Chapter 12
I don’t want to go back. I want to stay here, two hours away from our reality, and pretend that it’s always been Rowan and me.
But I can’t run away. Neither can he. We have obligations, people attached to us, expecting things.
Though, I think we’d both be fine disappointing those people. I know I would.
My mom texted me early this morning, sometime before Caleb did, probably while Rowan and I were both asleep. She pieced together that we’re both here. Probably along with Caleb. Her text was fairly to the point.
MOM: Just don’t be stupid, Saylor. I hope you met with the dean. We can work on your enrollment when you get home.
I haven’t responded. I won’t, not in text.
This conversation needs to happen in person, not that my mother will actually pause to hear me this time.
I don’t want to be a business major. I don’t want to work with money, to sell things, to climb a corporate ladder or have my own office.
I want to be outside somewhere, working with humans and putting something good into the world.
Rowan’s hand brushes along my thigh from across the console of the truck, pulling my eyes from my mom’s message. I glance up at him with a faint smile.
“Something wrong?” He nods toward my lap where my phone rests.
My mouth puckers on one side as I lift a shoulder.
“Something’s always wrong. Just my mom, wanting to make sure I don’t throw my life away.”
“Ah,” Rowan says, turning his gaze back to the road. He sucks in his upper lip as he glances at the rearview mirror then checks the side ones.
There’s very little traffic, which is making our trip home pass quickly.
It feels like I’m waking up from a dream.
The faint music filling the cab isn’t enough to distract me from my thoughts, and there’s a new tightness beginning to clutch at my chest from the inside.
I’m anxious, and I can feel the energy starting to tingle in my arms and legs.
I kick my shoes from feet and shift in my seat, tucking one leg under the other as I lean into the door for a better view of Rowan as he drives.
He smirks at first, then lets out a breathy laugh as he glances my way.
“You know, it’s hard to focus on the road with you looking at me like that.” He grabs the back of his neck and squeezes it as he laughs a little more.
“I like watching you drive. I get to see the little things, like the way your forearm muscles shift underneath your skin when you move your arms. And the length of your eyelashes. You have very long lashes, by the way.” I cross my arms over my chest as if I’m jealous of his lashes. I may be, actually.
“You like them, huh?” He blinks rapidly and glances my way again.
I shift my body again, so my feet are now resting on the console and my back is flush against the door.
I stretch my left leg out until my toe reaches Rowan’s side, and I do my best to tickle him.
He stops me, though, snagging my foot in his hand and moving it to the center of his lap, then pressing his thumb into the pad of my food while squeezing my arch.
“Oh god, that’s incredible,” I say, my entire left leg relaxing with his touch.
“You’re tense,” he says, massaging my foot while his other hand remains on the wheel.
“I think I am. I’ve been a little stressed,” I admit.
Rowan’s hand moves up to my ankle, and as he rolls it with his hand, it feels like a decade of rust begins to crackle away from the joints.
I shut my eyes and let exhale slowly through my nose to aid in my muscles’ relaxation.
I’ve fought tendonitis since my junior year of high school.
Years of using my feet the way a dolphin uses a fin have taken a toll.
I can’t imagine how I’m going to feel by the time I complete four years of swimming at the college level.
“I hope I’m not adding to your stress,” Rowan says. I peel my eyes open and find his looking back at me before quickly moving back to the road.
My brow pinches as I unclick the seatbelt, which I’ve already contorted into a useless position. I pull my foot from Rowan’s lap and fold my legs up against my body so I can wrap my hands around his arm.
“Hey,” I hum. He glances at me with a wry smile, his expression suddenly guilty. “Where’s this coming from?”
My fingers curl against his skin, and he slips his arm from my grasp, exchanging it with his hand. He threads our fingers together then pulls my hand to his mouth, kissing the back.
“Your mom isn’t totally wrong, is all. You shouldn’t throw your life away. And maybe what we’re doing—”
“Uh uh.” I cut him off, moving my hand to his chin and pulling it to me for a second, just long enough for him to see the sincerity in my eyes.
