I stood my ground, continuing to talk even if I did it while he was moving toward me.
He stopped way too close and I had to tilt my head back way too far in a way that made me feel small and vulnerable which, in a different world, feeling these around Deke would have special meaning.
But in my world they didn’t.
“Thank you, baby,” he said gently.
I closed my eyes and when I opened them, I requested quietly and not ugly, “Please don’t call me that, Deke. I’m not your baby. I’m not even Jussy to you. I know what I am and I think for both our sakes, especially mine, a good way to move on from here is that we both keep it just like that.”
There was a lot in his face, so different from the Deke I’d met years ago and the same man that came back into my life weeks ago. This being that he was showing it all to me, all of it good which meant all of it was bad.
And worse, he lifted a hand and filtered it up in my hair from the neck, where he rested his palm.
“Jussy—” he began.
“Don’t,” I whispered. I felt the pads of his fingers press into my scalp so I whispered again, “Please don’t, Deke.”
“Known you only weeks, babe, still know you’re one of the best women I’ve ever met so—”
I cut him off before he could say I hope we can find a way to still be friends.
That was what we’d do. I knew I couldn’t live without at least having that from Deke.
But right now it hurt too much to be reminded, especially in his beautiful voice, that was all he wanted.
And anyway, I didn’t need a reminder.
I lived that knowledge day in and day out and it was lacerating my poet’s soul.
“Please,” it came out trembling, and dammit, I felt my eyes get moist, “don’t.”
It looked like it caused him pain to slide his hand out of my hair.
I knew it caused me pain.
But I was getting used to it.
He stopped touching me but he bent his neck deep to get his face closer to mine even as he swayed in several inches so his big body was invading my space.
“Bein’ that, Jussy, I want you to know it’d mean a lot to me if we can find a way to move on from here.”
“We will,” I assured him. “You’re a good guy. Of course you get I think that so we’ll find a way. It’s just that right now I need some space.”
“Not sure how to give you that, needin’ to be in your space to get work done for you, Jus, but I can say I’ll try.”
“You don’t need to worry. I’m beginning to have walls. I’ll soon have floors. I need to look at paint chips and wooden spoons and shit. It’s time I got busy. And so…” I made an instant decision. “I’m gonna go to Denver and do some shopping. You’ve got a key. You and Bubba just do your thing. I’ll be back on Monday.”
“That’s a good idea.”
He had no problem with me being away.
And I got it then. It hit me like a shot.
My situation with Deke.
My dad’s with Joss.
In order to feed on what it needed, a poet’s soul sought that which it’d never find, or in Dad’s case (just a guess but I suspected a good one), sabotaged what it had in order to feed that need.
There had to be yearning. There had to be melancholy. There had to be pain mixed with pleasure, but the pain had to come stronger than the pleasure, knowing it never would get what it really needed.
No poet could be truly happy or their soul would waste away from starvation.
I nodded and made another instant decision.
“Right. I gotta get on that but I’ll make you boys coffee before. Just help yourself.”
Without letting him say anything, I moved back, got the hell out of his space and turned to do just that.
“Jus,” he called.
Shit!
I turned back and forced my eyes to his.
“You onstage last night, went home, pulled down a few of your songs,” he told me and I braced. “You got amazing talent and a beautiful voice, baby.”
One of the songs he probably heard was “Chain Link.”
And he had no idea.
And that was something he’d never know.
“Thanks,” I muttered then quit fucking around and moved swiftly.
It didn’t matter I was hasting a quick retreat, he didn’t call out to me again.
So I succeeded in doing something I should have done from the beginning.
I escaped Deke.
* * * * *
Deke
“Not my business.”
“Bub, don’t.”
“Not my business but I gotta—”
“Bub, I’m tellin’ you, don’t.”
It was late morning. They’d been hauling drywall up to the second floor so Deke could get to work up there next week, but now they were on the scaffolding, laying the tongue-in-groove ceilings.
Bubba had let it be for three hours.
Being Bubba, it was a miracle it lasted that long.
“Was there last night, Deke. Everyone was,” Bubba told him.
“You speak English?” Deke asked.
“Wood. Maggie. Tate. Laurie. Jim-Billy. And, dude,” his voice had become a warning, “Krys.”
That they could talk about.
“Then it’s good you brought it up,” Deke said. “’Cause I can tell you to tell your woman to keep out of it.”
“What happened?” Bubba asked.
“None of your business.”