Chapter 15 Truths and Promises
TRUTHS AND PROMISES
VIOLET
What’s the sound of your thoughts?
SilenceInMidnight: Distant thunder.
What did I just see?
I stand frozen on the porch. A sharp tension grips me as the scene replays itself in my head. Him standing near the car, his father leaning against the door, and Rowan’s mouth moving.
He wasn’t typing but speaking out loud.
I feel unbearably foolish, making me wonder how many other things I’ve misunderstood since waking up in that hospital bed with a blank mind. I drop onto the porch couch, palms pressing into the cushions as my thoughts scatter in every direction at once.
What do I do now?
The sound of footsteps pulls my gaze up.
Rowan stands at the edge of the porch, his phone already in his hand, but before he can type a single word, a gasp tears out of me.
“You can talk.”
I saw his mouth move. I saw his dad respond like it was the most normal thing in the world. There was no phone between them, no pauses, and definitely no silence.
“You lied to me.” My vision blurs, and I hate how quickly the burn behind my eyes turns into tears. I hate how raw I still am and how close to the edge everything feels.
Rowan’s eyes widen in alarm, and he shakes his head, almost violently. His mouth opens as if he’s about to speak, as if words are lining up behind his teeth, but nothing comes out.
Instead, his face flushes red, throat bobbing as he swallows, frustration and panic crashing across his features.
He lifts one finger, a silent plea for a moment, for me not to fall apart before he can explain.
He types quickly this time and then lets the text-to-speech voice carry the weight of his words.
“I have selective mutism. I can’t choose when my words come out. I can only speak with my dad.”
The mechanical voice echoes in the quiet night, flat and emotionless, in stark contrast to the devastation written all over his face.
I don’t miss the way the can feels. If he’d have spoken, the entire pressure of his voice would have been on that word.
My breathing slows, not steady yet but also no longer sprinting toward panic. “I… I thought you lied to me.”
Rowan shakes his head, hurt flickering across his face. He types again.
“I’m sorry. I should have explained my selective mutism clearly. I just… I don’t like talking about it.”
I nod before he even finishes. I understand that part more than I want to admit. I don’t like to talk about my amnesia either, as it already consumes every waking thought I have. Saying it out loud feels like handing over the last scraps of energy I’m desperately trying to preserve.
“You don’t have to use the software,” I whisper.
His shoulders ease just a fraction. That’s when I notice the neatly arranged drinks on the coffee table. Two bottles of sparkling water. Two plain.
He types and turns the phone toward me.
I didn’t know what you’d like with dinner.
Unfamiliar warmth blooms through me. I pick up a bottle of plain water and pour it into a glass, then lift the bottle toward him. “Would you like some?”
He nods, watching me carefully, and I pour a second glass for him. He takes a sip and then sits across from me, close enough that I can see the tension in his hands, the way he grips his phone like it’s both a shield and a lifeline.
He types once more and slides the phone toward me.
Are you okay? Earlier, you looked nervous. If I could talk, I really would, Violet. I can’t tell you how shitty it feels to rely on a device like this.
“I’m okay.” A small knot pulls tight within me when I see the helplessness in him. “And… I believe you.” Guilt rises. The last thing I want is to hurt him. “Have you… struggled with it since birth?” My hand lifts without thinking, fingers hovering near my own throat. “What happened?”
He swallows hard. The sound is audible in the hush between us. For a moment, he looks down at the floor, eyes unfocused, as if he’s gathering himself from someplace far away. When he finally types, his movements are slower.
“I was at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
The computer voice delivers the sentence plainly, but the weight of it settles heavy in the air. I don’t mind the artificial sound. I think he doesn’t either. I’m sure, right now, he would prefer speed over gentleness. The pauses that usually soften our conversations are not comforting right now.
He keeps typing.
“Archer and I had wandered into the woods, when a hunter fired at something in the trees. The bullet hit me instead. It damaged part of my voice box and my vocal cords. My voice was never the same after that.”
My heartbeat stumbles.
“When I spoke for the first time afterward, I scared everyone in the room. Fuck, I scared myself.” He presses his fingers against his eyelids. “It felt like there was something monstrous trapped in my throat, and after that… I couldn’t speak.”
“How old were you?” I whisper.
“Eight.”
He doesn’t look up when the word is spoken. His gaze stays fixed on the glow of his screen, like that’s safer than meeting my eyes.
“But you speak to your dad,” I whisper, trying to understand the shape of this exception.
“My dad has a speech disability. He stutters. Knowing he isn’t perfect either makes me feel less broken around him.”
I see it written all over his face—the insecurity, the doubt, the old scars that never quite stopped aching. Then, like a crack of light through storm clouds, a slow smile tugs at his lips. It’s tentative and clearly meant to soften what he’s just given me.
