Chapter 25 #3
Dr. Lin pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to me. “This outlines warning signs, coping strategies, and crisis contacts. Soren, I need you to commit to reaching out before things get critical. That means calling me, or Rowan, or the crisis line if you start feeling unsafe. Can you do that?”
“Yeah. I can try.”
“Not try. Do. This isn't optional.”
“Okay. I'll do it.”
She looked at Rook. “And Rowan, if you notice any of the warning signs we discussed you call me immediately. Day or night.”
“I will,” Rook said, and his voice was steady in a way that made me believe him.
“Good. Soren, you're going to have hard days. That's inevitable. But hard days don't have to become crisis days if you have the right support in place. Do you understand?”
“Yeah.”
Rook and I walked out into the late afternoon light, and I felt like I'd been scraped raw and left out to dry. Everything hurt in a soft, exposed way, and I couldn't decide if I wanted to cry or sleep for three days straight.
We got to the car, and I expected him to start driving back to his place. Instead, he pulled out onto the street and headed in the opposite direction.
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere that involves sugar and not thinking about hospitals for a while.”
“Rook—”
“Just trust me, okay?”
I did trust him, which was terrifying in its own right. But I also didn't have the energy to argue, so I settled back in my seat and watched the city roll past outside the window.
He took me to a small ice cream place near the waterfront, the kind of spot that probably charged too much for artisan flavors and had lines out the door in the summer. It was quiet today, though, just a few people scattered around the outdoor tables despite the cool air.
“Ice cream,” I said. “You're taking me for ice cream.”
“You got a problem with that?”
“It's March. It's like ten degrees out.”
“Ice cream doesn't have a season.”
“That's the dumbest thing you've ever said, and you once tried to convince me that cereal was a valid dinner.”
“Cereal is a valid dinner.”
“You're a professional athlete. You can't survive on Lucky Charms.”
“Watch me.”
We went inside, and I stared at the flavor list like it was written in a language I didn't speak.
Everything sounded too sweet, too bright, too much for a day that had already wrung me out.
Rook ordered vanilla—because of course he did, the man had the adventurous spirit of a tax return—and then looked at me expectantly.
“I don't know what I want,” I admitted.
“Pick the weirdest one.”
“Why?”
“Because you always pick the weird stuff, and I always judge you for it, and it's funny.”
“You think my ice cream choices are funny?”
“I think everything about you is funny. In a good way.”
I scanned the list again and landed on lavender honey, mostly because it sounded like the kind of thing Rook would hate. “That one.”
The girl behind the counter scooped it into a cone and handed it over, and Rook looked at it like I'd just ordered a bowl of potpourri.
“That's purple.”
“Yeah. It's lavender.”
“You're eating flowers.”
“I'm eating ice cream that's flavored like flowers. Which, before you make any comments, is significantly less weird than half the things I've had in my mouth.”
Rook choked on nothing, and I watched his ears go red. “Fucking hell, Soren.”
“What? I'm just saying. Lavender honey is pretty tame compared to—”
“We're in public.”
“I know. That's what makes it fun.”
The girl behind the counter was trying very hard not to laugh, and Rook looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. I took a deliberately slow lick of my ice cream, maintaining eye contact, and watched him struggle with whether to be mortified or turned on.
“You're the worst,” he muttered, grabbing his vanilla cone and steering me toward the door with a hand on my lower back that pressed just a little too firmly to be casual.
“I'm the best and you know it.”
“You're a menace.”
We headed outside, and I was still grinning when Rook steered us toward the waterfront path.
The lake stretched out gray and choppy to our left, and the wind coming off it was cold enough to make me wish I'd worn a heavier jacket.
But the ice cream was sweet on my tongue, and Rook was warm next to me, and for the first time in days I felt like I could breathe.
“So vanilla, huh?” I said, licking another drip off my cone. “Very on brand for you.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Just that you're very... traditional. Classic. Safe.”
“Safe.”
“Yeah. Like missionary position ice cream.”
Rook stopped walking and stared at me. “Did you just compare vanilla ice cream to missionary position?”
“I did. And I stand by it. Very reliable, gets the job done, but not exactly adventurous.”
“And yours is what, exactly?”
I grinned at him. “Experimental. Requires an open mind and a sense of adventure. Some people think it's weird, but the right person appreciates it.”
“The right person,” he repeated, and his voice had gone lower in a way that made heat curl in my stomach.
