Chapter Fifty-Six. Rowan
FIFTY-SIX
Rowan
“Rowan. You have to talk to me at some point.”
“I know, Sloane. I just … I need to process everything.” I look through my windshield at the outside of the Sanctuary.
I’ve driven for hours.
I’ve avoided physically going into the office.
I’ve called in several times for updates on my dad and while all remains positive, his road to recovery still seems so very daunting.
And I’ve avoided, to the best of my ability, all talk, all thoughts, all emotions when it comes to Holden Knight.
At least I pretend I have.
“I know you do, but you don’t have to do it alone.”
“It’s just a lot,” I whisper. “All at once.”
“Where are you?” she asks in that mom voice that says she’s already grabbing her keys and heading out the door to find me.
“I’m okay. I promise.”
“You don’t sound okay, Rowan. That’s a lot for one person to take in. Let me be there for you, please?”
“I know. And you are being here for me. I just need … right now I’m going to head into the Sanctuary and play my cello until my fingers fall off.
For some reason it’s all I can think of doing.
To feel closer to Cass. To remind me that my problems are nothing compared to those of everyone else here who’ll be listening. To just … feel the music.”
She’s quiet for a beat and I can see her standing on her front porch, keys in her hand, debating whether she should ignore what I’ve said or listen to me.
“I promise you—this is what I need right now.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m more than sure.”
And that need only becomes more apparent when the upper bout of the cello rests against my chest and my fingers rest on its strings.
I close my eyes and lose myself in the music, in the sounds I create, and the emotions those sounds evoke.
Women come and go from the room where I perform. Some stay for a while, their own eyes closed and tears slipping down their cheeks, while others sit stone-faced, presumably reliving whatever events led them to this place in their lives.
I’m not one to judge how others process their grief—because isn’t that what this is? Grief. It can come in many forms and over many things. I don’t purport mine to be even close to the grief of any of these women in the Sanctuary, but it doesn’t mean I feel it any less.
And it sure as shit means I’m trying to make us all feel better.
I play songs from memory. One after another after another. Some I repeat. Others I improvise. I simply allow myself the freedom to feel in this space where judgment isn’t allowed or welcome.
Holden played me. He made me feel. He made me believe. He made me love … and it was all a game to him. All a means to an end that only he knows.
One I’m not quite sure I want to.
I don’t know how long I play for. The sky outside the window has turned dark and the sound of kids playing down the hall melds with the melodies I create. But at some point, I’m all played out and emotionally spent.
“That’s all for today,” I murmur as the last chord floats through the room. “Thank you for indulging me to come and play today.”
When I look up, the whole room is staring at me. As broken as my heart is, this moment is providing the glue that will help piece it back together. I’m certain of it.
I have to save this place at all costs. There is healing that happens here. Healing and the creation of the invisible bonds of sisterhood and affirmation of just how strong they all are.
As I begin to pack up, some of the women I’ve seen before greet me, some thank me, and others give a slight nod before walking out.
All reactions are welcome but are not expected. This is my therapy as much as it is theirs—especially tonight.
“That was beautiful. Thank you.”
I look up to meet kind eyes and the beautiful smile of the woman before me. She’s petite in stature but athletic, with her hair pulled up in a high ponytail. The stress etched into the lines of her face does nothing to diminish her beauty.
“No need to thank me. It’s therapeutic for me too.”
“I’m new here.” She jogs her head from side to side almost as if she feels like she should be apologizing to me that she is, in fact, here. “I … I’m just getting the lay of the land, but this was a welcome surprise. Thank you again.”
I hold my hand out to her. “Rowan Rothschild. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too.” She shakes mine. “Penelope Piccadilly.”
As if my world could be rocked any more this week, those two words do just that.
“Piccadilly,” I repeat, my mind not wanting to believe what logic is telling me. What my gut instinct is reinforcing. “That’s a unique name.”
“Yeah. You should’ve heard the nicknames growing up. Like Piccadilly Circus in London. That’s what I tell people so they remember or spell it correctly.”
“Oh,” I say as I study her, as I wonder … as I know.
She narrows her eyes at me. “Is something wrong? You look a bit flushed.”
“No, I just … are you from around here or…?”
“Born and raised here in Fairmont. Not that that’s something to be proud of, but you can’t change history. Why? Can I help you with something?”
Talk about being callous. I’m here to entertain, not to probe into her life or ask stupid questions because I’m pretty sure she just might be who I think she is.
“And you’re okay? You’re—”
“I’m going to be, yes.” Her smile is bittersweet.
“I got myself out of a bad situation and returned back here to be closer to friends and family, but they’re all struggling on their own, so that last thing I want to do is be a burden on them.
Plus my ex…” She looks down at her twisted fingers and I feel even worse now.
“I don’t want to put anyone helping me in danger.
Here, there’s security. Here, they have legal advice.
Here, they have people like you who treat my soul.
They help without judgment until I can get back on my feet again. ”
I reach out and squeeze her hand. “You’re in the right place. They’re wonderful here.”
“It’s not a place any of us want to be, but it’s needed, you know.” She shrugs.
“I do.”
“Well, then I guess I’ll see you around.”
“Yes.”
“Thanks again.” She offers one more melancholic smile and starts to walk away.
“Penelope?” I can’t help myself. I’m being selfish, and I can hate myself for it later, but I need to ask. I need to know.
“Yeah?” She turns around to look at me.
“Do you happen to know a Holden Knight? From, like, back in the day?”
Penelope’s expression says it all. Every single emotion flickers across her face.
Surprise. Nostalgia. Innocence. Warmth. And with each passing one, my heart falls a little harder against my rib cage.
“Holden. God, I haven’t thought of him in forever.
” Her smile is the most genuine I’ve seen since we started talking.
“Yeah. I knew him. In fact, we both lived not far from here.” She shakes her head.
“Talk about a trip down memory lane. Do you know him?”
“I do. Yeah.”
She angles her head to the side. “Why did you think to ask me about him?”
“Um. I don’t know.” It’s my turn to stumble. My heart is beating so fast I swear she can hear it. “You said you were from around here. I knew he was. I don’t know. I just figured I’d ask.”
“Oh. Okay.” She nods and takes a few steps back.
“He was one of the good ones. Sweet and polite when all the other boys were jerks.” She smiles again and looks back down at her hands twisting together.
“I’d tell you if you see him again to tell him I said hi, but …
I’d rather him not know I’m in here. It’s humiliating, you know?
” She lifts her eyebrows as tears well in her eyes.
“I won’t say a word.” I reach out and squeeze her arm. “You did nothing wrong to be here, but I understand.”
“Thank you,” she whispers, and takes a step back. “See you around.”
“See you around,” I repeat.
I watch Penelope Piccadilly walk down the hallway until she turns the corner and I’m left staring at a blank wall.
Everything he told me was a lie.
Every goddamn thing.
Tailored lies to get in close with me. To pull me over to his side. To create a wedge between my brother and me. Between Chad and me.
Divide and conquer.
That seemed to be his plan.
Everything was a lie.
Everything.