9. Nine
Rowan isn’t the mess I expect to find when she opens the door. No tears. No puffy eyes. No anger. Just Cleopatra from the restaurant—poised and controlled. Her worry lines deepen as she breathes a weak “Hi” and takes me in.
Her wrap is draped around my neck, and I’m holding another bottle of chardonnay as a peace offering, but she isn’t charmed by either. Of course, she isn’t. She’s unimpressed and maybe pissed at my reaction earlier—I did exactly what she hates. I assumed she was a damsel-in-distress, so I played the idiot hero.
“Sorry,” I finally manage.
“It’s not your fault. She didn’t realize how she sounded, that’s all.”
“No, I mean… I’m not apologizing for Renita. She’s an idiot, but not my idiot. She owes you her own apology, and it better be a good one.” A heavy sigh escapes as I struggle with the right words—me, the fucking wordsmith. “I’m sorry for my part in it.”
“Your part?”
“Getting pissed and dragging her off to Ed felt good then, but when you disappeared, I realized I made it worse. You were probably ready to handle it gracefully.”
Her pouty lips upturn slightly. “Do you mean I would’ve played the lady if not for you acting like the tramp?”
“Exactly,” I smirk. “Forgive me for exploding what could’ve been diffused… and not leaving it up to you.”
Her crystal-blue eyes widen like an apologetic man is a new phenomenon. “You have been talking to your mom,” she smiles.
And delicate tingles swirl through my chest. Okay, maybe I like this woman. A little. I take a breath, studying her. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Not get angry at shit like that?”
Her worried brow makes a stunning return, sucking in her smile like a black hole. She struggles to answer like she’s mentally filing through acceptable responses, trying to find the one that will get her out of this as soon as possible. Finally, she says, “Anger is destructive.”
Three words. Vague but intriguing enough for me to know that I want in. Not into her heart or even her bed—God, no. Rephrase—I want into the little house. Yes, I need to flesh out my ghostly no-name character. But more, I need to unlock why my creative side finds this woman so damn fascinating.
In our silence, she gnaws at her inner lip and fixates on her doormat like she’s gone wherever the mention of anger took her. Where are you right now? I want to ask, but I know she won’t answer.
Then, a sharp inhale brings on a measured smile, like she’s flipped a switch. “Years of practice help, too. It wasn’t so awful, Jack—someone standing up for me—as long as you never think I can’t do it myself.”
My lips curl as we lock eyes. “I wouldn’t dare.”
Briefly, her forced smile turns genuine. She’s damn beautiful, and she has no idea.
“Well, um, thanks—”
“Oh, who’s this?” A long-haired black cat circles her feet, giving me a suspicious look. He lets out an exasperated meow as if to say, we’re a little busy, buddy.
I thrust the wine at her and scoop him up—a move he gratefully accepts. Purrs rumble against my chest as I stroke his silky fur.
“Jack, meet Edgar Allan Poe,” she says, sounding surprised.
“A literary cat. What a novel idea.” My eyes find hers again, and yes, maybe it’s like I’m holding her cat hostage, but I try my luck anyway. “Have a glass of wine with me?”
“Um, I have an early meeting tomorrow.”
The excuse drops out like I’ve hit a lever on the dunking game at the fair. Game over.
My eyes narrow. “It’s not even nine.”
“I have a million things to do.”
“Yeah, but don’t you always?” My lips coil into a cool smile as I say it—one she matches because she knows I’m right. A million things to do, so busy she can barely breathe—that’s her to a T.
Still, I say, in my gentlest voice, “One glass. Please?”
She moves aside and lets me in. “Only because Edgar approves. He’s usually skittish about new people.”
I nuzzle his nose, and he gives me a playful bop on mine with his paw. “He knows I’m a cat person… and a Poe person.”
She snickers, closing the door behind me. I carry Edgar into the living room, trying to hide my double shock—first, that I made it this far, and second, at how the place looks.
A soft sage covers the walls, replacing Ben and Margot’s thirty-year beige. She’s repainted the trim white, pulled up the old carpet, and refinished the buttery hardwoods. A soft shag area rug makes the living room look cozy and brings out the pops of blues and greens in her throw pillows and decorations.
Her fingers lace behind her back, and she bobs on her bare feet, looking nervous as I scan the room.
“I like what you’ve done with the place.”
