Chapter Seventeen
Rowan
The steam crowding my bathroom makes it impossible to see my own reflection, but that’s alright. I’m not too desperate to catch a glimpse anyway.
To put it plainly: I’m fucking exhausted, and I’m sure I look it too.
I’ve been communicating heavily with a bird reserve in South Carolina for the past two days, and the requests they’re making of me feel more outlandish each day.
I have no desire to travel to the East Coast. Nor do I have any desire to hop into another big project, such as helping document photos for a huge bird reserve.
Don’t get me wrong—what they do is admirable. But can’t I catch a damn break?!
Outside of those tedious calls and emails, I’ve also been dealing with Marissa’s surprise visit to Fort Myers, as well as my extracurricular hobby of following Elijah around and taking photos of him.
Or I was enjoying it until Marissa flew in yesterday morning and I had to put the camera down.
On the bright side, I have a few new photos of him hanging on my corkboard. On the not-so-bright side? Marissa saw the corkboard.
When she called to say she had landed, I was shocked and rushed enough to forget all about it, so by the time I brought her home it was too late to hide my paraphernalia.
Marissa most definitely called me a stalker and threatened a therapist and potentially legal action—but after hearing that we’re semi-dating and that all I do is take photos of him in public, she dropped it. Although I do think her opinion of me may have changed just a bit.
But I can’t help myself. It doesn’t feel wrong to me—taking his photo feels like a dopamine hit, and I know if I asked, he’d say yes. There’s just something so alluring about candids. I can’t explain it.
And he’s mine, anyway.
So between work, Rissa’s visit, and sort of stalking my almost boyfriend, I’ve barely slept.
I feel a little bad, as I haven’t been able to take Elijah out again, but he hasn’t complained. He’s probably just as busy. And just because he hasn’t seen me, doesn’t mean I haven’t seen him—so I’m content for now.
As long as Bennett keeps his distance, that is.
Elijah’s gone to the diner twice in the past four days to eat—that I know of—and both times Bennett was drooling like a rabid mutt. I’ll have to ask about that.
Avoiding my own reflection as the steam dissipates, I exit the bathroom.
I took Marissa out on a walk through the woods before dinner, and we came back pretty gross and in need of freshening up. But she got to see my normal post for when I want to catch the bluebirds in the spring, so it was worth it.
After throwing on a pair of sweats, I find said woman at the kitchen bar eating a bowl of soup.
“Sup,” she greets, not bothering to look up from her phone as she scrolls.
“Hey. What’s that?” I nod toward her Styrofoam bowl, and she speaks around a mouthful.
“Potato soup.”
“Really?! Where’d you order from?” Spotting the bag on the counter, I pull the other bowl out and begin to remove the lid. “You ordered from that sandwich shop on McLain, didn’t you?”
Marissa finally puts her phone down as I post up in front of her, shoving a mouthful of warm, delicious soup into my mouth. “I didn’t order this. Elijah dropped it off.”
I feel every part of my body and mind stop working all at once.
Very slowly, I place my spoon back into the bowl. “I’m sorry—what?”
She shrugs, her long auburn hair creating nearly see-through streaks over the white shirt she’s borrowed from me.
“Yeah. He showed up about fifteen minutes ago and had this soup. He didn’t say much, though,” she tells me.
I have been a good friend of Marissa’s for a long time. In fact, I’d say she’s been my only friend for a long time.
Thoughtful, present, and attentive. She really is a good person. And today, I’ve also learned that she’s fucking stupid.
“You’re telling me that the guy I’m trying to get with showed up at my house, and you opened the door in a white shirt with your fucking nipples poking through it?
” The barely restrained anger in my voice only makes Marissa smile as she sets her own utensil down and stares at me almost in challenge.
“Exactly. He didn’t even ask who I was. I told him you were in the shower, and he gave me the food and ran. You should probably clear things up—it definitely didn’t look good for you.”
“No shit!” I yell, hurrying to my bedroom to grab a hoodie and my sneakers.
I dial Elijah’s number, but he sends me straight to voicemail. Or maybe he turned his phone completely off, I don’t know.
“And Row," Marissa continues. "He was very pretty. I know I saw his pictures, but he’s even prettier in person. Blushes like a doll, too. I’d definitely lock him down while you still can.”
As I reach the front door, I turn my glare onto her again.
“I wouldn’t be worrying about locking him down if someone hadn’t made it look like I had a call-girl at my house!”
She snorts, turning her back to me as she refocuses on her dinner. “I don’t know why you’re so mad at me.”
“You really—”
“Rowan.” Marissa looks over her shoulder again, giving me a blank stare. “I’m saying you should be happy. Isn’t it obvious? If he cares this much, he clearly really likes you.”
Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. Not that I want him upset or misled for any reason—but it is nice knowing he cares that much about what we have and who I see.
Plus, he remembered my favorite soup.
“You’re welcome,” she adds, and I give her the finger as I slam the door.
The drive takes fucking forever. Thirty minutes turns into an hour in my mind, and I try to reach his cellphone a few more times. Elijah does not answer—the call doesn’t even go through.
No way he blocked me, right? He’s sensible enough to at least wait for an explanation.
Fuck—I’m so torn between being terrified over the misunderstanding and giddy over what his caring means.
Am I really getting to him? Is he already falling in love with me?
I thought for sure it’d take a bit longer, considering he’s said he isn’t a very emotional guy, but as fated lovers, I guess it’s possible that he’d fall much quicker than average.
I swear to god, if Marissa just fucked up my chance at happiness with my literal soulmate, I’ll wring her neck.
