D is for Deacon (Men of ALPHAbet Mountain)

That was a distressing thought. Surely, after our public displays of affection, she would consider us “together,” so I should too. I didn’t want to push her on that, though. She was young. If I tried to specify our boundaries and define our relationship, it might remind her of the differences and scare her off. I wasn’t going to let that happen.

Still, I worried about her seeming so strange that night. But I had to pull back. If she didn’t tell me soon enough, I would ask, and she would surely tell me. We couldn’t build on what we had if we didn’t talk about things that bugged us, and if she wasn’t going to do that, then the relationship was dead already.

I shuddered. That was the worst-case scenario, and my brain was going there for the express purpose of creating anxiety. I knew better than that.

Ever since the world exploded around me and I found myself vaguely aware of being pulled from burning wreckage by Carter, I was more prone to anxious thoughts. I could be impulsive because of them, reckless. Everett was more reckless than I was, for sure, but I had the ability. I could be worse. I had to keep my emotions under control, or else they could take over.

We pulled into the little house Rebecca’s parents had left her, and I parked behind her. She had to leave in the early afternoon, but I would probably be gone by then anyway. I’d give her a bit of space to get ready for her first real day of apprenticeship on her own.

Going inside, I brought my overnight bag into the bedroom while Rebecca went into the bathroom. When she came out, she was wearing a particularly comfortable pair of pajamas and had her hair up in a ponytail. I smiled at her, basking in her cuteness.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “You are just adorable.”

“Thanks.” She grinned. “Mind if we just watch some TV and go to bed early? I want to get a good night’s rest tonight.”

“Sure. Baking show?”

“Yes, please.”

The baking show, a competition show with English people making all sorts of complicated pies and cakes, was a welcome addition to my viewing habits. It acted like a quaalude. While the baking was interesting, and the things they created were inspiring, the tone of the show was quiet and silly and calming. I found myself dozing happily after an episode or two.

As much as I always wanted to peel Rebecca’s clothes off, she seemed a little delicate that evening. Whatever was bugging her, she was trying not to let it. Yet, while she didn’t want to talk to me about it, she clearly wanted me near her. She curled into my chest as we watched the show, and after an episode, I noticed she was droopy and dozing off.

After the second episode’s credits rolled, I gently picked her up, turning off the television and tossing the remote on the couch, and carried her to bed. She woke up enough to wrap her arms around my neck and nuzzle into me, cooing. I laid her down and changed into gym shorts and a T-shirt and climbed in beside her, turning off the light and sighing happily. As she put her head on my shoulder and draped an arm over my chest, I kissed her forehead.

“Good night,” I whispered.

“Sorry I’m so sleepy,” she muttered, but I kissed her head again.

“Nonsense. Go to sleep.”

“Okay,” she half whispered and fell into a sleep almost immediately.

I lay awake for only a little while, both wondering what was bothering her and happy that she still chose wanting to be curled up with me anyway. When sleep came, it was deep, and the dreams were vivid. Most of them were about her.

Saturday morning, I woke at my usual time just before the sun. It meant I only got about six hours or so, but that was fine. I operated on much less all the time. I slipped out of bed and made her coffee, and she got up an hour or so later. By then, I had made her breakfast and was dressed. Making an excuse about Everett and errands, I left around nine, kissing her lips one last time before walking out of the door.

I was frustrated more than I had been the night before. The longer I thought about it, the more I worried that the reason she wasn’t telling me was because she didn’t think we were serious enough for me to worry about it. If she felt about me the way I felt about her, she should have told me when I asked her, and I could help her through it or at least be there for her to vent about it.

With the bubbling frustration in me, I knew I needed an outlet, and the project of the day was the perfect one. I grabbed my shovel and other tools out of the small shed and headed over to where I had planned a garden for long enough that I had multiple drawn-up blueprints. I opened the bag of tiny flags and marked off the spots where I wanted to dig and then got to digging the footprint up.