“Yeah. Someone who's not afraid to try new things. Someone who can handle a little—” I took another slow lick of the lavender honey, “—intensity.”
Rook's hand found the back of my neck, fingers pressing into the muscle there just hard enough to make me shiver. “You're playing a dangerous game right now.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah. You are.”
“What are you gonna do about it?”
His grip tightened, and he leaned in close enough that I could feel his breath against my ear. “Keep pushing and you'll find out.”
“Promises, promises.”
He made a low sound in his chest that was half frustration and half want, and I had to bite back a grin because getting Rook riled up was one of my favorite activities and I'd clearly gotten out of practice.
“Behave,” he said, but his hand was still on my neck, thumb stroking against my pulse point.
“Where's the fun in that?”
“Soren.”
“Fine. I'll behave. For now.”
He let go of my neck with visible reluctance, and we started walking again. I took another lick of my ice cream and tried to look innocent, which was difficult considering I could feel the tension radiating off him in waves.
“You know,” I said after a minute, “vanilla gets a bad rap. I bet if you let it, it could surprise you.”
“Is this still about ice cream?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“You're impossible.”
“And you love it.”
We made it maybe fifty feet down the path before I heard the familiar sound of aggressive quacking behind us. I turned around and saw them—a small army of ducks waddling toward us with the kind of determination usually reserved for hitmen in action movies.
“Oh no,” I said.
“Not again,” Rook muttered.
“They remember us.”
“Ducks don't remember people.”
“These ducks do. Look at them. They're out for blood.”
The lead duck—a particularly aggressive mallard with a chip on his shoulder and a vendetta in his eyes—was making a beeline straight for us, and his friends were falling in behind him like a gang ready to rumble.
“Why do they keep doing this?” Rook asked, picking up his pace.
“Because you're intimidating and they want to establish dominance. It's a sports thing.”
“I'm not gonna get into a turf war with a duck.”
“Too late. You're already in it.”
The ducks were gaining on us now, quacking with increasing volume and fury. I was laughing so hard I nearly dropped my ice cream, and Rook shot me a look that said he was deeply unimpressed with my priorities.
“This is your fault,” he said. “You're encouraging them.”
“I'm not encouraging them! I'm just appreciating the drama of it all.”
“Stop appreciating and start walking faster.”
We picked up the pace, but the ducks matched us stride for stride. The lead mallard was close enough now that I could see the murder in his beady little eyes, and I had the sudden terrible certainty that he was gonna go for Rook's ankles.
“Rook, I think he's planning an attack.”
“Don't be dramatic.”
“I'm serious. Look at his face. That's the face of a duck with nothing to lose.”
“It's a duck.”
“It's a militant waterfowl with a score to settle.”
The mallard lunged, and Rook yelped—an undignified sound that I was absolutely gonna bring up later—and jumped to the side. His ice cream cone wobbled dangerously in his hand, and I watched in slow motion as a scoop of vanilla toppled off the cone and hit the ground with a wet splat.
The ducks descended on it like piranhas.
“There goes your boring ice cream,” I said, still laughing hard enough that my ribs hurt.
“I'm glad you find this funny.”
“I find this hilarious. You just got robbed by a duck.”
“He didn't rob me. I dropped it.”
“Because he intimidated you into dropping it. That's robbery.” I took another lick of my lavender honey. “Also, I can't believe a duck made you drop your cone. I've done way more aggressive things with my mouth and you held it together fine.”
“Soren, I swear to God—”
“What? I'm just saying you've got good stamina usually. Must be the stress of the day.”
Rook grabbed my arm and pulled me close enough that I could see the heat in his eyes. “You're not gonna be able to walk straight if you keep this up.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?”
“Both.”
“Well then. Guess I better keep going.”
He groaned and let go of me, scrubbing a hand over his face like I was killing him. “You're gonna be the death of me.”
“What a way to go, though.”
We made it another twenty feet before the ducks lost interest and waddled off to terrorize some other poor soul. Rook was scowling at his now half-empty cone, and I was wiping tears from my eyes because I couldn't stop laughing.
“You're the worst,” he said, but there was warmth in his voice that took the edge off.
“I'm the best. Admit it.”
“You're a menace.”
I bumped my shoulder against his. “A menace you're stuck with.”
“Unfortunately.”
“You love it.”
He looked at me then, and his expression shifted into that soft, unguarded thing that made my chest tight. “Yeah. I do.”