“Nothing about last night, or this morning, or last week. Nothing about you and me is a mistake. If anything, Rowan, for the first time in my life, I feel brave enough to confront the hard choices down the road. To stand up for myself and say what I want. And what I don’t. ”
My heart is beating so hard suddenly, and I’m not sure if it’s this growing pull I feel toward this man or the new muscles building alongside my resolve. Maybe it’s both.
“I don’t want to study business. I don’t want to be anything like my mother.” These thoughts I’ve said internally feel so good out loud. Sure, I’ve said this to Rowan before, but this time . . . I hear myself. And I know I’m going to do something about it.
“Then what do you want?” Rowan puts the idea out there and I find a smile suddenly pull at the corners of my mouth as I sit back in my seat.
“I helped this sweet older woman with her groceries the other day. Remember when I took the bus to your dad’s office?”
Rowan’s mouth curves into a sinister half smile, and I swat at him playfully. He remembers going down on me later that day.
“I’m talking about a life-altering experience, Rowan!”
“So am I,” he laughs out.
I blush, shaking my head and fighting off the bashful smile that wants to take over my face.
“I’m sorry. Continue. I want to hear about this life-changing grocery trip.” He smirks, but I can tell he’s not teasing or belittling.
“It was such a small thing, really. She was managing a lot of grocery bags along with her walker and public transit, and I helped a little. Then there was this guy named Chad, and he was on the bus—”
“You can skip the part about Chad,” he jokes. Sort of. There’s a little honest jealousy flexing his jaw, I think.
“Okay, okay. What’s important is what the woman told me while we were on the bus.
Chad works at the retirement complex, and he helps her get on and off the bus or carry her groceries all the time.
It’s the helping part that stuck with me.
I want to be a Chad, I think. I mean, not a maintenance guy with a heart of gold.
I’d rather just do work that has heart. Help people navigate life.
Make things easier for someone. I don’t know . . . maybe I’m just being stupid.”
I put my safety belt back on and shift my gaze out my window, but after a few seconds, Rowan’s hand finds its way to my thigh again.
I look down to find his hand turned up waiting for mine, so I fold our palms together.
He gives me a gentle squeeze and I gaze up to find a softness in his eyes, along with the small dimple on the right side of his mouth.
“You’re not being stupid, Saylor. If anything, you’re maybe the most grounded person I know. You’ve learned something about yourself that others never find.”
I tip my chin up and tilt my head slightly.
“What’s that?”
“Purpose,” he says. “You want to be the helper. There’s a reason that Mr. Rogers guy always touted the helpers. They’re the good ones. The real ones. And I gotta tell you, Saylor. I’m not surprised at all that you want to give more of yourself to others. The world is lucky to have you.”
I’ve never really felt my heart explode from a compliment before, but it does now.
It’s as if one of those ultra-wide, bright-burning fireworks from the Fourth of July just went off in my chest and sent embers coursing through my veins.
My mom always talks about my potential, but she’s not really talking about me or my dreams—she’s talking about her own. But Rowan? He sees a better me.
“Thanks,” I croak, covering his hand with my other one and hugging it close to my chest. I want to keep it for a while.
My phone chirps from somewhere under my seat, so I let go of Rowan’s hand and feel along the space between the seat and the door.
I pull it from the crevice and brace myself for yet another passive aggressive message from my mom.
I’m pleasantly surprised, though, when it’s from my other parent.
The one I miss and rarely see. The one my mom doesn’t like me visiting or having a relationship with at all, it seems.
“It’s my dad,” I say, flashing my screen to Rowan. His eyebrows lift.
“I didn’t know you talked to him,” he says.
I waggle my head.
“Not often, but when he’s between gigs, or . . . well, sober. He’ll text me. Sometimes it’s a phone call. He’s in a new city every time. It’s kind of exciting to piece together his route through our phone calls and messages.”
Rowan’s brow pulls in, and I realize how sad I made my relationship with my father sound. I squeeze his arm once then cradle my phone to take in the selfie my dad just sent.
“It’s not a sad thing, so don’t feel bad.
