11. Elise
— ? —
Elise
The rain hasn’t stopped in three days. What was supposed to be a three-day job has stretched into something none of us planned for, and the storm has made sure we can’t leave.
What started as a dramatic storm has settled into a relentless gray drizzle that turns the world outside the cabin windows into a watercolor blur.
The roads are flooded. Mabel called to warn us yesterday, entirely unbothered that her Thursday storm had taken the weekend to arrive, and said the creek that runs under the main bridge has jumped its banks.
We’re not going anywhere until the water recedes.
Simon canceled the realtor by text two days ago, and nobody has mentioned Monday since.
Which means I’m trapped in this cabin with my soon-to-be-ex-husband and the man I’ve been fucking behind his back.
Cozy.
Simon has retreated into sullen silence since the night he almost caught us in the kitchen.
He spends most of his time in his room, emerging only for meals he barely touches, shooting glares at Rowan and me that could curdle milk.
A month ago I’d have been sick about it.
Now I catch myself watching him glare across the table and feeling nothing at all.
What’s there instead is a strange, defiant peace. Like I’ve finally stopped apologizing for wanting something, someone, who actually sees me.
I’m in the study, sorting through another box of old photographs, when my phone rings. The caller ID makes my stomach drop: PATRICIA MAINE.
Simon’s mother. The woman who spent five years making me feel like I wasn’t quite good enough for her golden child, who once told me after too much champagne that she’d hoped Simon would marry someone with better connections.
I should let it go to voicemail. I answer, because apparently I enjoy punishment.
“Patricia.”
“Elise.” The clipped vowels, the manufactured warmth that gets nowhere near sincerity. “I won’t keep you. I only wanted to hear your voice, so I’d know what I was dealing with.”
“That’s ominous.”
“Simon called me. Upset. Saying things about you and Rowan that I’m choosing not to repeat over the telephone.” A pause, weighted, designed to make me fill it. I don’t. “I find it’s better to have these conversations in person. Don’t you?”
“I don’t think we have a conversation, Patricia.”
“We’ll see.” And that’s the part that lands, not a threat, just the certainty underneath it, the certainty of a woman who has never once been told no by anyone in her family. “Give my son some credit, Elise. He notices more than you think.”
She hangs up before I do, which I imagine she practiced.
My hands are trembling. I set the phone down on the desk and grip the edge, trying to breathe through the adrenaline flooding my system. My heart is pounding like I’ve just run a marathon.
The door opens behind me.
“I heard most of that.” Rowan’s voice is quiet. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay, he just waits.
“I’m fine,” I say anyway, before he can ask, and it convinces neither of us.
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m angry.” I turn to face him. “She didn’t even bother to make an argument. She just wanted me to know she’s coming. That she does this in person.”
“That sounds like my mother,” Rowan says. “Simon’s always been her favorite. He could burn down an orphanage and she’d find a way to blame the orphans.”
Despite myself, I laugh. It comes out watery, closer to tears than humor.
Rowan crosses the room and pulls me into his arms. I let him, my cheek against his chest. His heart is slow and steady, everything I’m not right now.
“She’ll come up here,” I say. “You know that. The second the roads clear.”
“I know.” His hand moves down my back. “She called me too, right after. Same tone. She’s lining it up.”
“Won’t that hurt? Whatever she’s planning?”
“I lost them a long time ago.” His voice is matter-of-fact, no self-pity in it. “When I figured out that love in the Maine family comes with conditions attached. With scorecards and performance reviews and the constant threat of withdrawal.”
I pull back enough to look at him. His expression is soft, unguarded in a way I rarely see.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “That you grew up like that.”
“Don’t be. It taught me what I don’t want.” He cups my face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. “And what I do want.”
His eyes hold mine, and the intensity in them makes my breath catch. There’s something building between us, something bigger than lust, something that terrifies me if I look at it directly.
“Rowan…”
“You don’t have to say anything.” He leans down and kisses my forehead, gentle and sweet. “I just need you to know that whatever happens with my family, whatever they threaten, whatever they do, it doesn’t change anything. I’m not going anywhere.”
I want to believe him. But I’ve heard a man make promises in this exact voice before, and I married that one.
“We should get back to work,” I say, stepping out of his arms. “Those photographs aren’t going to sort themselves.”
Disappointment crosses his face, or maybe understanding, gone too fast to tell. He nods and doesn’t push.
“I’ll be in the kitchen. Yell if you need me.”
