Chapter Eleven
Elijah
The leather chair creaks as I rock back and forth; my fingers fly over the keyboard as I type. I’m editing the rest of the article John has written about the fall festival, adding in pictures from last year’s festivities and grammar-checking.
He put me up to the task about thirty minutes ago before he left for lunch, and he’s just now returning with a paper bag with the Tabitha’s Place logo printed on the side.
If I’m honest, I’m just happy he went to grab lunch rather than sending me. I’m kind of nervous thinking about seeing Bennett again after our awkward interaction on Saturday.
“You almost finished, boy?” John asks, dropping the paper bag on the desk across from me as he sorts through it.
I try not to bristle at the use of boy; that’s just how John talks.
“Yeah, almost,” I tell him, and he nods as he hands me a wrapped sandwich.
“Turkey,” is all he says, and I thank him. “How is it goin’ with Rowan Alexander? Get those questions yet?”
I sigh, pushing my laptop aside so I can place my sandwich on the desk. “It’s fine. I’m meeting him for dinner tonight to interview him.”
“Really?” John sounds as if he has a hard time believing me. Just as Bennett did. “I’m surprised. I thought it’d take a lot longer than a week to convince him.”
I shrug, choosing to leave out the part where I went to his house on Friday while taking a bite of my lunch and chewing thoughtfully.
John gave me his thoughts on the situation once: that Rowan isn’t a mean guy. He even said he believes Rowan needs a friend. But I’ve never directly asked him what his opinion of the man is.
“Sir,” I start after I’ve swallowed my bite of sandwich. “What do you think of him? Rowan, I mean.”
“What do I think?” John repeats the question.
“Yeah. Like, what is your opinion? I know what you say the other locals think, but you’ve never given me your personal thoughts.”
John drops into the leather chair closest to him, humming thoughtfully as he unwraps his own turkey sandwich. After a moment, he shrugs.
“I don’t know if I really have one. I’ve known him his whole life; I knew his parents before they moved away.
I think he’s treated a little unfairly, but what can I do about it?
” He’s staring at a section of the wall, pulling gently at his beard and seemingly lost in thought as he speaks.
“He’s always been very kind, though. The boy helped me when I broke down just outside of town a few years ago.
It was rainin’ and everything. But people don’t care to look past his… peculiar personality.”
I’m nodding, taking in his monologue with great interest.
I get the impression John doesn’t ‘not have an opinion’ of Rowan. I think John really likes him, which makes sense. Why else would he be pushing for this article so insistently?
“I think he’s nice too,” I offer, taking another bite to give my mouth something to do, other than ramble aimlessly.
John stares at me for a moment before he sits up, setting his lunch to the side.
“You know, I’ve never seen or heard of Rowan having a significant other,” he says, and I raise a brow, clocking how he chose to say significant other and not girlfriend.
“Oh?”
“Mhm. Which is sad, because I think he has a lot to offer a person.”
“Huh,” is all I say, because I’m not sure what to say.
And honestly, I’m still a little bitter over being barred from Rowan’s house. What was that even about?! I’ll never understand that man.
“Speaking of dating,” John not-so-casually interjects, awkwardly looking around the office. “What’s goin’ on with you and Bennett?”
“What?!” I practically trip over the word.
“Don’t act all shy now. I saw the two of you flirtin’ at the diner on Saturday.”
Did he also see Rowan come in and talk to me moments prior? Or how Bennett was practically grilling me?!
“That was just friendly chatter,” I tell him, and he grins, finally meeting my eyes.
“Uh-huh. You seem to be very popular already, Eli.” And then, he mutters, “Well, you are very pretty.”
“Alright, John,” I laugh, packing up my half-eaten sandwich. “If I need dating advice, I know who to turn to. Now let me get back to this article so I can get home and finally ask Rowan some questions.”
“Wait.” John’s eyes widen. “He’s going to your house?”
“Well, my apartment. But yes.” I’m just staring back at him, but John seems to be having a hard time comprehending my words. “What?” I ask.
“Nothing. That’s just… I’m just surprised. He doesn’t normally—you know what. Not my business, son. I’ll let you get back to it.”
“Okay…” I draw, watching as he takes his belongings into his office and cracks the door.
I’m not sure what his deal is today, but it’s clear that Rowan is treating me differently than he does anyone else in this hick town. But there is plenty of reason to believe it’s because I’m not from here, or a judgmental dick (that he knows of).