I know how different he and my mom are, and I truly believe they both wanted to do right by me.
I’m not harboring any strange resentments.
Though, I do wish I could see him play sometime.
It’s been years. I remember him playing songs in our living room, but those memories are getting fuzzy. I need new ones.”
I zoom in on the photo to find context clues about where my father’s at. He always waits for me to guess. There’s a New Mexico plate on a car behind him, so I take a stab.
ME: Santa Fe?
My father loves that town. It’s full of artists. Creativity is vital to his fabric. I wish I had more of that part of him.
DAD: Close! Taos. I’ll be in Cave Creek this weekend, though.
“Oh!” I sit up talk and cover my mouth.
“Is that a good oh or did you get stung by something?” Rowan chuckles.
I turtle my head into my shoulders sheepishly and peel my hand from my mouth.
“Sorry. It was a good one. My dad is going to be in Arizona! Next weekend.”
I dive right into typing.
ME: Where? What time? Is there an age limit? I want to come!
I watch the dots on my phone come and go a few times, and my heart leaps every time they appear. Eventually, though, they stop showing up. I’m sure he’s on the road or simply got busy. He’ll let me know where he’s playing for sure. Why wouldn’t he?
“Did he invite you to the show?” Rowan asks after a few quiet seconds.
“I asked if I could come. I haven’t seen him since I was sixteen, and he had to pick me up then, so you know . . . he had to see mom. They were cordial, but it was weird. I’d rather just visit him on my terms, without having to share it with her. It’s my relationship, you know?”
Rowan nods and pulls his mouth tight on one side.
“Yeah, I get it. I’m sure you’re invited.”
He glances over his shoulder as he switches lanes, and when his eyes pass over me again, I sense something lingering behind them. I’m not sure about much lately, especially when it comes to Rowan and me. But I have to try.
“Hey, would you want to—”
My phone buzzes, cutting me off, and I drop my gaze to read the name of the venue along with an address and a guarantee that my name will be at the door.
“He sent it! It’s next Saturday! I’m going to see him in one week!” I’m practically bouncing in my seat as I type back that I’ll be there.
“That’s great, Saylor. I hope you get a chance to spend extra time with him, too. I’ll think of you while Mig, Jersey and I roam the Tucson auction for more investment cars to flip.”
“Oh,” I say, my tone a little too obvious with disappointment. “Yeah, that’s next weekend too, I mean. I forgot.”
“Yeah, it’s the biggest one for us because the price points are usually pretty low. Who knows, maybe I’ll find another gem like that Vette back there.” He leans his head back, and I twist in my seat to take in the murky headlamps on the car strapped to the trailer behind us.
“Yeah.” The word slips out in a haze, and as excited as I am to see my dad, my chest aches because Rowan won’t be there for it.
“I’m really glad for you, though.”
“Hmmm?” I turn my attention to his profile. He reaches over and taps a finger to the tip of my nose. I follow it in and out, letting my eyes cross and uncross.
“I’m happy you’re figuring out the things you want, I mean.
I’m happy you’re getting some of them. Like seeing your dad.
It’s good. You deserve to get those things.
” His gaze lingers on me for the briefest moment, and I start to lean in just as he turns away.
I sit back instead and return my attention to the black and white highway markers counting every tenth of a mile as we whip past them.
I clamp my teeth down on my thumbnail after propping my elbow along my window and draw in a deep breath.
I want you, too.
The thought slips in and out of my head as we roar down the mountain highway and into the Valley.
I try to open my mouth a dozen times and push those words out, to vocalize them, but something stops me every time.
I don’t want it to sound like I’m trying to be seductive.
It’s not some simple flirtatious line meant to get his hand in my pants.
I mean it as in I want to explore this us thing we’ve started and see where it goes.
I want to do more with him beyond having sex.
I want to show up places together, hold hands and kiss in public.
But those things might be too much to ask for given who we are and how we became . . . whatever it is we are.
Maybe Rowan and I are a spark in time, a fleeting event that creates change. It doesn’t make it any less special. It simply makes it brief. And that . . . that makes me sad.