Chapter Sixteen
Elijah
As Rowan fled from my house on Saturday night, the last thing he said to me was a casual “See you later,” thrown over his shoulder.
I thought his fleeing was cute—how he couldn’t get away fast enough as his desires might win. Or I thought it was cute.
But now it’s late afternoon on Wednesday, and I have not seen him since. Maybe his definition of see you later and my definition are completely different.
Our date went very well, in my opinion. After the singing incident—which went over rather smoothly if I do say so myself—we drank in peace until that dumbass DJ approached me.
He waited until Rowan stepped away, of course. As a coward does.
And right as the man was about to appoint me the new proprietor of a few choice insults, Rowan swept back in and claimed me for all to hear.
On the one hand, it was extremely hot. I’m talking dick instantaneously erect hot. I’m talking take me to the bar bathroom and shove my briefs into my mouth while you—anyway.
On the other hand, I was reminded of the role I’m meant to play in Rowan’s life. Angel isn’t just a nickname meant to get me off during sex, or a casual pet name used to make me blush.
Sure, it does both of those things, but it also represents something. Rowan is a strong, dominant man. And outside of a few areas in the bedroom, he craves a submissive boyfriend. I guess I’m lucky enough to get the upper hand in the more exciting areas.
But before I could defend myself against Fuckface McGee, Rowan came in and defended my honor like a knight in shining armor.
Which really wouldn’t be so bad—if it didn’t remind me that I’m manipulating him daily by pretending to be his cute little boy angel.
Now it’s been days since I saw him last, and I’m no longer appeased with constant text messaging. And even those have slowed—I’ve heard from him two times today, when last week I couldn’t get my phone to stop buzzing.
I can’t help but wonder if I did something wrong. Was I too grumpy about the late pickles? Did he see me about to gut that DJ? Was I too forward on the dance floor?
It’s hard to pinpoint a moment during the night where I could have fucked up when he had me pinned to my apartment door, whispering dirty things in my ear after everything had already gone down.
If I had upset him at the bar, he wouldn’t have done that, right?
Maybe he’s having second thoughts. Maybe I’m bad in bed, and no one has bothered to tell me. I did get a little clingy and weird toward the end of our time together the last time we had sex…
Fuck, this is driving me crazy; this ache in my chest is notching higher and higher. And while before it was an ache I could relish in, now it makes me angry and a little frantic. Almost as if I’m on the verge of a panic attack.
“Elijah?”
I look up from my phone screen—it’s bare of all notifications related to Rowan—and find John watching me from the doorway of his office.
“Yeah?” Putting my phone to the side, I watch as he observes me curiously.
“Are you okay?” His expression tells me I have not been discreet with my irritation.
“Ah,” I start, and I ponder for a moment if it would be worth sharing with him. John is a nice man, and he seems wise as well. Plus—he knows Rowan. “Rowan and I are in a… weird place right now.”
John raises a brow, crossing the room to sit at the desk opposite mine. He slides the straps of his suspenders off and lets them hang loosely around his beer belly.
This is an indicator that he’s ready to sit down and chat for a while.
“Already? Didn’t ya just go on a date?”
I shrug, fiddling with the sleeves of my maroon sweater as I contemplate how to explain my situation.
“Yeah. But when he dropped me off on Saturday, he didn’t come inside.
He just told me he’d see me later and left.
I haven’t seen him since, and his text messages are becoming less frequent. I guess I’m just…”
“Anxious?” John finishes for me. I nod. “Well, you didn’t do anything wrong, did ya?”
“I don’t think so. Not that I can work out, anyway.”
“Then grow a pair.” My eyes snap up to meet his, and John is grinning widely from his leather office chair. “You’re a grown man, Eli. And so is he. Why sit around and suffer while you wait for a text message? Drive to his house and ask him what the problem is.”
Huh. I guess I didn’t consider that an option. The older generation seems to see things more plainly, I’m realizing.
“Is it that easy? I won’t look clingy?” I ask, and John gives me a look that tells me he thinks I’m an idiot.
“If the man no longer likes you because of something like that, then he wasn’t worth all the drama.”
He’s got a point. If Rowan is that pressed over me showing up at his house, then there’s no point in putting stock in this ‘relationship’ we’ve started building.
He told me before that he doesn’t like people in his personal space—whatever that means—but I’m not going inside, I’m only standing on the front porch. I think that’s perfectly reasonable.
“You’re right. I’ll head there after work.”
