Page 86 of Deacon

Was he still involved with her?

Did he have feelings for her?

I had no idea, and the last thing I intended to do was ask.

I had no right to; we weren’t even a situationship.

Worse, I was still figuring out what to do about Max.

Taking a deep breath, I resolved to put my messy relationships aside.

I grabbed my Kindle and escaped into a scorching romantasy novel, leaning into the avoidant side of my personality.

Avoiding the truth felt safer than facing the reality that my life was going up in flames.

My job meant sprinting across borders, chasing beautiful still images, living out of a duffel bag, and being on the constant move.

I wasn’t used to sitting still.

Now my injured leg confined me to whichever couch or sunbed Deacon carried me to.

Stuck on a daybed on the villa’s terrace, my limb propped on three pillows, I touched up my Surma Tribe photos.

It also gave me an uninterrupted view of my ex being a dad.

Deacon was completely focused, gentle, and long-suffering with our son, while Raff thrived under his father’s undivided attention.

Today, Raff was on the sand in front of the villa, learning how to throw a boomerang. Deacon was as patient as ever.

Whenever Raff lost his grip on the curved piece of wood, Deacon knelt, came down to Raff’s level, and adjusted his grip.

Deacon demonstrated the adjustment, then stepped back and let the boy figure it out.

Raff learned fast.

Soon, the boomerang carved a smooth arc through the sky before landing back in his hands as if he’d been throwing it his whole life.

It was clear how happy Raff was to have us both on holiday with him.

He was louder and funnier than usual, cracking jokes, giving spontaneous hugs, and glowing from the inside out.

It was bittersweet to witness, and guilt hit me hard as I realized we’d kept this joy from him by choosing to live apart.

Every so often, Deacon caught my eye over Raff’s head, his gaze contemplative.

The look in his eyes told me he was thinking the same thing.

Yet I had no answers, only more uncertainty, so I said nothing and just returned his soft smiles.

Later, as I edited more photos from my last assignment on my iPad, Raff and Deacon worked in the kitchen.

We were home alone.

Christine was out for the evening, having taken an Uber to the local night markets.

Deacon and Raff stood together in the open-air space, preparing a classic Spanish seafood paella.

‘Watch the heat on the burner, shorty,’ Deacon said, his deep voice carrying over the sizzle of the pan. ‘If you burn the garlic, the whole base is ruined.’