Chapter 7
Natalia
Iknow the days are getting worse when I start counting them—waiting for them to end so I can go home and lie in bed, and hopefully, perpetually rot.
I wish I could take a day off. A weekend. A week. A month. A fucking year. A break just to do nothing but sit with myself in the dark and watch some movies with Binx curled up beside me.
For now, I carry out the routine I have every day after closing.
Close the register, bake, clean again because it soothes me, and then go home to do nothing.
It’s quite monotonous, but I have no complaints.
Although, most of my days take a turn when a certain, tall blond comes into my bakery for his usual order.
Except for today, when I urged him to order one of the new flavors, with his red velvet coconut cupcake.
I really wish I could genuinely hate him and not just say it, knowing the words are empty ones.
And a tiny part of me wishes he could just hate me too.
You’d think that after all these years, he would stop trying.
After the hospital and everything else I’ve put him through, you’d think he would have been tired by now.
But now we’re here, ten years later, and for some reason he still tries.
And I just want to scream at him, WHY?!
Why me at all? Ever? Even after everything he knows.
After knowing me. A part of me hates him for it, for knowing everything he knows about me and still sticking around.
Because that’s just who Rowan A. Asher is.
The man who has done so much for me in the past few weeks, I don’t know what to do with the affection.
It confuses me more than I’d like to admit and most would think it’s easy.
Boy likes girl, girl likes boy, and then they’re together.
But I don’t think it’s ever that simple, not when one of us is still struggling this way—when one of us is fighting a constant war in their head that they don’t know if they care to win anymore.
I’m so tired. Everyday, I’m just tired.
Now, it’s finally eight thirty, and I’ve done everything there is to do before I slip on my coat, grab my bag, and lock the doors behind me. I trade the bakery keys for my car’s key fob and drag my feet across the pavement to my car parked just two spaces away.
I’ve barely pressed the button to unlock the doors before I hear, “Hey.”
I freeze with my hand on the passenger side door, hoping it’s just my head imagining his voice.
“Natalia—hey, wait!”
Nope. Not in my head.
I turn toward the direction where his smooth, deep voice projects from and see him with messy blond locks on the top of his head like he’s been pulling at them.
His shirt is slightly wrinkled under his deep brown coat, his nose and ears tipped with red, and his blue eyes blindingly bright. He is as breathtaking as ever.
Rowan jogs to catch up to where I stand beside my car, the paper bag from Beetlejuice rustling in his hand.
“Natalia,” he breathes, the cloud of my name gathering around his mouth.
“Not today, please,” I mutter, my voice shaky.
“Nat—”
“Leave me alone,” I croak, unable to keep the tears contained. “Not tonight, Rowan. I can’t—”
“Hey, hey, hey, no,” he says, his arm winding around me. I don’t think much of it for now. It’s a…friend comforting a friend. Right? “What’s going on, Nat? Talk to me.”
I wish I could ask for a tighter embrace. “Rowan, I—”
“Please, don’t lie to me.”
I exhale heavily. “You don’t have to pretend anymore. My dads are gone and we can go back to hating each other.”
Rowan snorts.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head, an amused gleam in his eyes. “Nothing…”
“Okay then.”
“You’re having a bad day.”
“I’m not! Christ, just leave me be!” My voice cracks as I shout, my voice echoing through Main Street. “Shit.”
“Natalia…”
“Leave it alone, Rowan.” I move to break out of his hold. But, if he lets go of me I won’t be able to breathe. “Stop fucking trying so hard,” I snap without thought.
Rowan huffs, a small smirk lining his lips. “All right, Natalia. Fine.”
He releases me, calling my bluff. I’m a fucking idiot for this push and pull I put myself through. And him. Worst of all, him. He and I should not be friends. It’s not good for him when I’m like this.
I hate myself.
I can’t explain this part of my head—the irritability. I wish things didn’t bother me so easily but I can’t control it. Then there’s the guilt that fills me after my snappiness and attitude and angry, thoughtless decisions.
“Rowan,” I sigh.
“I know,” he breathes, patient as ever.
“I’m having a bad day,” I rasp, hushed. “And I just need… fuck, I—”
“I brought you dinner. Do you want to talk about it?” Rowan asks gently.
“No.” I frown. “But I’m hungry.” I walk away from my car, toward The Black Cat. The thud of his shoes on the sidewalk is the only indication that he’s following behind me as I unlock the front door of my bakery.
I hold the door open—a door I’m proud of picking out and decorating (black matte doors with glass in their center and an intricate design of swirls surrounding it).
