later, Deaton!”

  I shut the door before Deacon could respond, and turned to see my brother and his wife watching me with expressions ranging from worried to curious.

  Not willing to let them question anything they may have interpreted from Deacon’s or my tone, I clapped and turned to my son. “What do you say we watch Iron Man while I start making dinner?”

  He sent me a cheesy smile. “Watch myself? Mommy . . . you’re silly.” But he still turned and raced toward the couches. “Last one there’s an egg!”

  For the first time since I’d arrived home, my smile was genuine. “It’s rotten egg, buddy!”

  “That’s what I said!”

  But throughout Iron Man, dinner, and relaxing with my family . . . I was distracted. Deacon’s hateful words had long since slipped from my mind, and been replaced with a messy scrawl I couldn’t stop seeing.

  Every glance at the clock with the hopes that it would be an acceptable time to go to sleep left me trying to convince myself that my restlessness was simply because I had purposefully left my soul at Mama’s in the form of a notebook.

  But I knew I was lying to myself.

  I knew I was letting my mind run wild with possibilities.

  I wanted to get to work the next day to see if the stranger had come back. I wanted to see if I would find out anything more about them—­about him, I had decided based on the messy scrawl. I wanted to see if he would have anything to add or change about the song. I wanted to know if he would still care at all once he knew I had no plans to take my own life.

  The thought that something would be waiting for me the next day had a ridiculous smile creeping across my face, and a giddy excitement coursing through my veins.

  Deacon

  May 30, 2016

  AFTER LEAVING THE warehouse, I stopped by the garage to see if there was anything else my dad needed before the day ended, then hurried to clean up before racing over to Mama’s Café. I barely acknowledged the familiar voices and faces when I stepped inside, my attention immediately going to the top of the greeter’s desk.

  To anyone looking at me, I was calm.

  On the inside, it felt like I was dying. It was as if I’d just finished running a race, when instead I’d driven over here and walked inside. My chest felt tight and my stomach was churning. The past hours could have meant something I refused to think of for someone I didn’t know. And all I could think of was that if I had stayed in the café, if I had waited for the owner of the journal to come back, I might have changed their mind.

  But then my eyes fell on the journal—­exactly where I had left it. For a moment, the sight of the brown leather left a sinking feeling in my gut until I noticed the small slip of paper below it, with the words: Please leave here, neatly scrawled across it.

  The handwriting looked too familiar not to recognize. I doubt I would ever forget it after having stared at it for so long earlier—­after trying to decode the words they’d formed.

  I took a second to glance around to see if anyone was watching me—­expectantly or not—­then snatched the journal and paper from the desk and walked quickly toward the booth I always sat at.

  I flipped through the pages until I found the one I was looking for, but only had time to see that there was something written below my note before I had to stash the journal next to me when one of the waitresses walked up.

  “Well, well . . . Deacon Carver. What can I do for you tonight?” she asked. Her voice dripped with sex, and her tone held so much meaning. The look she gave me promised a night I knew I needed after the day I’d had.

  I couldn’t remember her name, I rarely tried to remember their names, but I remembered her. If I hadn’t already known from personal experience that she was bat-­shit crazy, I had no doubt I would have told her to come to the house that night.

  Unfortunately for her—­and my memories—­I didn’t forget girls who wrecked houses and screamed like banshees when they found out I didn’t want to be tied down, and I also didn’t have the patience to deal with her now.

  I’d been consumed with stress and guilt all day over finding what I thought was the beginnings of a fucked-­up suicide note, had just released a year-­and-­a-­half’s worth of pent-­up anger on Charlie because I couldn’t seem to control myself around her lately—­and was hating myself for it—­and now this waitress was keeping me from seeing what had been written back to me.

  “Absolutely nothing,” I responded gruffly. “Whoever is cooking right now, tell them I need the usual for Graham and me. To go.”

  I stared at her expectantly until she turned with an exaggerated huff, and waited until she was back in the kitchen before pulling the journal back up.

  The relief that pounded through my veins as I read th
e note written back to me was so intense that my hands began shaking.

  They hadn’t been about to commit suicide—­she hadn’t been about to, I internally amended as I stared at the neat, feminine handwriting.

  A harsh, relieving breath forced itself from my lungs, and I had to set the journal on the table when the shaking of my hands made it too hard to read the words again.

  And again.

  She’d added more to what I had originally thought was the beginning of a suicide note, and now thought might be a poem. If what was in front of me then had been written down earlier that afternoon, I probably wouldn’t have spent hours panicking that this girl was going to kill herself.

  I wouldn’t have said what I had to Charlie.

  I ran my hand through my hair, agitation poured from me as I tried to force her face from my mind.

  With a rough breath out, I focused on the poem . . . but after reading it again, I still felt depressed as shit for the girl. Because if this was supposedly about her relationship with a guy, then she had no fucking clue that he was using her, or that she was nothing more than the best friend. Because those words pretty much summed up how Graham, Knox, and I all talked to, and thought of, Grey.

  Sister. This girl wasn’t in a relationship, she was thought of as a sister.

  After grabbing a pen from a different waitress as she passed by, I added a ­couple words to the last line, and wondered why the hell I was smiling over the fact that she’d left my other changes in as I wrote back to her.

  You’re alive! Christ, you have no clue how damn scared I’ve been all day. But I think we might have other problems now. This relationship . . . are you sure you want to be in it? You say you’re always there for this guy, listening to him about everything apparently . . . so who’s there for you? Who’s listening to you? I don’t know you, and you don’t know me—­or, hell, maybe we do; this is Thatch—­so you don’t have to listen to anything I say. But from what I’m reading, I think you’re putting way more of yourself into the relationship than he is. Find someone who would write these words about you.

  Who listens to your sad songs