“Though my mom would come after me with a stick if she ever heard me say Dad is anything less than perfect.”
I return a small smile of my own. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to doubt you. It just… hit me all at once, and I didn’t know what to do or where to go.”
Rowan chews on his bottom lip, that nervous habit slipping out—and how devastatingly human and handsome it makes him. He lifts his gaze to mine and holds it longer than necessary, and then he types, before turning his phone to me so I can read his words.
Violet, I want to make you a promise. If there’s ever a day you doubt my actions, past or present, please know this: I had, I have, and I always will have your best interests in my heart. Even the thought of hurting you is as painful as cutting my own skin.
The air leaves my lungs, sharp and shallow. There’s no grand performance in his words, no attempt to impress, just raw sincerity, filling the porch with warmth that feels impossible on a winter evening.
“Why are you telling me this?” My voice is barely louder than the wind threading through the trees.
Because I hope you can trust me.
Because I want you to live here like it’s your home. Not like a place you’re borrowing. Not like somewhere you’re staying because you don’t have another option. But I also need you to know, if there ever comes a moment when this place feels wrong, when I feel wrong, you are not trapped here.
You have your people. Elodie. Daisy. Willow. They love you, and you can count on them completely. I want us to set up your phone so you have your independence back, so you’re never cut off from the world. And if you want, we’ll put them on speed dial.
So if panic ever creeps in, like it did just now, you don’t have to sit with it alone.
Even if the thought of you leaving hurts more than I’m willing to admit, I don’t want you here because you need me, Violet. I want you here because you choose me.
He pauses, then adds more, carefully.
And if it’s okay… I’d like to add my parents’ numbers into your contacts. They live close by.
He gestures beyond the porch, and I follow the line of his finger to another house tucked between the trees, its windows glowing softly in the dark.
That’s theirs. They foster rescue dogs, usually the ones that need extra care. So one of them is almost always home. If you ever need anything urgent.
My heart wobbles, fragile and aching, and I press my lips together, trying to steady myself.
“I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t even know what home feels like.”
You could never be a burden, Violet. My mom actually wanted to come meet you tonight. Archer and I had to work pretty hard to convince her to stay back. She gets excited easily, and we didn’t want to overwhelm you.
A faint almost-smile touches his mouth.
And don’t stress about the rest. Home isn’t a place you remember. It’s a place you feel safe. Where you can breathe. I hope, at least for now, you can find that here.
After dinner, just like he promised, Rowan sits beside me and sets up my phone. We add contacts one by one—Elodie, Daisy, and Willow first. His twin brother, Archer. His parents, Zane and Vienna.
He tells me there are people I can count on, that I’m not alone, even when it feels like I am. I smile, hoping it looks like gratitude and not what it really is—nerves coiled tightly beneath the surface, a fear of leaning too hard on things I don’t remember earning.
A notification lights up my screen.
Rowan: Would you like me to install Find Your Soulmate?
Now, Rowan has stopped handing me his phone. Instead, he texts me directly. It’s definitely more natural and practical.
I look up from the screen. “That’s the app that matched us?”
He nods.
“I wouldn’t even know where to begin,” I admit.
Rowan: When we signed up, the first thing they asked us to do was fill out a questionnaire.
Rowan: It was strange. But also… eye-opening, and of course it worked, since it matched us.
“Questions about ourselves?”
He nods again.
“Like what we like for breakfast?” I smile, humor feels safer than admitting that the idea of rediscovering myself is making me nervous.
Rowan: Not even close. You’d be surprised by the things they asked.
“Give me an example.”
He pauses, then types.
Rowan: They asked what part of a book you are. A prologue. The middle. The ending. Something like that.
“Oh my God. What am I?”
A big smile breaks fully open, unguarded and warm.
Rowan: I don’t want to ruin the surprise. You deserve to discover that on your own. You will learn a lot about yourself.
“And you too, right? I will get to know a lot about you too?”
He nods and I realize I like this more than I expected. Sitting here with him. The quiet ease of it. We’re wrapped in thick blankets he brought earlier, the fabric warm and heavy, smelling faintly of pine detergent. Everything feels slow and unhurried.
When I ask if we can stay a little longer, he doesn’t hesitate.
Rowan installs the FYS app on my phone, shows me around, then sets it gently onto the table between us.
There’s no snow—just cold air that bites lightly at my skin, enough to remind me where I am. The sky stretches wide above us, a deep navy scattered with stars. The trees stand bare, honest silhouettes against the dark. Somewhere far off, a car hums past, the sound softened by distance.
The night isn’t asking me to remember. It’s just letting me sit here—still, breathing, existing. And right now, that feels like enough.