Page 80 of Unstable

I get the front door open and flip on some lights, trying to think of the last time I was here. No, no time for reminiscing.

I take the stairs two at a time to his bedroom and flick on the light. The room represents him well: raw wood furniture, grays and blues the main colors and a fake fireplace. By the window, an oversized chair strategically placed where he can look out and survey his land.

And again, I’m getting distracted by my thoughts, wasting precious time.

“Safe is in my room, you’ll know behind what when you see it.”

My eyes scan frantically, none of the furniture “calling to me.” I search behind and under all of it anyway, coming up empty, like I sensed I would. Only thing left is the walls, decorated with trophies, awards and…I’ll be damned.

If he was here right now, I’d pounce on him, unleashing the overwhelming feelings that I now know the meaning of all over his face and lips. He continually surprises me with extreme thoughtfulness—thoughts of me—that he did just because, never expecting credit.

There, hung on his wall in a huge, beautiful, natural wood frame is a picture of him and I, splashing in the river together. Well, to be fair, he was playfully splashing, I was actually trying vainly to dunk him under. I remember the exact moment his mom took it…because he looked over at her…and I seized the opportunity and dunked him.

My eyes mist with emotion as I walk over and take it down, leaning it carefully against the wall.

And there’s the safe.

“Code’s the same as my phone.”

“You know my code, bet you can guess it in less than three.”

First I try punching his birthday into the digital pad—0823. Nope.

Okay, guys think simple—1234. Not right either.

And then, a thought occurs to me. Surely not. There I go again with pompous assumptions. But he’s not here to see my conceitedness, so I take a chance, and key in my birthday—0712.

And it opens.

The code to the safe, hidden behind a picture of us, is my birthday. And now I know, is also the special number he chose to unlock his phone.

I’d lay on his bed, soak up his scent, and allow myself to go giddy at the never-ending romanticism, but my man’s in jail, waiting for me. So I grab the money, close the safe, lock up the house and mash the pedal to the floorboard back to town.

But not before I take a second to program the ringtone into his phone that he’s been waiting on me to choose. I finally thought of the perfect song.

“WHAT ARE YOU CHARGED, or gonna be charged, with?” I ask after we’re in his truck, headed home.

“Hell if I know. Assault, battery, Merrick’s a pussy? I didn’t really listen. Who gives a shit, won’t stick. So, you’re quite the lil’ puzzle solver,” he quickly changes the subject on a laugh. “Can’t believe how quick you got there. Any thoughts, comments?” He gives me a sidelong, clever smirk.

“Yeah, about the huge problem we have. Keaton, you’re only out on bail. If Merrick’s really hurt and presses charges, you’ll go back to jail,” I whimper with worry. “Maybe for a long time. I don’t want that to happen, do you? Why aren’t you seeming at all concerned?”

“Shit, with all the dirt we have on him? He’ll be in the cell right beside me if that’s the choice he makes. Mark my words, I’m not going anywhere and with one call from Boles, Merrick will be swearing he fell. Don’t worry, baby. First rule of taking someone to court—you gotta walk in with clean hands. Merrick’s are as slimy as they come.”

That does makes sense and immediately eases some of my apprehension, so I sit back and try to relax. The day’s non-stop vast tension, confrontations, and arrests have my shoulders and neck bound so tight they physically ache.

So I lighten the mood. Not much else I can do except wait and see how it all plays out. And if he’s wrong, and Keaton does go to jail…I can’t waste a single second I have left with him.

“Before I forget, here’s your phone.” I slide it across the seat to him.

“Thanks.”

Then I sneak out my own and press call, eyes drilled in on him, not willing to miss one nuance of his reaction.

“It’s Your Love” by Tim McGraw and Faith Hill starts playing and it takes him a second, then it registers. I’d say his expression changes, but that wouldn’t do it justice. It’s a movement, a total shift in Keaton Cash—mind, body, soul and heart—of sheer completion.

And he does the most adorable thing. He answers his phone. “Baby, is that you?”

“It’s me,” I giggle, from my seat right beside him…while we have a phone conversation.

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