29. Zahra
ZAHRA
T he house is exactly something I’d expect Brady Kane to build for himself. The cute wraparound porch looks empty but well-loved, with a bench swing and a series of rocking chairs moving softly from the wind. It’s a house built for a family, and I can imagine he spent many years here with his.
I walk up the steps. My hand hovers over the doorbell, but I’m hesitant to press the button.
Might as well hurry up and get tonight over with.
I press the doorbell and wait. The wood door creaks open less than a minute later, and I’m hit with a version of Rowan I’ve yet to see.
I blink twice to confirm he’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt.
He has a new pair of glasses, this time with a tortoise-shell pattern.
My eyes drag across the contours of his body before landing on his naked feet. His entire outfit seems like a completely unfair war tactic against my racing heart. It’s… He’s… Ugh!
I frown. “Hi.”
He makes a show of checking me out. Somehow, he makes my bell-bottom jeans and vintage T-shirt feel inappropriate.
He opens the door wider, giving me space to enter. But not enough, because his body remains in the middle of the doorframe, forcing our skin to brush against each other.
He leads me toward a dimly lit living room fit for a family of fifty. The massive couch reminds me of a cloud I want to dive into while the carpet is plush enough to take a nap on.
He points me toward a cushion on the floor.
“This seems an awful lot like a date,” I mutter under my breath.
“Don’t be difficult. I know you’re hungry.”
I glare at him, hating that he’s right. I drop onto the cushion and cross my legs. He grabs the bag, removes the cartons, and serves me a plate of my favorite pad thai. My stupid heart betrays me, clenching at the smallest hint of Rowan’s attention to detail.
Get a grip. It’s just dinner.
I straighten my spine. “Well. Let’s hear your apology.”
“Eat first.”
I roll my eyes at his command and keep my hands settled on my lap.
He sighs. “Please eat? I don’t want it to get cold.”
A ghost of a smile crosses my lips at his request. I only comply because I’m starving. Rowan takes a bite of his food with every bit of elegance I expect from American royalty. If only I looked half that good while eating.
We both eat in silence. I hate it enough to speak up because I can’t take it anymore.
“So you like to draw?”
His fork clatters against the plate.
Well, aren’t I the queen of casual conversations? I grin at my plate because making Rowan uncomfortable has become my new favorite game tonight.
He picks up his fork and twirls some noodles. “I used to love drawing.”
“Why did you stop?”
Rowan’s shoulders tense before he releases a shaky breath. “Why do most people stop doing things they love?”
I relate to that question. After everything Lance did, I stopped wanting to create anything. I paused my dreams because it seemed easier than facing the pain of his betrayal. The path of least resistance included shutting down things I loved because I was too afraid of the backlash.
At least until Rowan threw me out of my comfort zone. And for that, I’m indebted to him. It doesn’t make his choices correct, but it makes me a bit more forgiving. Because without him taking a chance on my drunken proposal, I wouldn’t have finally let go of the last bit of hurt holding me back.
The only person who has power over me is myself. Not Lance. Not my past mistakes. And definitely not fear.
I pluck at a loose thread on my jeans. “I’m not asking about people. I’m asking about you.”
“You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”
“If apologizing were easy, everyone would do it.”
He readjusts his glasses in a way that has my thighs pressing together to stop the dull throb. I swear he only wore them to wear me down.
“My grandpa got me into drawing at a very young age.”
I stay silent and waiting, not wanting to spook him.
“He always had a special something with my brothers and me, and drawing happened to be our thing. I was the only artistic one of my family besides him so I think he enjoyed having that kind of connection.”
“That’s sweet.”
His lips press together in a thin line. “The bond I had with my grandfather was different from the one I shared with my father. And I think that frustrated my father. He was never artsy and that was all I wanted to do as a kid. It was like he didn’t know how to connect with me in a way that didn’t involve throwing a ball around.
” His eyes seem distant, like he’s picturing his life at another time.
“I don’t remember my parents arguing much, but when they did, it was usually about me.
” He winces. “Dad would get angry because he didn’t know how to bond with me, so Mom would cry.
It got particularly worse once my mom got sick.
I think she was worried my father and I would never be close, and she wouldn’t be there to help us. ”
My entire chest aches at the look on Rowan’s face. “Cancer, right?”
