Chapter 20
Rowan
With a sigh, I put my car in park just a few spots away from The Black Cat.
Natalia is easier to love than she thinks. I think the only thing that hurts me about loving her is how badly I wish I could keep her away from the ghosts and demons that linger in the darkest corners of her mind.
And even though I can’t see these ghosts and demons for myself, I know they’re there—waiting for the perfect opportunity to take her away from it all.
From me. Perhaps it’s selfish to want her here, for myself, because I love her too much.
But fuck, even if it meant the darkness would leave her on the only condition that I could never see her again, I’d take it.
More than anything, I want her to love herself the way I love her.
More than anything, I want her to know peace. Even if it isn’t with me.
So, I get out of the car.
She apologized profusely, and I saw the way it shook her.
And when she said she didn’t cry to avoid the conversation, it made me wonder how many people have thought her crying was a trick to get herself out of things?
How many people truly believe that she would break down the way she did for attention?
I overwhelmed her, I know that. I fear I might have known it as I was doing it too, but didn’t pay much attention to that gut feeling.
Natalia is strong. A little warrior. But even the strongest soldiers crumble sometimes, and that’s okay.
She just needs a safe place to crumble and she’ll always have that space with me. Always.
The front door of The Black Cat is locked when I try to pull it open, so I knock thrice.
From behind the counter, the prettiest girl pops up, her eyes round and wide but calm when they land on me.
Then there’s the tiniest smile on her lips—my favorite lips—and she rounds the counter, coming for the door.
Natalia unlocks it quickly, the corner of her lips lifting slightly, and pushes it open. “Hey,” she says, her lips twitching with something of a smile. One day, I want to make her grin so wide it hurts both our cheeks. “You came.”
“You asked nicely,” I say.
“I bribed you with cupcakes; I would hardly call that asking nicely.”
I smile and she gives me another small one in return.
“Come in.”
She steps aside for me and once I’m inside, she locks the door behind us. I turn to find her with her hands behind her back, likely resting against her backside, which is covered by her usual, high-waisted black leggings, rocking on her heels.
“How are you today, Natalia?” I ask.
“I’m okay,” she breathes. “Better.”
“Really?”
She nods. “Really.” She jerks her chin toward the kitchen. “I have some stuff set up for us,” she says, nervously gnawing at the corner of her lip and still rocking on her heels. “Do you want to learn how to make some cupcakes?”
I nod, a full blown smile encompassing my face. “Yeah. Red velvet coconut?”
“Of course.” She smiles. “Follow me.”
She saunters over to her set-up—flour and sugar and everything else laid out for us.
Or, rather, for my baking lesson. Cooking has always come easy for me; it’s my thing.
It was something I grew up practicing with my mother, who had also been a chef in her day.
It’s a natural talent, the way baking is for Natalia.
But me? Baking? A disaster.
“I might mess this up,” I warn her and strip off my coat, slinging it on a nearby chair. “I can’t bake.”
“It’s easier than you think, chef.”
I half smile. “Thank you for your encouragement, chef,” I say. “But everything I bake, I burn.”
“You bake more than you realize,” she says. “Baked chicken? Potatoes? Pizza? You make all of those things for your restaurant.”
“That’s different.”
Natalia rolls her eyes and grabs her purple apron, tying it around her waist. “It’s not.” She grabs a green one and holds it out for me to take. “You’ll need this, Chef.”
“Thank you, chef.” I tie the apron around my hips and follow her to the sink where she’s thoroughly washing her hands. “So, what comes first?”
She rips a paper towel from the dispenser and dries her hands, and I mirror her movements. Back at the table, she begins, telling me to watch first, then do. She measures out the flour, sugar, eggs, and her favorite secret ingredients that make the cupcakes hers.
I commit it all to memory.
I can’t help how nervous I am. I impress her with my cooking, sure, but I’m worried I’ll fail miserably with my baking skills.
She doesn’t tell me I’m a disgrace, though.
Instead, she shows me again and again, letting me turn on the mixer, showing me how to fill the paper cups properly, with the right amount of batter.
Beside me, she’s smiling and patient and so soft I want to sit her down on this table and kiss her until my lips are branded on her skin.
It’s beautiful to watch her in her element.
It’s almost like she’s in a peaceful bubble no one can pop when she’s mixing and scooping batter and making her own frosting.