“Really?” she breathes out. “Um, thanks. It’s coming along.”
“It looks amazing. Guess I really didn’t think about how dated it looked when Ben and Margot were here. It needed an update.” I eye the old copy of The Little House, proudly centering the coffee table. “That’s nice to see. It really means something to you, this place?”
“My Grandpa Ro used to say owning property is the American dream, and sharing it with others makes it even better. That’s what he and my Grandma Betty did—opened their home to me when Mom was deployed, and fostered kids like my sister, Mira. Buying this house makes me feel like they’re still with me. That it looks like the house in the story makes it even more special. Mom got sick of reading it, but it was my favorite. The pages were rumpled, and the spine creased, you know? Like well-loved library books?”
I nod, knowing exactly what she means. “The Hobbit… that’s the most rumpled and creased one in my library.”
She lights up. “Ah, definitely a book that should be well-loved.”
Holding up the wine bottle, she carries it to the kitchen. I follow, leaning against the white-tiled counter as she gets a glass and the corkscrew.
Edgar gets antsy, so I free him. He saunters away, high-tailed.
She hands over a wine glass, looking hesitant. “I’m fostering soon, too. Sara arrives at the end of the month.”
“Holy shit, really?” I say, feigning surprise—I must be careful not to let on that I’ve eavesdropped. “That’s amazing. She’ll have the second bedroom?”
“For three months, while her father’s, um, working some things out. It’s been a long process, but I’m nearly there.”
I motion down the hallway. “Can I show you something?”
She nods, and I lead her down the hall like it’s my place more than hers. I stop short at the half-painted room, the floor covered in plastic tarps.
“I’m working on it. The home inspection’s next week. I haven’t gotten furniture yet.” She sounds embarrassed, as if I’ve walked in on the room half-dressed.
I open the closet door, showing her the crudely carved initials inside. C + D next to a crooked heart. I run my finger along the rough edges, warmed by memories but chilled by his absence at once.
“Who are they?”
“Corey—Ben and Margot’s son—and my brother, Devin. He died at seventeen. Cancer.”
“Oh, Jack, I’m sorry.” Sincerity wraps her face—it’s not an automatic response, but a heartfelt one.
A muted smile pushes through, and for a moment, this isn’t about getting material for my book but sharing something important to me.
“They were best friends and in love—not many people know that. I used to cover for him when he’d sneak out. At the time, it was annoying, but after… I was so grateful that he had that. That he loved and was loved back. You know?”
“Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,” she repeats from earlier.
“Exactly. Then Ben died, and it brought everything back. Watching someone else move in here… well…”
“I reminded you of the life your brother lost,” she finishes for me. “I get it… and I won’t let anything happen to that door.”
I cover my relief with an uneasy chuckle. Maybe she’s not that bad after all. I tug my phone from my pocket and start texting. “I want to do something for you.”
“You don’t have to do anything.”
“It’s already done.” I hit send and tuck my phone away. “Rose and Vernon will request free bedroom furniture for your foster kid in the next newsletter. The people on this street have so much shit they don’t know what to do with.”
A warm grin eases up her cheeks. “Thank you… oh, ask for a desk, too?”
I reach for my phone again. “Absofuckinglutely.”
Her warm smile tells me I’ve leveled up, even when she says, “You cuss a lot.”
“Yeah, too much rap music as a kid, I guess. Mom doesn’t like it either.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it. It suits you. Somehow.” Her brow pinches as she slips by me as if bothered by her near-flirtatious remark. Was she flirting? It’s hard to tell.
We retreat to the living room, where I plop onto her couch. She refills her wine glass before sitting on the opposite side. Edgar hops up and snuggles in the space between us.
I point to the screen. “I love this show. Would you ever do that?”
She gives me a look like of-course-I-wouldn’t, and I suppose it’s a dumb question, but I want to get her talking.
“Me, neither.” I clink my glass to hers for a gentle ting. “Cheers.”
After sipping, she fiddles with a throw pillow before saying, “So, your brother fell in love with the boy next door? That’s so beautiful and serendipitous… if you believe in that sort of thing. Is that why you write romance?”
“I used to be a journalist. I loved chasing stories and asking questions. But human-interest stories intrigued me the most. I love hearing people talk about life-changing moments. Few things are as life changing as falling in love, right?”
Her pinched brow reappears, and she stares into her glass.
