10. What We Leave Behind #2
“She once laughed so hard she cried because a duck chased her halfway across the park,” I said, the memory surfacing without invitation.
“She'd brought stale donuts instead of bread, and apparently they were too sweet. The duck followed her all the way to the parking lot, honking like it was personally offended.”
Rowan's head tilted slightly, and I caught the ghost of a smile threatening the corners of his mouth before he pushed it away. “She never told me that.”
“She was embarrassed. Said it wasn't dignified for a grown woman to be terrorized by waterfowl.” I found myself smiling at the memory, the first genuine smile I'd managed in days. “But she kept bringing donuts anyway. Said the ducks had opinions and she respected that.”
The silence that followed was different from the one before. Softer, maybe. Less charged with the possibility of explosion. Rowan continued feeding the ducks, but his movements had lost some of their mechanical quality, become more natural.
“I used to hate coming here,” he said, tearing another piece of bread. “Thought it was stupid, sitting by a pond full of dirty water throwing food at birds that would forget you existed the second you ran out of snacks.”
“What changed your mind?”
He was quiet for so long I thought he wasn't going to answer. Then: “Nothing changed my mind. I still think it's stupid. But sometimes stupid things are the only ones that make sense. ”
I understood what he meant. There was something about the ritual of it, the simple act of feeding creatures that asked for nothing but bread and expected nothing but bread, that felt honest in a way that human relationships rarely did.
“She brought me here the day before I left for New York,” Rowan said suddenly, his voice so quiet I had to strain to hear it over the wind. “Last time we...” He stopped, shook his head. “Last real conversation we had.”
I waited, afraid that speaking might break whatever had opened up between us.
“I was being a shit about it. About leaving, about her not understanding why I had to go.” His hands stilled on the bread. “She said she was proud of me, and I told her pride wasn't going to pay my rent.”
The pain in his voice was raw, unguarded. “What did she say to that?”
“That love wasn't supposed to be practical. That the best things in life were the ones that didn't make sense on paper.” He let out a bitter laugh. “Classic her, right? Always believing in things that couldn't be measured.”
A particularly aggressive duck had claimed territory near our feet, honking warnings at any other bird that dared to come too close to the falling crumbs. Rowan watched it with something that might have been amusement.
“That one reminds me of someone,” he said, and I couldn't tell if he was talking about himself or me or someone else entirely.
“Probably me,” I said. “I've been told I'm territorial.”
“Yeah?” He glanced at me sideways. “About what?”
The question hung between us, loaded with meaning I wasn't ready to unpack. “Things that matter,” I said finally.
“What matters to you?”
It was such a simple question, but it felt like standing at the edge of a cliff. “Fewer things than I thought. More things than I expected.”
Rowan nodded like that made perfect sense. “She used to say I was afraid of wanting things. Said I'd rather pretend I didn't care than risk being disappointed.”
“Were you?”
“Probably.” He threw the last piece of bread, watching the ducks scramble for it. “Still am, I think. It's easier to be angry than sad. Anger makes you feel like you're doing something, even when you're just making everything worse.”
The honesty of it gutted me. “I know that feeling.”
“Do you?” His voice was challenging now, testing. “Because from where I'm sitting, you look like someone who's forgotten how to feel anything at all.”
The words stung because they were true. “Maybe I have.”
“That's worse,” he said quietly. “At least anger is feeling something.”
We sat there until the bread was gone and the beer bottle was empty, watching the ducks lose interest and paddle away to harass other potential food sources.
The sun was starting to set, painting the water in shades of gold and orange that would have been beautiful if either of us had been in the mood to appreciate beauty.
“I keep thinking I should visit her,” Rowan said suddenly. “The grave. But I don't know what I'd say.”
“You don't have to say anything.”
“Then what's the point?”
“Sometimes the point is just showing up.”
He was quiet for a long moment. “Is that what you do? Just show up?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes I tell her about my day. Sometimes I ask her questions I know she can't answer.” I paused. “ Sometimes I just sit there and remember what it felt like when she was alive.”
“Does it help?”
“No,” I said honestly. “But it feels necessary.”
Rowan stood up, his movements careful and deliberate like someone who wasn't entirely sure of his balance. He crumpled the empty bag and tucked it into his jacket pocket instead of dropping it on the ground.
“See you around,” he said, not quite looking at me.
“Rowan.”
He paused, half-turned away, and for a moment our eyes met directly.
The connection was electric, unexpected, lasting just a beat too long to be casual.
I could see something raw and unguarded in his expression before his walls went back up, but the awareness lingered in the air between us like static before a storm.
“The offer for coffee still stands,” I said, my voice rougher than I'd intended. “If you ever want to talk about her. Or not talk about her. Whatever you need.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth for just an instant before snapping back to my eyes, and I felt something shift in my chest, dangerous and unwelcome. Something shifted in his expression too, too quick for me to read but impossible to ignore.
“Maybe,” he said, and for the first time, it didn't sound like a polite deflection. His voice was softer now, almost uncertain.
I watched him walk away, his shoulders squared against a wind that hadn't picked up yet.
He moved like someone who was used to walking away from things, used to leaving before anyone could leave him first. But he'd stayed long enough to share a memory, long enough to sit in silence without it feeling hostile.
It wasn't much, but it was more than we'd managed before.