His throat bobs as he nods.
“I’m sorry.” I grab his hand and give it a reassuring squeeze.
He clears his throat and looks down at his plate. “That was the start of my rocky relationship with my father. Eventually, I gave up on drawing and moved on to more appropriate activities that were expected of me.”
I want to beg him to tell me all the stories because I’m desperate to learn more about the man sitting across from me. Rowan’s probably spent years with pent-up emotions. The way he speaks of his mother, laced with pain breaking through his emotionless facade, has my heart cracking.
“What made you want to stop?”
“It’s…complex.”
I think he might hold back, but he continues.
“He might have not intentionally told me to stop, but he made sure to take the joy out of it. Whenever I had an exhibition, he wouldn’t show up, so I had to watch all the other kids’ parents celebrate while I stood there by myself.
It got to the point that I refused to participate anymore, despite my grandfather trying.
Then there was a time that he found all the old cards I drew for my mom while she was in the hospital—” His voice shakes.
“He ruined them because he felt like it. They were some of the last memories I had of her, and they were gone after a drunken rampage.”
“Drunken rampage?”
A vein in his jaw ticks. “Forget I said anything about that.”
But I can’t. I want to go back in time and protect Rowan.
“It’s okay if you can’t talk about it.” I reach out and place my palm on his clenched fist.
“I owe you after everything.” He releases it, giving me room to interlace our fingers.
I give his hand another squeeze before pulling away. “I’m not going to use an apology as a way to pull information out of you. It’s your choice to share your past.”
He looks at me. As if his eyes are gauging my soul, assessing me for deception. “You mean that?”
“Of course. But will you tell me what made you want to start drawing again? If that’s okay.”
He nods. “Because your drawings were terrible, and I had this burning desire to help you.”
“You started drawing again because of me ?”
“Yes,” he mumbles under his breath.
I smile and nod. “Oh, wow. Why?”
“You almost cried during your first presentation.”
“ And? ” This is the same man who told me he had no fucks to give. His wanting to help me without even really knowing me…it makes no sense.
“In the beginning, I only wanted to help you because I thought it was beneficial for me. You have the kind of talent I was looking for to renovate the park and make sure—” He blinks twice, catching himself midsentence.
“Make sure what?”
“Make sure I make my grandfather happy.” He frowns again. Does he hate the idea of needing to lean on someone?
“I understand. You have a lot of pressure riding on this project.”
“You have no idea,” he grumbles under his breath.
“Why didn’t you hire someone else to help me?”
“I thought of it but didn’t want to.”
“Why?”
“Because my common sense escaped me.”
“Or you liked me.” I try my hardest not to smile but fail miserably.
“Definitely not. I found you oddly annoying and way too nice at the time.”
I lean over the coffee table and give his shoulder a shove. “Hey! There’s no such thing as being too nice.”
“There is where I come from.”
“And that is?”
His eyes reflect enough disgust to nauseate me. “A place where people smile too brightly or talk too sweetly because they have every intention of using it against me. It’s the whole damn reason I’m cynical in the first place.”
“That sounds awful.”
“I’m sure you would be horrified to know what kind of people are lurking beyond the park’s pearly gates. Dreamland really is some fantasy. It’s like this whole damn place is untouched by the real world.”
“Tell me about what you had to deal with then. Help me understand why you are the way you are.”
His fists clench against the coffee table. “You really want to know?”
I nod.
“Fine. But it’s not pretty.”
“The truth usually isn’t.”
He blinks at me. His eyes drag from my face to his clenched fists, where he opens and closes them repeatedly.
He sighs after what feels like a minute of silence. “My first real taste of the scum of the earth started in college when a random girl invited me back to her dorm after a party.”
My appetite shifts to nausea at the mention of him being with someone else.
“Before, I had only dealt with the typical stupid teen stuff—like people using me for a private jet or a trip to Cabo.”
“Oh yeah, the typical stuff.”
He cracks the saddest smile before it falls flat.
“Well, where I came from, people have used me throughout my life, but it had never taken a turn toward anything illegal until I became an adult. College was eye-opening. I lost my virginity while unknowingly being filmed with a hidden camera. It cost my father a lot of money to sweep that issue under the rug before she went to the media with the tape.”