When I pull up to Elijah’s apartment, I spot his car parked by the stairs that lead to his unit. He’s home—that’s a good sign.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I find myself panting in front of his door in a matter of seconds. I don’t think I even locked my truck, and I most definitely didn’t put on underwear or socks before I left. I’m a mess.
I deliver three steady knocks to the wood, right under the silver 241 plated at eye level. I hear no movement, so after a moment or two, I knock three more times.
Rustling and the sound of a lock sliding sounds through the door, and my heart rate skyrockets.
When Elijah finally opens up, he’s rubbing at his wet hair, wearing the world’s smallest pair of sleep shorts and absolutely nothing else.
Well, this is unfair. How the fuck am I supposed to have a civil conversation now?
“What?” he asks, and his tone tells me he is already completely fed up, and I haven’t even opened my mouth yet.
“Hey, you weren’t answering your phone, and Marissa said—”
“Marissa?” he interrupts, those hazel eyes sharpening in a way I’ve never seen before. His hand falls to his side. “Is that who I met today?”
I swallow. “Yes. And I’m more than happy to explain. Can I come in? And maybe you could put some more clothes on.”
Elijah’s eyes narrow further right before his arms cross, hip popping out with an unbelievable amount of attitude.
He glares at me. “No, thanks. You can stand right there in the cold, and I’ll stay right here in my comfortable pajamas.”
I rub at the back of my neck, sighing gently. “Okay, I’ll stay in the cold. But it’s pretty distracting looking at you right now. I mean, I can see the whole outline of your dick and your nipples are all hard, and I can’t really think—”
“You’re grown, Rowan. Just don’t look. Plus, you’re not the only one who’s had to suffer through the sight of hard nipples today.”
My eyes widen. Fucking Marissa.
“Haa. Okay.” My hands tuck themselves into the pockets of my sweats, and like a kicked puppy, I explain myself.
“You met Marissa. She’s been my only friend for years, and she flew in yesterday morning as a surprise, so she’s been staying at my house.
She was—well—like that because we’d gone on a walk and needed to shower. ”
Elijah is staring at me impassively, arms still securely crossed over his chest, unfortunately also still low enough to leave his perfectly colored nipples exposed to me.
“Uh-huh. And is her visit why I’ve barely heard from you?” he asks, and I shake my head rapidly.
“No! Well, not just her. I’ve also been working.” And stalking you, but I can’t very well say that.
“Working,” Elijah repeats slowly, and I nod, though I can acknowledge that even I can see that it sounds like an excuse.
“Yes, I’m being completely honest with you.”
“Okay. Then tell me this: why is Marissa allowed in your home and I’m not?”
I don’t expect the question. I have no lie prepared, nothing convincing enough to feed him without giving the actual answer. But I can’t very well give him this truth either.
How would he react if he found out I have a whole wall dedicated to photos of him and pages of our past memories?
Probably not very well, I imagine.
At my lack of response, Elijah’s eyes narrow further.
“Nothing to say?” he prompts, and my eyes fall away from him to stare at the floor. I can’t take the anger in them. It hurts too much. “So I can’t come in because it’s your personal space, but Marissa can come in and wear your clothes and be half—you know what? Okay.”
I take a chance and peek up at him, but Elijah is no longer looking at me. He’s staring past me and into the night—and he looks heartbroken.
“Eli—”
“Go away, Rowan.” Elijah begins to shut the door, but I slam my palm against it, keeping it open with sheer strength.
“Wait! I promise you I’m not seeing her. I promise,” I insist.
Elijah sighs. “Okay. I believe you. But the fact of the matter is still that you either don’t trust me enough or like me enough to want me in your space, and that fucking sucks.
I think our time together was fun, but short-lived, and I’m not emotionally intuitive enough to know when I’m being manipulated or not. So just go home. Please.”
When he moves to shut the door again, I don’t stop him.
As it slams shut, I do not move. I stare at the wood in front of me in absolute silence. I wouldn’t be able to hear anything else anyway, not over the sound of my heartbeat.
I can’t even be mad at Marissa—this would have come to a head eventually, one way or another. I fucked it all up. I should have taken that board down when he seemed bothered by his being barred originally. I’m a fucking idiot.
And now my whole body feels like it’s being crushed in on itself, and an anxiety I’ve never felt before is coursing through my veins.
That feeling I had the first time we had sex, the one that told me to never let him leave my bed for fear of him never returning? It’s resurfaced, but this time with a vengeance.
Because this time the outcome is certain.
Elijah is done with me—I have lost him just as I lost Benjamin. I am in a downward spiral, falling headfirst into the realization that I’m reliving the same tragedy.
Was it my fault then, too? Will I ever stop fucking this up?
What am I supposed to do now? These memories aren’t just going to leave me now that Elijah is done. I’ve carried them my entire life; I will carry them until I die.
And as long as I carry them, I don’t believe I will ever love anyone else.
I guess I am destined to suffer. Maybe that was my path all along. I was never meant to reconnect and reconcile with Elijah—I was meant to know the pain of never having him. Of losing him twice.
What a miserable fucking life this is.
Still standing in front of his door, the tears have started to fall.
I know that I should leave him be now that he’s asked me to, but what if I can’t? What if I’m unable to give up and walk away? Does that make me the bad guy? The villain of this story?
Maybe it does. I think that would be fine. I don’t mind being the villain if Elijah needs me to be—if that’s the only way I get to love him.
I will do anything short of harming him to keep him in my life.
There is something inside of me that is screaming—something that is telling me that if I step back, if I choose to give him space or be noble, I will regret it. I have to take what I want, I have to go for it.
Or die trying, I guess.