18. Falling
Falling
Elias
A week slipped by before I found myself once again in Dr. Fields’s softly lit office, the smell of chamomile tea and old books settling my nerves more than I’d admit.
She glanced at her notes, then looked up with that calm, steady gaze of hers. “You mentioned a near-kiss last time,” she said, voice carrying that gentle authority that somehow made secrets feel lighter. “Has that been on your mind?”
My laugh was low and humorless, catching in my throat like gravel. “Constantly.”
She tilted her head in that way she had, encouraging without pushing, creating space for words I wasn't sure I was ready to say. The silence stretched between us, comfortable but loaded, waiting for me to find the courage to dive deeper into waters I'd been afraid to test.
“What stopped you?”
“Common sense, I guess. The knowledge that kissing my dead wife's son probably crosses every line of decent human behavior. ”
“But you wanted to.”
It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. “Yes.”
“How does that feel to admit?”
“Terrifying. Liberating. Like I'm losing my mind and finding it at the same time.” I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the silver strands that reminded me daily of the gap between Rowan's age and mine. “It's not like I've suddenly forgotten who I am. I've never looked at men that way before.”
Maren leaned forward slightly, her expression thoughtful but not judgmental. “Sexuality isn't a static point on a line, Elias. It's a spectrum, and people can find themselves in different places at different times in their lives. You're allowed to discover something new about yourself.”
“Even at fifty?”
“Especially at fifty. You're old enough to know the difference between genuine attraction and temporary confusion.”
I shifted in my chair, suddenly restless, like my body couldn't contain the energy of what we were discussing.
“I don't know if it's attraction to men in general, or if it's just Rowan specifically.
And then there's Elaine, and the guilt, and the fact that wanting him feels like betraying her memory.”
“You're trying to separate guilt from curiosity,” she said gently, “but they can coexist. Grief is complex, and so is desire. One doesn't cancel out the other.”
“So what does that make me?”
“Human.” Her smile was warm, understanding. “This is your discovery to make, Elias. No one else gets to define it for you. Not society, not your past, not even your guilt about Elaine.”
My throat worked around words that felt too big to swallow. “So what do I do?”
“Be honest with yourself first. Then, when you're ready, be honest with him.”
“And if being honest destroys everything?”
“And if not being honest destroys you?”
I found myself without an answer that didn't involve some form of destruction. Maybe that was the point. Maybe some truths were worth the wreckage they caused.
I left her office with her words lodged under my ribs like broken glass, feeling lighter and more unsettled at the same time. The afternoon air was crisp with the promise of spring, but there was still enough winter left to make my breath visible in small puffs that dissipated almost immediately.
My truck carried me through Harbor's End's quiet streets without any conscious decision on my part.
I told myself I was just driving, just thinking, just processing the conversation I'd had with Dr. Fields.
But when I found myself parked outside the bookstore where Rowan lived, I had to admit I'd been lying to myself about my intentions.
The street smelled faintly of wet pavement and brewing coffee from the café across the road. Normal, everyday scents that should have grounded me but instead felt surreal, like I was experiencing the world through someone else's senses.
That's when I spotted movement at the front steps of Rowan's building.
Victor, stepping out of the narrow doorway in a tailored coat that probably cost more than most people in Harbor's End made in a month. His politician's smile was already in place, that practiced expression of satisfaction that made my blood run cold.
I was out of the truck and moving before conscious thought could intervene, Max leaping out behind me with the instinctive alertness of a dog who sensed his owner's tension. I intercepted Victor halfway down the steps, Max positioning himself at my side, his hackles slightly raised.
“What are you doing here?”
Victor's eyes flicked to Max. “Still traveling with that mutt, I see.”
“Answer the question.”
“Visiting someone,” he replied smoothly, adjusting his coat with movements that were too controlled to be casual. “Just being friendly to the neighborhood. Harbor's End's such a small community, don't you think? Everyone should get to know each other.”