She is at peace like this. Her eyes aren’t tortured and cloudy, and even in our silence there is a small charming smile on her lips.
Once the cupcakes are in the oven, we remove our oven mitts and aprons, hanging them in their designated spots before we begin to clean our work station.
“You look happy,” I comment, trying to find the best way to help her clean.
“I am,” she says. “This is what I love, even if sometimes I don’t.”
“It’s your—”
“It’s my safe haven,” Natalia finishes and goes to wash her hands again now that our workstation is spotless.
I wash my own beside her, feeling so clueless in this baking world, even if it isn’t that different from cooking.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I tease, knocking my elbow with hers as I reach for a paper towel.
She smiles and tosses her paper towel in the trash bin. “Because murder is illegal, so I may as well kill you with kindness.”
“Kindness.” I snort as I dry my hands, following her to the workstation where stools are waiting for us.
“I’m not always the nicest person to you.
” With a pause, she leans back, pulling her sleeves back down to her hands and holding them in her palms. “I wish I could say I was aware of it at the time, but I’m usually not.
When it’s bad, I just feel…angry. Agitated.
Like everything triggers me and I just explode, even when I don’t mean to.
And I’m sorry. I keep saying I’m sorry and I keep doing it, but I truly am sorry.
I’m sorry, Rowan. You’ve been so incredibly patient while I’ve been a total bitch and you deserve better. ”
I shake my head and make my way before her. “You aren’t a bitch.”
“I am,” she says. “Even when I try not to be, I’m always a bitch to you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Maybe not today,” Natalia mumbles. “But it’s because nothing has triggered me today yet; I don’t feel as terrible as I usually do. This thing in my head, Rowan, it ruins so many things. I hate it. I hate that I can’t control it. I hate that depression is just…my friend at this point. I…”
“Take a breath.” I gather her hands in mine. “I get it.”
“You do?”
“More than you think,” I whisper. “After my mom, it was bad for me, Nat.”
“I know.”
“I was the same way,” I say, “with my dad, my grandparents. And worse, with my brother. He didn’t deserve the way I treated him during…that.”
“Yeah,” she scoffs. “I get that. I did the same with my dads; I hate it.”
“I know you do.” I put her hands on my chest. “But I don’t think you give yourself enough credit.”
“I don’t deserve the credit,” Natalia mumbles.
“One day, you’ll realize you do.” I brush my lips over her forehead. “For now, let’s play a game.”
Her skillfully shaped brows furrow. “Okay?”
“Twenty questions.”
Natalia cackles, her head tipping back and hands falling from my chest.
I chuckle. “What?”
“Twenty questions? Are we in high school?”
I shrug. “Just play.”
Her eyes roll. “Fine. You go.”
I smirk. “What’s your favorite thing about me?”
“Oh, so we are in high school.”
“I’m curious,” I say. “You call me ugly so often.”
Natalia sighs quietly, her fingers nervously clutching the piping bag that will soon be filled with white frosting.
“Your patience.” She inhales deeply. “No one—Only Isa and Lana have ever been as patient as you are with me. You never call me difficult or tell me to cheer up and just be happy. You just let me feel.”
My eyes linger on her profile, watching the way they gloss over and flood enough for a tear to stick to her bottom lashes.
One, two, three…
Four, five, six…
Seven, eight, nine…
Ten, eleven, twelve…
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…
Seventeen freckles.
“Sometimes I just want to feel sad,” she whispers. “Sometimes, I just want to sit in it and you let me. You give me room.”
I inch closer, my hand moving to the small of her back. “Natalia—”
“I’m fine.” She sets down the empty, crumpled piping bag and wipes beneath her nose with the back of her hand before wiping both hands on her purple apron. “I’m fine.”
“Nat—”
“You visited me,” she rasps. “While I was… You visited me. Why?”
“You know why,” I say. “You asked two questions. It’s my turn.”
“Fine.”
“What’s going on with your dads?” I ask the question that has been in my head. “Don’t say nothing because I know you; I see how you get when they call or text.”
Natalia drowns me in her silence, rolling and wetting her lips while keeping her eyes away from mine.
“I don’t feel connected to anything,” she confesses quietly, as though she’s ashamed for feeling that way.
“Sometimes, I don’t feel connected to my dads, but it isn’t their fault—they’re good parents. I think it’s just me—”
“It’s not you.”