Page 16 of Dibs
“Do you want to get out of here?” Deacon reaches down to squeeze my hand, and I whisper that I want to relax for a few minutes, let the lake air settle my stomach.
I settle back into my camp chair and cast out into the water again. My heart twinges with the recollection of my father teaching me to fish at age five; my very first catch had been a bluegill. Now, he’s thousands of miles away, with no idea yet that the man he trusted to take care of me had betrayed me.
That’s one thing I still need to do: tell my parents about Sean and take their house off the Airbnb site. Their house is further upin the mountains than I’m used to in my tiny Colorado Springs suburb, with an incredible view of Pike’s Peak. It will mean a longer drive to work.
Deacon’s pole bends, and he reels in a lovely rainbow trout. I smile brightly and make a big deal of taking a photo of him with it, until I point at the water and demand he toss her back in.
“Alright, fine.” He unhooks the gorgeous fish and lets it splash back into the water. “Just for you, Beck. I cook a mean trout.”
“I love trout. I can eat it if I don’t see its eyes first. Once I’ve seen it alive, forget about it.”
“That’s an odd stance for a fisherwoman.” Deacon winks at me and gives me a serene smile that affects me like it’s contagious. I return his grin and tell Deacon, “Well, I love surprising you.”
Deacon moves his camp chair closer and rests his free hand on my knee, and I breathe deeply, appreciative of his warm, reassuring touch. In the quiet moments, we sit fishing together, and peace returns to my soul; somehow, I know I am going to survive this.
Late that night, after a long game of Scrabble and a ton of spicy wings, I tell Deacon I don’t need him to stay over. I’m feeling so much better that I can give this alone thing a shot. He reluctantly grabs his things and heads home while I curl up in the bed I once shared with Sean. The bed I’d picked out and paid for, and sure as hell had no intention of leaving for him.
Glancing around in the dark at all the furniture, I ruminate about how I’m going to need a U-Haul, and by the time my brain lets me stop focusing on that, it’s nearly 5 a.m. My eyes are wide open but bleary, and I pray for sleep to take me in its embrace and put an end to my obsessing.
Without a second thought, I wrestle up the loose floorboard under my side of the bed, where I’ve been known to keep itemsSean wouldn’t have appreciated. I find the baggie that houses exactly two pre-rolled joints a friend from work had given me when her husband opened his vape shop several months ago.
Then, I search for a match, but the ones I scrounge up from under the sink are all soggy. After trying to burn several, I finally find one that lights up the end of the joint, and I sit in bed, quietly smoking pot in total peace. No paranoid Sean staying two rooms away for fear that he might inhale and fail a random drug test that he’s only done once in the entire time he’s worked at the hospital. I no longer give a shit as I blow smoke from my lungs into the bedroom I won't call mine for much longer, no longer caring about the stench and the way it may cling to the expensive curtains.
“Fuck you, Sean,” I say aloud between drags, tilting my head back and taking a puff, then exhaling out my nose and mouth slowly, the smoke headed for the ceiling. My body calms immediately, but I know I shouldn’t finish this whole thing by myself, so I carefully put it out with the base of a vase. I turn the vase on its side and let the joint rest on the glass to cool off, not wanting to start the whole place on fire. Correction: trying hardnotto want to set the house on fire to leave Sean with nothing but ashes.
No. That’s not me. I’m not an arsonist, nor am I malicious, but I’ve had my fill of being wronged and feel myself falling into a stoic bitterness about it. So, I defy Sean in every way possible as I take my time packing up the house in the next couple of days.
I bring my too-large vibrator out to the couch and masturbate in the bright daylight on his favorite recliner, without a towel beneath me.
I put together a tray full of deviled eggs, the smell of which Sean had hated, and happily ate them over the course of three days.
Smoked the rest of the joint the next night to help me fall asleep at a decent hour without overthinking everything.
I slip the promise ring he’d given me, a tiny pearl flanked by lab-created diamonds, into the loose floorboard. When I leave, I’ll tell him it’s “in the house somewhere” if he wants to re-gift it to his slutty nurse with his fake promises.
Then, for breakfast on my fourth day home from work, I uncap his most expensive bourbon and wash my pancakes down with it. I’m living and loving my Goodbye Sean Tour when the bell rings around noon, and I walk to the door with joint number two hanging out of my mouth.
“Well, if it isn’t my bestie, the degenerate,” Deacon tuts as I throw the door open. All I can do in response is giggle, because, well, this is good weed. What can I say? It’s medicinal.
He plucks the joint from my fingers, shuts the door behind him, takes a long hit, then coughs until I have no choice but to laugh at him.
“Lightweight.” I elbow him.
“Hey, you better be nice. I brought tacos, and you look like you’re wasting away.” Deacon rolls his eyes, holds up the bag that smells like absolute heaven, brings it to the kitchen, and pulls out a couple of paper plates as he hits the joint again and hands it back to me.
I inhale deeply and sigh the smoke back out.
“Can I put this out now, or do you want it?” I ask him as I open the fridge and select two Dr. Peppers, then slide in beside him at the kitchen island. Sean hates when we eat here, getting food on his pristine white marble, so that makes this even more fun.
“Might as well finish it,” I reason with a naughty giggle.
10
DEACON
“And you called me a lightweight!” I proclaim, laughing until my eyes fill with tears. We’re both on the floor watching stand-up comedy, giggling endlessly, and engaging in some pretend wrestling that quickly becomes a tickle fight. Beck is running from me, hiding behind objects that are far too small to cover her up, and I’m pretending I can’t see her.
Now we’re playing a game of hot-cold, and as I wander closer to Beck hiding behind a recliner, she yells, “Hot! So hot, you’re on fire!” I turn away intentionally, and she slips behind the other couch while she shouts, “Brr! You’re in Siberia!”