Max let out a low rumble, barely audible but enough to make Victor take a half-step back. Dogs were excellent judges of character, and Max had never liked Victor, not even as a puppy.
The words were innocent enough, but the tone underneath them made my skin crawl. There was no direct threat in what he said, but the implication hung in the space between us like smoke, acrid and impossible to ignore.
“How many times do I have to tell you to stay away from him,” I said, my voice low enough to carry menace.
“Stay away from who?” Victor's expression was all manufactured innocence. “I have no idea who you're talking about.”
“Bullshit.”
“Such language, brother.” He tsked, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “But then again, you always were the crude one in the family.”
I watched him walk away, his footsteps echoing off the wet pavement with the deliberate rhythm of someone who knew exactly how much damage he'd just caused. My gut tightened with the certainty that this hadn't been a casual visit, that Victor's presence here meant nothing good for anyone involved.
Inside the building, the air smelled faintly of damp wood and industrial detergent. I took the stairs two at a time, my heart hammering against my ribs with something that might have been fear or anticipation or both.
I knocked on Rowan's door, the sound echoing in the narrow hallway like gunshots.
It swung open to reveal Rowan, and my breath caught in my throat at the sight of him. He was half-dressed, wearing jeans that hung low on his hips and nothing else, his hair damp with what looked like sweat or shower water. Dark strands clung to his forehead, and there were shadows under his eyes.
I took in the sight longer than I should have, my eyes tracing the line of his collarbone, the lean muscle of his chest, the way the afternoon light from his window painted golden stripes across his skin. He was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache, young and alive and absolutely forbidden.
“You coming in?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe.
I nodded, not trusting my voice to work properly. The apartment smelled like him, warm and clean with an underlying scent that was purely masculine.
Rowan handed me a can of cat food without explanation. “Feed Roxie while I shower? She's been giving me attitude all morning.”
The domestic request was so normal, so ordinary, that it took me a moment to process. But then Roxie appeared, winding around my legs with the particular brand of feline desperation that meant she'd been waiting for this moment all day.
I crouched down, scratching behind Roxie's ears while she purred loud enough to vibrate through my fingers. Max pushed his way in for attention, tail thumping against the wall with the enthusiasm of a dog who'd found his favorite person in an interesting new place .
“Hey, boy,” I murmured, running my hand over his golden fur. “What do you think of this place?”
Max's tail thumped harder, and he pressed his nose against my palm before turning his attention to Roxie. The cat, surprisingly, didn't flee. Instead, she wound around Max's legs with the casual acceptance that suggested they'd already worked out their friendship during previous visits.
“Look at that,” I said, watching Max gently nose at Roxie while she rubbed against his chest. “Even the animals are getting along better than the humans.”
Dogs were better judges of character than most people, and the fact that Max was completely relaxed here, that he'd accepted both Roxie and this space so completely, said something important about the man currently showering twenty feet away.
Roxie dove into her food with the intensity of a cat who'd been personally offended by having to wait this long for dinner.
She was getting bolder, more comfortable, no longer the terrified stray Rowan had nearly run over on his motorcycle.
The transformation said something about the man currently showering twenty feet away, about his capacity for care even when he was barely holding himself together.
The sound of running water from the bathroom made me hyperaware of where Rowan was, what he was doing, how little distance separated us.
I forced myself to focus on the animals, on the simple task of opening the can and dividing the food between Roxie's bowl and Max's, but my mind kept drifting to the image of water running over skin I'd seen too much of already.
When Rowan emerged from the bathroom, he was wearing worn jeans and a black t-shirt that clung to his shoulders in ways that made my mouth go dry. His hair was still damp, darker than usual, and he ran a hand through it with unconscious sensuality.
“You want to take Max for a walk?” he asked, grabbing a jacket from the back of a chair. “I need to get out of here for a while.”
I understood the feeling. The apartment suddenly felt too small, too charged with tension that had nowhere to go. “Where did you have in mind?”
“There's a trail in the woods behind town. Leads to a waterfall. Good place to think.”