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?”
I nodded to the night and answered, “Less.”
His deep voice had been restful, quiet.
He sounded puzzled when he asked, “Say again?”
I curled my fingers tight on the phone I was still holding, lifting my free hand to trail Deke’s forearm, over his wrist, until I could lace my fingers with his.
Then I repeated, “I wanted less.”
“You wanted less,” Deke murmured, and I knew he still didn’t understand.
“Less is more,” I told him. “You can have it all, but if you don’t have the things that are important, you don’t really have anything.”
I felt his fingers tighten in mine but he didn’t say anything.
“I had good friends. A good family. But I didn’t have…”
You.
I left the word unsaid.
Deke kept tight hold on my hand.