“My fascination probably started with Devin and Corey—you’re right. I’m incredibly influenced and inspired by the people around me. But it works—Netflix is starting production on one of mine in Georgia soon. Cape Moon. Have you—”
“I haven’t read your books.”
Books are everywhere—lining the shelves, stacked in corners, and even wedged under the couch. It’s a slight punch to my ego that she dismisses mine when she’s clearly an avid reader.
“It’s romance… I don’t enjoy romance.”
“It’s not for everyone, especially when you have rules against it.” I wince at my carelessness.
“Ah, so you’re the Miss Marple now. Just when I was starting to like you.” Her words emerge lightly but with an uneasy twinge. I almost hear her conversation with Mira replaying in her head as she checks it for secrets. She gulps her wine.
“Sorry. I’m a writer. I’m like a sponge around people.”
“More like a vampire, sounds like, secretly sinking your teeth into other people’s lives.” She jokes, but it sounds half-hearted the longer she thinks about it. I’m losing her. Fast.
“A vampire, huh? I’m more Team Edward. No one gets hurt, promise,” I flash my best grin, hoping to catch her eyes, but she doesn’t look at me.
She sits up, sets her glass on the coffee table, and faces me urgently. “Wait, um. This sounds ridiculous—I know. Maybe it’s the wine talking, but I have to ask… Does your writing streak have anything to do with me?”
My eyes narrow in immediate defense. “Does it matter?”
Air puffs from her like she’s been punched in the chest. “Don’t write about me, Jack Graham. I mean it.”
Her sternness is like an implosion, sucking in everything pleasant.
“What’s wrong? Why not?”
She takes a breath, calmly saying, “Is that why you talked to me at the party? Is that why you’re here?”
“That’s what you think this is? Me using you for fucking book sales?”
“Is it?”
“No! It’s me being goddamned neighborly.”
“Then you aren’t writing about me?”
Her crystal eyes turn to gray ice, making me cold and angry.
My frustration meter rises. “Not about you. Not specifically.”
“But someone like me? Are you writing about a teacher, a homeowner, an annoying neighbor, or did you bypass all of that and go straight to someone who’s suffered serious burns?”
“It’s not like that. I take pieces of people all the time—that’s how it works. It’s not about YOU—Rowan. It’s a shade of you, a version in an entirely different world. You shouldn’t be insulted. You should be fucking flattered.”
“Flattered? Ha! There’s the arrogance you’ve hidden all night! I’m not one of your damn groupies. And this—” She motions to her face. “—isn’t a romantic novelty. It’s my trauma—one that will never go away. How could you try and capitalize on it?”
“I’m not! I don’t know what happened to you. I haven’t even asked.”
“But you will. I can’t believe I thought you were being nice.”
“Rowan.” I force myself to calm down like a skilled negotiator in a hostage situation. “We don’t know each other well, but come on. We share nerdiness and a property line. Trust me. I’d never trivialize your trauma or violate your privacy.”
“You already have.” She stands, banging her knee against the coffee table. She swallows the pain and points toward the door. “I want you to leave.”
Her words hit me like a freight train, barreling me over. I hate that she thinks of me like that, even if it’s partly true.
My wine glass clinks as I set it beside hers. It’s all very civil—her escorting me to the door.
But my mind spins with anger at her distrust and the distance she keeps, like I’m a fucking predator or one of her bad-date assholes. Without even letting me explain. Who does she think she is?
Determined to change her mind, I turn abruptly at the door. She fumbles backward and raises her hands defensively.
Her reaction stops me cold, contorting my anger into an instant apology.
“Fucking hell, Rowan, I’m not going to hit you. Or hurt you. I would never do that. I’m-I’m sorry.” My tone is desperate. She can think many things of me, most are probably true, but never that I would physically harm her.
She takes a quick breath, hanging her head as if ashamed. “It’s been a long day. Were you going to say something? Go ahead.”
“I-I don’t want to now.”
She holds the door open, waving me onto the front porch. “Oh, come on, Jack. Do you honestly think you can come up with something worse than I’ve heard before?” She forces a sardonic smile to assure me that she doesn’t care.
I don’t buy it for a second.
Still, I meet her eyes, locked into giving her exactly what she wants. “Fine. I was going to say… You aren’t that fucking interesting.”
Her lips coil before she slams the door in my face.