Chapter Six
Elijah
Tabitha’s Place is mildly busy when I slip inside, escaping the afternoon chill that the late October air brings to Fort Myers. That is one thing I miss about California—the sunshine.
I find an empty booth to the left of the entrance and settle in, not waiting to be seated. I have a feeling that I’ll just be hollered at to take my pick anyway.
There’s a younger woman working today, a waitress I’ve never seen before. She’s skirting around tables and refilling drinks. As she notices my presence, she heads in my direction, smiling brightly.
“Hiya! My name is Kandi. What can I get started for ya?” Her energy is intoxicating, immediately brightening everything around her. She must be college-aged, and most certainly beautiful. I bet all the men in this town fawn right over her—and for good reason.
Long black hair and big brown eyes framed by dark lashes. Her face is heart-shaped, and her lips are thin, but it suits her features.
“I’ll take a Coke, please,” I request.
“Sure thing—”
“I got this one, Kandi,” Bennett’s voice cuts in, and we both look to my right to find him quickly approaching. “I didn’t see you, Elijah. I was in the kitchen.”
“You’re always stealing the hot ones,” Kandi pouts, to which Bennett just laughs and waves her off, as if he has the right to take whichever patron he chooses.
Once she’s walked away, all of his attention refocuses on me.
“You said a Coke, right?” he asks, and I nod.
“Yep, heavy on the ice.”
Bennett grins, flashing those white canines once more. “I’m on it.”
As I watch him retreat, my mind wanders back to this morning. Or more specifically, Rowan shirtless on his front porch this morning. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many defined muscles on a man before. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to jump one so fast.
It makes me feel kind of bad for Bennett, who now looks like an everyday average Joe in comparison to the glory that is Rowan Alexander. But it’s judgmental to think that way, and no one said I can’t admire them both.
Bennett returns with my Coke, and after putting in my order (a chicken salad sandwich and fries, of course), he slides into the booth across from me.
“On your break?” I ask, raising a brow in question.
He folds his hands over one another on the table, leaning back against his seat in a casual manner. “Something like that. How was work?”
I regard him for a moment, consider his angle, and come to the conclusion that he’s trying to build rapport. Probably to get into my pants, not that I’m complaining.
“Good. I went out to that local photographer’s house to try and score an interview this morning, and then—”
“Rowan Alexander?” Bennett asks, surprise lacing his tone.
I lean forward, suddenly more interested in our conversation. “Yes, you know him?”
“Yeah, who doesn’t?” Bennett laughs a bit uncomfortably. “I actually went to high school with him. He was a year above me.” Oh, well, this is interesting.
“Really? What is your opinion of him?” All I know is what John says and what he reports on the locals’ opinions.
I watch Bennett chew on his bottom lip, seemingly considering which direction to take this.
“He was always… weird,” he finally settles on supplying, nervously watching my expression. I keep my features neutral and lean forward just a bit further.
“Weird? Weird how?” I don’t know why I’m so interested in what he was like, or what other people’s opinions of him are. It’s just an interview. But he made me feel something, and he’s hot as sin. Can you blame me?!
“Well,” Bennett starts slowly, “he kept to himself. Was very pessimistic by nature. I would almost say skittish, like a stray cat.”
“Hm,” I sound, unsure of what else to say. Clearly, they weren’t friends, so I doubt he knows much else. Bennett clears his throat.
“I’m surprised he agreed to the interview,” he says, shaking his head. “He barely speaks to anyone outside of his family from what I recall.”
“Oh,” I wave him off. “He didn’t agree to it. I’ve just been showing up and trying day after day.”
There is a brief moment of silence before Bennett bursts out laughing, leaning over the table slightly to study me.
“You’re something else, Elijah.”
“I thought I told you to call me Eli,” I chastise, and he holds his hands up in defense. As I watch him, I have a sneaking suspicion that he’s using his boy-next-door charm to its full potential right now.
“Oops, sorry, Eli,” he says, his charming grin turning into that of one of temptation. “I just like saying it too much.”
I have nothing to say to that, so I just stare right back at him. Bennett doesn’t seem to mind; he sits still as I search those royal blue eyes of his.
I’m trying to pin down that electric zap I felt the first time I met him—the one that immediately told me to get him naked—but I can’t seem to find it now. Not that I wouldn’t. I totally would.
There’s just someone else that I’d like to strip just a bit more. Maybe I’m into the chase, or men who don’t want me. Or maybe I’m chasing the pain of feeling everything like it’s my next breath of air.
I want to unravel the enigma that is Rowan Alexander more than I want to bend over for Bennett the waiter.
But as I said before: who’s to say I can’t do both?
“There’s a festival coming up soon,” Bennett suddenly says, pulling me from my very inappropriate thoughts. “It’s our town’s fall festival.”
“I know,” I say, taking another long drink of my soda. “We’re publishing an article on it soon.”
“So, you’ll be attending?” he asks, a hopeful gleam shining in those bright eyes.
I think about the concept of hundreds of loud children with candy apple hands and terrifying, rickety rides, and nearly vomit.
“I’ll consider it.” I notice that he does not directly ask me to attend with him, which is for the best. That’s far too close to a date for my liking.
“Your food—since someone has decided to stop working,” Kandi interrupts, placing my plate in front of me before sauntering off to another table.
“I think that’s your cue, Ben,” I say, popping a fry into my mouth. Bennett’s cheeks flush, that sweet grin spreading over his lips once more.
