18. Falling #2
The forest trail was quiet except for the steady sound of Max's paws on the dirt path and the occasional rustle of leaves overhead.
The air smelled of moss and cold stone, earth that was slowly warming with the promise of spring.
Ancient trees stretched above us, their branches creating a canopy that filtered the afternoon light into patterns that shifted and changed with every step.
Rowan walked beside me in silence, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, his breath puffing out in small clouds that matched our steps. Out here, away from his apartment, he looked lighter, like the open air gave him more space to breathe—until I opened my mouth.
“Victor was leaving your building when I got there.”
His step hitched, barely. “Yeah,” he said after a beat, voice too casual. “I know.”
I glanced at him. “He’s dangerous, Rowan. You don’t want him around you.”
Rowan gave a small laugh, sharp and humorless. “Trust me, I figured that out.”
“What did he want? ”
“Conversation,” Rowan said quickly. “Drinks. Nothing important.”
I slowed a little, watching him. The line came too fast, like he’d rehearsed it. His shoulders were tense again, and he kept his eyes fixed on the path ahead.
“That’s all?” I pressed.
He nodded, but didn’t look at me. “That’s all.”
I could tell there was more, something he wasn’t saying, but I let it go before I said something I couldn’t take back.
Rowan led us down a narrower path, barely wide enough for single file, where the sound of rushing water began to filter through the trees.
It started as a whisper, barely audible over the sound of our footsteps, then grew louder and more insistent until it filled the air entirely, drowning out everything else.
We stepped into a clearing where a thin waterfall spilled over dark rocks into a pool that looked deep enough to swim in.
The water was crystal clear, so transparent I could see smooth stones resting at the bottom, and mist rose from where the falls met the surface, catching the filtered sunlight and throwing fleeting rainbows that vanished almost as soon as I noticed them.
Rowan slowed, shoulders dropping as he took it in. For the first time all day, something easy settled into the space between us—like the sound of the water was rinsing off some of the tension we’d carried in from the world outside.
“Mom and I used to come here,” he said, voice softer than it had been all day, nearly lost under the hush of falling water. “I was sixteen, angry at the world, sitting on that rock over there feeling sorry for myself.”
He pointed to a flat boulder at the water’s edge, worn smooth by time and contemplation. I could picture him there—sharp-edged, trying to look tough, Elaine beside him, equal parts steel and comfort .
“She found me here that day. Told me I looked like I hated everything and everyone, especially myself. She wasn’t wrong.” His laugh was quiet, a little embarrassed.
“She had a way of saying exactly what you didn’t want to hear,” I said, smiling.
Rowan huffed out a breath, almost a laugh.
“That was her specialty. She told me anger was just sadness in disguise. Said I could carry it around as long as I wanted, but maybe I should ask myself if it was helping, or just making things worse.” He smiled, lost in the memory.
“Then she just…sat with me. Didn’t say another word for, like, twenty minutes.
Just let me sulk until I wasn’t so angry anymore. ”
We stood side by side at the edge of the pool, cool spray on our faces, the noise of the falls pressing the rest of the world to the edges. Max found a stick and was gnawing it with heroic focus, flopping onto the pebbles as if he’d just discovered the greatest treasure in the world.
I glanced at Rowan, saw the tension start to bleed out of his jaw. “You know, you’re a lot like her.”
He gave me a sideways look. “That supposed to be a compliment?”
“It’s a compliment if you want it to be. She was one of the best people I’ve ever met.”
Rowan looked away, embarrassed. “Yeah, well. Still working on the whole ‘being a person’ thing.”
“That’s half the job,” I said. “No one tells you adulthood is just pretending to know what you’re doing while quietly panicking and hoping nobody notices.”
He snorted, a real laugh bubbling up. “That’s not what they put on the brochures.”
“They should. Honest advertising.”
We lapsed into comfortable silence, broken only by Max’s enthusiastic stick murder and the sound of the falls. I looked down at my shoes, feeling uncharacteristically hopeful.
Rowan broke the quiet first. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About getting help. Not trying to handle everything alone.”
My heart did something funny—like a chord resolving after too much dissonance. “Yeah?”
He nodded, tracing the outline of a stone with the tip of his shoe. “I think I’m ready. Or, I want to be. Ready to try, anyway. Ready to stop pretending self-destruction is the same as healing.”
I grinned so wide my cheeks hurt. “I know someone who can help. Dr. Fields. She’s the best at seeing through people’s bullshit. Including mine.”
He gave me a skeptical look, but I could see a smile threatening at the corners of his mouth. “She manage to fix you?”
“Oh, absolutely not. I’m completely unfixable. But she’s taught me how to keep my plants alive, so I call that progress.”
Rowan snorted. “You do not have plants.”
“I have three. Well, two and a half. One is basically just a stick now, but I’m told it’s still alive.”