But then there is also the potential that he treats me differently because when he sees me, he feels as if he’s dying, the same way that I do. That his heart is searching for me even now, the way mine seems to be searching for his.
I guess I won’t know until I see him again. Until I test it. And what better way is there to test it than exposure?
On the way home, I grab two pepperoni pizzas from the local pizza joint and a six-pack of beer from the gas station that I have no intention of taking part in.
I’m not used to hosting, but pizza and beer should be fine, right?
I sent Rowan my address this morning, yet I’m still surprised to see him leaning against my apartment door as I walk up the stairs. It’s 6 o’clock on the dot.
My heart beats rapidly, and every inch of my skin feels as if it’s on fire. Anticipating his touch—or terrified of it.
“Hey,” I greet him, offering him a small smile.
His eyes shoot up from where they were studying the lines of his Vans and meet mine.
“Hey.”
Rowan is dressed casually today—just as he always is. Plain black t-shirt and blue jeans with a jean jacket to fight the fall chill. He looks incredibly handsome with the breeze ruffling his curls, a few black strands falling onto his forehead.
I suddenly remember what he looks like while lying over me—those same black strands dripping wet and stuck to his skin.
Fuck, I need help.
“Come on in," I mutter awkwardly.
Rowan moves out of the way so I can unlock the door, taking the pizzas and beer from my hands so I am able to use my keys.
Once we get inside, he sets everything on the coffee table in the living room, and for a moment, we stand in front of each other awkwardly.
He’s assessing me just as thoroughly as I’m assessing him, and for a second I swear his hands start twitching. But then he shoves them into his front pockets, and I clear my throat.
“So! The interview questions.” I grab my work bag, sitting myself on the couch as I wait for him to follow.
The entire room feels far too small with him in it. He takes up so much space; just his being here is monopolizing the air in the room.
I’m overly conscious of every move I make, of every sound, of my own breathing. The scent of something floral and sweet is suddenly surrounding me again.
As I pull the notebook full of questions out, I set my bag to the side.
Rowan is still standing awkwardly by the coffee table.
“Uh, Rowan?”
“Huh?” His eyes widen, as if he’s afraid he’s missed something very important. What is he thinking about so deeply in my living room?
“Want to sit?” I gesture to the seat next to me. The couch is a two-seater, but we’ve been closer.
“Sure,” he says, sitting down as I suggested, but making sure to place himself as far from me as humanly possible.
He’s acting as if this is our first time interacting. As if I wasn’t sitting on his dick a few days ago.
“Okay. First question: When did the contest take place?” I begin my long list of very boring, very tedious questions.
Rowan answers them easily, unbothered and unconcerned. With each question, he seems to relax. His muscles become less tense, and his legs spread slightly. One arm rests casually over his thigh, the other lying over the back of the couch, and he leans back slightly against the cushions.
“So,” I begin to ask now that I’ve tortured both of us with the last of the boring questions and we’ve cleared a whole box of pizza. “What inspired you to take up photography?”
“Uh,” Rowan stares at me, almost as if caught off guard. He wasn’t expecting such a personal question. “I’m not really sure. I guess…”
Rowan takes a moment to think, his dark brows furrowing in concentration. I allow myself the time to study the lines of his face—his strong, Greek-like nose, and his plump lips.
Something in me is stirring, is screaming at the realization that this man fucked me.
Jesus Christ, I’m so incredibly lucky. What would it take to get him to fuck me again? Just one more time. Just to see if it’d feel the same.
Those vivid green eyes turn toward me again.
“I guess,” Rowan continues. “It kind of started when I went hunting with my dad. I was eleven, and we were sitting in a tree a few miles from here. We were waiting for the deer to come out, staying as quiet as possible.”
A slow, soft smile plays at his lips as he speaks. The memory seems to be a pleasant one for him.
“Sounds rough to sit up there in silence for so long,” I say, mostly to let him know I’m paying attention, and he shrugs.
“Not really. My parents and I… we weren’t really talkers. So sitting in silence with them is normal for me. But anyway, I was sitting in the tree, and Dad was focused on the ground, keeping his eyes peeled. But I was focused on the branches around me.”
“Were there deer in the trees?” I don’t mean for it to come out. It’s a dickish, snooty thing to say. But sarcasm runs in my blood, and I simply can’t help myself.
We’re playing the part of the angel, remember?