John offers me a small smile, and I do my best not to feel like a teenager getting dating advice from their parent.
“Good. Things will work out, just wait and see,” he promises.
With John’s pep talk in mind, I head to Rowan’s house as soon as I get off at five.
On the way, I stop at a restaurant a few miles from the office and pick up dinner—baked potato soup. He can’t be mad at me when I come bearing peace offerings, can he?
The drive flies by, most likely because I’m nervous to actually arrive, and when I pull up, I see Rowan’s truck in the driveway. Not that I thought he’d be out—he never is.
Grabbing the soup, I head to his front door, delivering three smooth knocks. Commotion can be heard from the other side, and I take a deep breath to calm my nerves.
It’s fine, he won’t freak out. Stop stressing. Remember back when you didn’t care about rejection or other people’s feelings? Let’s do that again.
Only, I can’t. Not when it comes to him.
The front door swings open, and it takes me a solid five seconds to register the woman standing in front of me.
“Uh,” I start, looking around the front porch again. I’m at the correct house, right? “Is Rowan here?”
The woman is young—probably mid-twenties—with incredibly long auburn hair and vibrant green eyes that rival Rowan’s. But their similarities stop there.
All of her features are soft and sweet, even as she stands at my same height of 5 feet 11 inches. She is very beautiful.
Her long hair is wet and dripping slightly onto her giant white t-shirt, and the bottom of a pair of lounge shorts can barely be seen from under the hem of it. When the breeze wafts in from outside, I notice her nipples hardening from under the fabric.
“He’s in the shower,” she responds coolly, and her voice is just as soft and pretty as she is.
Shower? She clearly just showered as well… that probably means—
“Oh. Okay. Never mind, then,” I rush out, suddenly incredibly embarrassed to be here. This woman is looking me up and down with an indifferent expression, and I feel as if I’m imposing.
“What’s in the bag?” she asks as I’m about to turn away, and I look at the soup in my hand.
“Dinner. Here.” I extend the bag to her, and she takes it hesitantly.
Reading the receipt taped to the side, she grins. “Potato soup. Rowan’s favorite.”
Something in me cracks at the words, at her familiarity with his name and his interests, and how it makes me want to sob or punch or scream.
“Right. Well, good night.” I race back to my car, peeling out of the driveway as soon as I’m behind the steering wheel. I can’t seem to get out of here fast enough.
There was only one vehicle in the driveway, and taxis don’t typically come this far, so he had to have gone and picked her up from wherever she came from.
In town? An airport? A bus station? Maybe he met her at Cocktails and Consonances the other night while I was busy singing at his command.
Rowan told me he has one half-brother and then his parents—no other close family. And he never mentioned having friends.
Definitely not any young, hot friends who take showers at his house, wearing what I’m pretty sure were his clothes, and lounge around without their bras on.
Of course he would have other options. I mean, look at the guy. And he never said we were exclusive anyway. I just…
“But I’m serious about you. Really serious…”
I guess our definitions of serious are different, too. Because my definition doesn’t include fucking other people.
That ache in my chest—the one that went from something I could bathe myself in and turned into something irrational and angry? Now it is a destructive sadness that is swallowing me whole.
I can feel it in every inch of my skin, in the very depths of my soul. I’ve known this man for less than three weeks, and I already know that this heartbreak will hurt me worse than any singular other thing in my entire life.
I’m fucking pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.
Not only because I thought I could hold onto a guy like Rowan, but because I finally found a way to feel something, and this is where I end up.
Stupid, traitorous heart; I simply would rather it never started beating than for it to have started for him.
Saturday night I would have smiled and giggled at the mere thought of Rowan Avery Alexander. But now… fuck.
I’m an easy target, being as inexperienced as I am when it comes to emotion. Did he know that? Could he smell it on me?
Maybe John had it wrong, and the locals were the smart ones all along.
And yet, as I shower and ready myself for a sleepless night, I crave him even still. I find it impossible to imagine him so vicious and malicious. I didn’t think that was in his nature.
But is this just another side effect of my lack of emotional intelligence?
Am I only sitting here, hoping and praying for a viable explanation—or really any explanation—so that I can forgive him and continue on this charade, all because my fucked-up heart is settling for the one person who’s stirred it?
Maybe these feelings were never a crush or love.
Maybe they really were a warning sign—a misread neurotransmitter from my brain to my heart.
That is something I’d fuck up after all.