“I’ll see you around, Eli.” And then he’s gone, heading back into the kitchen to do god knows what.
I take some time to observe the people around me: the elderly couple two booths down, the family of four with their crying baby sitting at a table toward the center of the diner. A group of high schoolers is sitting around a plate of cheese fries, laughing obnoxiously across the room.
And most annoyingly, whoever is sitting behind me is having the world’s loudest conversation.
“Erica, I’m telling you, her contributions to the PTA bake sale were ridiculous. Like, two dozen chocolate chip cookies? Were they even homemade?” the woman laughs, her haughty voice successfully giving me a headache.
“I bet her son won’t be playing baseball this year either,” another voice chimes in, presumably Erica. “If she can’t afford to live in our neighborhood, then she should just move. It’s not our fault she decided to be a single mother in this economy.”
What a bitch.
I know that every town, every city, every single place on this godforsaken planet has human beings like this. Yet I am still shocked every time I encounter them.
And here I was, convinced that I was the worst of the worst when it came to judgment—sitting in my booth, glaring daggers at the family who won’t take their crying child away from us patrons who want peace, or aggressively sighing when those annoying teenagers laugh too loudly.
But I guess there is always somebody worse. And they should count themselves lucky I haven’t gotten the good sense to speak my mind quite yet.
Soon, though. These locals will learn of my true nature soon enough. For now, they can have my passive-aggressive glares.
The ones who suck, at least.
I’m sagging in relief as I shut the door to my apartment, locking myself inside and escaping the outside world. And now that I’m alone, I can once again dissect my meeting with Rowan this morning.
I brought him a coffee that he promptly declined, just as I thought he would. But he asked me a question—I think I’m getting through to him. It’s a slow and tedious task, but worth it in my opinion.
More than worth it, especially when I get to ogle his bare chest and feel the beat of my own heart throughout the length of my entire body.
Does it make me a bad person to use this stranger as an outlet for emotion and nighttime material?
Probably. But I’ve never been too concerned with being a good person.
Outside of being polite, keeping my promises, and treating others how they treat me, I’m not required to be a saint.
I am curious, though. Other than his rockin’ body and his ability to make me feel things I’ve never felt before, what else does Rowan Alexander offer?
I grab my laptop from my bag and settle on my two-person couch, bringing a hot cup of tea with me. It takes me no time at all to find Rowan’s website, as it’s literally called Rowan Alexander Photography. Not very creative, but I guess it doesn’t have to be.
He has a page dedicated to his work titled “Gallery,” and I find myself drawn there first. It’s all nature shots—sunsets, beautiful landscapes, birds mid-flight. They’re beautiful.
Rowan has a way of capturing the essence of a place. Staring at a specific shot of a beautiful ocean with a seagull soaring over it, it feels almost as if I’m there. I can smell the salty air and feel the breeze against my skin.
I wonder how long it took him to learn his way around a camera—to be able to capture a moment like this. And I also wonder why ninety percent of his photos either feature a sunset or a bluebird. Is this his niche? I guess everyone has to have one.
The rest of his website is pretty bland: a section for emailing him, a list of achievements and certifications, and a short biography that I can tell from the first sentence he wrote himself.
Rowan Alexander is twenty-six years old and based out of North Dakota. He prefers taking shots of nature and animals and is an independent contractor. If you’re interested in working with him, please use the “Contact Me” page listed on the drop-down menu. Thanks.
Jesus, this guy has no personality.
But being that hot, I guess you don’t need one.
As I’m about to close out of his website, a picture on his dashboard catches my eye. It’s labeled as A Way to Escape, February 27th.
From the way the camera is positioned, he is clearly sitting in a tree somewhere, and his lens is focused on the leaves that drip morning dew. The rising sun is slipping through the branches, and you can see his hand reaching out, almost as if to grasp it.
I can almost feel it… his desire to escape, to break free, from what I do not know. But it’s a physical thing reaching out to touch me through the screen—boring into me and giving me another hint at the kind of man Rowan is.
And right as I’m leaning in, trying my hardest to catch and analyze every detail, my alarm goes off. I jump off the couch cushion, sighing loudly as I place the laptop onto the coffee table. My phone screen reads the same message it does every weekday night around 7 p.m.: Nighttime routine.
In the bathroom, I begin brushing my teeth and stare at myself in the mirror. Hazel eyes stare back at me; they hold no particular thought or desire. Fair skin and high cheekbones, golden blond hair with the world’s most uncertain curl pattern. Button nose. Lean limbs.
I know I’m attractive—everyone in the Camry line is.
If I operated as a normal human being, I’d be the perfect contender for romance.
But I don’t. So instead, I am the perfect contender for hooking up behind bars and flirting across diner tabletops.
For one-night stands and being pretty enough for sex, and never much else.
Boring. I am so incredibly boring.
Rowan may have no discernible personality, but he at least has an interesting aspect to him. Even if it’s just his elusiveness.
I am just… Elijah. And all I have to offer this world is a pretty face.
I rinse my mouth and turn away from the mirror, making my way to bed and shutting off the lights as I go. Darkness swallows me up as I pull the covers to my shoulders.
I moved from California to escape my family—to escape the pressure of their insistent feelings and overwhelming affection. And here I am, obsessively thinking about the strange man who made me feel just that: feelings. Affection.
I should be scared. I should be running. But instead, I can’t wait to see him again.
I… I feel as if I’ve been waiting for so long just to see him again.