He leaves, and I stand there in the dusty study, trying to sort through emotions that feel even more tangled than the boxes of old photographs.
***
The rest of the day passes in tense normalcy.
Simon emerges for dinner, leftover soup that Rowan heated up, and the three of us eat in silence that crackles with unspoken hostility. Every time Simon looks at me, his jaw tightens. Every time he looks at Rowan, his hands curl into fists.
I wait for him to say something. To confront us directly, to demand answers, to finally acknowledge the elephant that’s been stomping through every room of this cabin.
He doesn’t. Just finishes his soup, drops his bowl in the sink with more force than necessary, and retreats to his room.
“Well,” Rowan says when we hear his door slam. “That was festive.”
“He’s going to explode eventually.”
“Probably. But that’s his problem, not ours.” Rowan stands, starts clearing the table. “Want to watch a movie? There’s a whole shelf of DVDs in the living room. Very retro.”
“You go ahead. I need a shower.”
“Want company?”
The suggestion sends heat curling through my belly, but I shake my head. “Not tonight. I need to think.”
“About what?”
“Everything.” I stand, press a quick kiss to his cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Elise.” He catches my hand before I can walk away. “Whatever you’re thinking about, whatever you’re working through, I’ll be here when you figure it out.”
“I know.”
But as I climb the stairs to my room, I’m not sure I do know. Not anymore.
***
The shower helps.
I stand under the hot spray until it starts to cool. I don’t let myself do the thing I did on the porch, the circling, the is-this-real-or-am-I-just-bleeding-on-him. I already know how that argument goes. I’ve been having it with myself for a week and it never lands anywhere.
I’m toweling off when I hear a knock on my door.
“Come in.”
Rowan enters, his expression careful. “Hey. Sorry to bother you. I just wanted to check…”
He stops mid-sentence as his eyes travel over me. I’m wrapped in a towel, hair dripping, skin still flushed from the shower. Not exactly dressed for conversation.
“Sorry.” His voice has gone rough. “Bad timing. I’ll come back.”
“No, stay.” I tighten the towel around my chest. “What did you want?”
“I wanted…” He swallows, visibly trying to focus. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. After earlier. The phone call, and then you seemed… distant.”
“I’m processing.”
“Processing is good.” He’s still standing in the doorway, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to come closer. “Can I help? With any of it?”
“Probably not.” I sit on the edge of the bed, and after a moment’s hesitation, he comes to sit beside me. “It’s just… everything is happening so fast. A week ago, I was married. I had a best friend. I had a whole life that made sense, even if it wasn’t perfect.”
“And now?”
“Now my marriage is over, my best friend was sleeping with my husband, and I’m…” I gesture between us. “Whatever this is. With you.”
“Does ‘whatever this is’ bother you?”
“It scares me.” The admission comes out before I can stop it. “Not you. Just the intensity of it. How fast everything is moving. I feel like I’m on a train that’s going a hundred miles an hour and I can’t see the tracks.”
Rowan is quiet for a moment, considering.
“Do you want to slow down?” he asks finally. “Because we can. I told you before. Whatever pace you need.”
“That’s the thing. I don’t want to slow down.
” I turn to look at him. “When I’m with you, I feel more like myself than I have in years.
I feel seen. I feel wanted. And that terrifies me, because the last time I trusted those feelings, I ended up married to someone who couldn’t even be bothered to look at me. ”
“I’m not Simon.”
“I know you’re not. But I’m still me. Still the woman who ignored red flags for years because I wanted so badly to believe in something that wasn’t real.” I shake my head. “How do I know I’m not doing the same thing now? Seeing what I want to see instead of what’s actually there?”
“You don’t.” His honesty startles me. “You can’t know for certain. That’s the terrifying thing about trust: it requires a leap of faith.”
“That’s not very reassuring.”
“It’s not meant to be reassuring. It’s meant to be true.” He reaches out, takes my hand.
I stare at our intertwined fingers. His hand is larger than mine, rougher, warm in a way that makes me want to lean into him and never let go.
“And if I’m not?” I ask. “If I’m not willing to take the risk?”
“Then I’ll still be here.” He squeezes my hand. “As your friend, if nothing else. I meant it.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I keep meaning it.”
The sincerity in his voice makes something crack in my chest. I want to believe him. Want to trust that he’s different, that this is different, that I’m not about to make the same mistakes all over again.
But wanting isn’t the same as knowing.
“I think I need to sleep,” I say. “Alone. To think.”