He laughed, finally. “Should I be worried if my therapist’s therapist can’t keep a fern alive?”
“She’s not the plant whisperer, she’s just good at talking me off the ledge of buying more. Therapy, you see, is about learning to live with your mistakes. Including your houseplants.”
Rowan shook his head, but he was still smiling. “Is she going to make me talk about my childhood?”
“Only if you want to. She’s more of a ‘let’s figure out why you want to punch the wall and maybe see if we can get you to try yoga instead’ type. ”
He groaned. “Oh god. Not yoga.”
I gave him my most serious face. “It’s either that or interpretive dance.”
“I take it all back,” he said. “I’m fine. Totally cured.”
I grinned, nudging his shoulder. “Give her a chance. If you hate it, I’ll buy you dinner after. Or whiskey. Your choice.”
He looked at me then, really looked, and there was something in his eyes—something like hope, tentative and flickering, but there. “Okay. Deal. But only if you promise not to tell her about the yoga thing.”
“My lips are sealed,” I said. “Unless she offers me a discount.”
He laughed, the sound bright and real. For a moment, the two of us just stood there, listening to the water, letting the world feel simple for once. Max bounded up with his prize, showering us both with wet dog joy, and Rowan let himself lean in, just enough to let the day feel good.
We didn't speak for a long moment, but the air between us had changed.
It felt warmer, denser, charged with possibility that neither of us had acknowledged before.
My pulse picked up, and I found myself hyperaware of how close we were standing, of the way the mist from the waterfall had dampened his hair, of the way his breathing had changed to match mine.
This was the moment. The threshold Dr. Fields had talked about, the choice between honesty and safety, between wanting and having. I could feel it approaching like weather, inevitable and transformative and absolutely terrifying.
I took a breath that felt like crossing a line I'd drawn in my own mind, then took a step closer to him. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, close enough to smell the clean scent of soap on his skin, close enough that when I reached out, my fingers could brush against his.
“Rowan,” I said, and his name came out like a prayer.
He turned toward me, and I could see the exact moment when he understood what was happening. His pupils dilated, his lips parted slightly, and his breathing became more deliberate, more aware.
“Elias.” My name in his voice was permission and question and answer all at once.
I leaned in slowly, giving him every chance to move away, to change his mind, to remember all the reasons this was a terrible idea. He didn't. Instead, he met me halfway, his eyes falling closed just before our lips touched.
The kiss was slow and deliberate, no rush or urgency, just the grounding press of mouth against mouth and the weight of everything unsaid pouring into the space between us. He tasted like coffee and possibility, warm and real and absolutely right in ways that made my chest ache with recognition.
His hand came up to cup the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, and I made a sound that was part relief and part desperation.
This was what I'd been wanting without knowing how to name it, what I'd been moving toward since the first time I'd seen him standing in my doorway looking lost and angry and beautiful.
When we parted, it was reluctantly, both of us breathing harder than we had been moments before. The sound of the waterfall was louder again, but I could still feel the warmth of his mouth lingering on mine, could still taste the sweetness of that first real kiss.
“Jesus,” he whispered, his forehead resting against mine.
“Is that good or bad?”
“I don't know.” His voice was rough, strained with emotion I couldn't read. “I've been thinking about this for a while, but now that it's happening... ”
“Now that it's happening?”
“Now I'm terrified we're going to destroy each other.”
The honesty in his voice cut straight through every defense I'd built, every rationalization I'd constructed about why this was impossible.
Because he was right, wasn't he? We were both carrying enough damage to sink each other, both wounded in ways that made love feel like a luxury we couldn't afford.
But standing there in the mist from the waterfall, with his hand still touching my neck and the taste of him still on my lips, destruction felt like a risk worth taking.
“Maybe we will,” I said, my voice barely audible over the sound of falling water. “Maybe we'll tear each other apart and regret every moment of this. But maybe we won't. Maybe we'll figure out how to heal together instead of drowning separately.”
His eyes searched mine, looking for something I hoped he could find. “You really want to try this? Knowing how complicated it's going to be? Knowing what people will say?”
“I want to try you,” I said, and the words felt like the most honest thing I'd ever spoken. “I want to see what happens when we stop running from this and start running toward it instead.”
He kissed me again, harder this time, with more urgency and less caution. This kiss tasted like decision, like commitment, like the first step off a cliff neither of us could see the bottom of.
When we broke apart, we were both breathing hard, both looking slightly stunned by the magnitude of what we'd just started.
“So what now?” he asked.
“Now we figure it out as we go.” I reached for his hand, lacing our fingers together in a gesture that felt both natural and revolutionary. “One day at a time, one kiss at a time, one choice at a time. ”
The waterfall continued its ancient rhythm beside us, indifferent to human complications, indifferent to the fact that two men had just decided to complicate their lives in ways that would probably destroy them both.
But for the first time in two years, I felt alive in my own skin, connected to something larger than my own grief.