Silently, Rowan walks in behind me, clutching the paper bag, and claims a table for two as I lock the door.
I watch him take off his coat, brushing his hand down the fabric before he hangs it on a coat hook.
It’s silent, save for the hum of the fridge running, and I drown in the graceful movements he makes.
Like each one of them is made with careful intent, even the way his long fingers pull the sleeves of his black knit sweater up his forearms—exposing muscled forearms with an even blonder dusting of hair than the color on his head.
It’s when his arms fall at his sides that I blink out of my forearm-porn-induced haze, and my eyes flick up to his ocean ones. He throws me a wink-smirk combo before his intentional hands open the paper bag.
“Why did you bring food?” I ask, removing my own coat and tote, and hanging them on a hook beside his as he removes to-go boxes. The aromas make my stomach rumble for the first time today.
Rowan pulls out two more to-go plates from the large paper bag and sets them out, followed by plastic utensils. “I figured you forgot to eat today.”
A frown tugs at my lips so I pull my bottom lip between my teeth to keep it to myself.
“Did you?” Rowan asks and pulls out a seat for me.
I sit in the green seat across from the purple one at the round table “I did,” I admit in a whisper as he sits across from me. “Thank you.”
Rowan unveils the mozzarella sticks first, shredded parmesan drizzled on top with a side of ketchup as my dip. “Your favorite.”
“Thank you,” I murmur and immediately reach for one. I dip, and nearly chomp off a finger when I go for a bite.
“Can I ask you a question?” Rowan asks.
I cover my mouth as I chew. “What?”
“Why do you hate me?”
I blink, swallow the food, and blink again. I forgot I hate him, or that I’m supposed to make myself hate him. So I shrug.
“Why do you say you do?” Rowan asks again, softer. Sadder.
“Why do you do these things for me?” What I mean to ask is, Why do you keep trying? Why bother? I’m not worth it so why are you doing this? You don’t think you’re wasting your time? Why me?
“Because…” His blue eyes crash into me. “We’re…friends.”
I think, somehow, I hear an echo of my heart cracking. “Are we?”
“Yes.” Rowan half smiles. “I tell you your pastries are delicious and you tell me you think I’m ugly. That’s the best kind of friendship.”
I shake my head and stare down at the plate, hiding my smile. “You are ugly.”
“I know.” He laughs. “You tell me every day.”
“You need to be humbled.”
“And you do it for me.”
“I’m doing society a favor,” I retort, dipping another stick in ketchup.
“I used to think the way you eat mozzarella sticks was weird,” he tells me before he dips a stick of his own in ketchup. “But then, I tried it a couple of years ago. I see why you like it.”
“It’s good,” I say. “It’s tomato. Just like marinara.”
He takes a bite, and I don’t miss the way he cringes. Rowan Asher doesn’t like cheese. He’s never liked cheese. “It is a bit different—”
“Whose side are you on?” I take a bite of my stick dipped in ketchup. Delicious.
“Yours, obviously.” He chuckles. “Why do you think I’m eating mozzarella sticks with ketchup right now?”
Even though he hates cheese.
I laugh just as my phone dings with a few texts from the group chat with my dads.
Dad: Thinking of you sweetie
Daddy: Pay attention to your mail this week. We’ve sent you a sweatshirt and some other Canadian goodies.
Dad: Love you
Daddy: Love you
Dad: How’s Rowan?
“Christ,” I hiss under my breath. I should just reply with a quick and easy good and leave it at that.
I haven’t spoken to them on the phone in a week, and the last time I did, I gushed about all the romantic fall season couples things Rowan and I have been doing together.
I somehow almost managed to convince myself those things actually happened.
“What’s wrong?”
I lock my phone with a sigh. “Nothing, just my dads.”
Rowan wipes the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “What are they saying?”
I dust my fingers off on a napkin and shrug a shoulder. “Just that they sent me some souvenirs from Canada. And they asked how you were.”
His lips form something just shy of a smirk. “You can tell them I’m well.”
I thought about it. I shake my head, and those blue eyes soften.
“What’s wrong, Natalia?”
“They keep asking me how you’re doing every time we talk,” I murmur and move on to my burger, lifting the bun and squirting ketchup in a circle. “They think we’ve been…going on dates and stuff. I told them we’ve gone apple picking and pumpkin picking…Things like that.”
“Do you want to go pumpkin picking?” Rowan asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll take you.” He takes a bite out of his bacon cheese burger. “On a Saturday?”
“Rowan, it’s okay.” I breathe, my throat tightening with a slight burn.
Rowan chews and swallows quickly, wiping his mouth again. “Give me your phone.”