14. Fourteen
“Have time for me?” Jack says when I answer the door. He holds out a bottle of wine with an expression half-worried and half-pleading. His fuller bottom lip curls under his upper teeth, awaiting my response.
“I have nothing but time.” My answer drips with disappointment.
“It can’t be that bad.” He moves inside, shutting the door behind him. “Where’s your ward?”
A scoff blusters out. “My ward… that fits since she views me as her warden. She’s out. It’s been four days, and I’ve barely had a conversation with her. She hates me.”
“She’ll warm up.”
Doubting it, I eye Jack’s wine like it’s the Holy Grail—I need a wine night. I produce a corkscrew while he gets out two glasses.
Sara isn’t my only source of despair. Mom and Mira have been pushing me to stand up for myself with Dean—either give him an ultimatum (because that always goes over well) or break up with him altogether. His silence makes it harder to argue.
Two days ago, Dean FaceTimed from a bar with his RV mates. He looked reddish and warm from alcohol but giddy. “Honey, there you are. I’ve been meaning to call. Just had the most amazing day—got to say a line. A real line!”
He super-annunciated his words and awkwardly introduced me to his acting buddies. “I told them all about you.”
Then, he introduced the girls they’d met at the bar.
“He’s been talking about you all night,” said one, making me wonder what he says when he describes me.
“Yeah, you’re so pretty,” the other said in a tone that suggested the opposite.
The camera panned to Dean—wide-eyed and grinning, and I thought… this is punishment.This is Dean making sure I suffer over my botched answer.
A familiar uneasiness took hold of me at what I thought I saw hiding behind his eyes—disdain, meanness, anger. I told him to call me tomorrow. He laughed and said, “Yes, no, maybe” before hanging up.
I lay in bed that night, unable to latch on to all those things I love about Dean. Instead of a comfort I long to wrap myself up in, he’s become a chisel, breaking me apart in little pieces.
He didn’t call the next morning, not that I would’ve answered.
With little else to do but feel sorry for myself the last few days, I reread Jack’s book. Twice. This time, I didn’t withhold my annotations, making all the highlights, notes, and stickies my bookish heart desired. Annotating The Other Us felt like squeezing a stress ball.
Now, in the kitchen, Jack notices the sticky-filled book on the counter. I half-wonder if I’ve offended him—riddling the precious ARC with notes and tabs. But he says nothing.
I grab a leftover platter of grapes, cheeses, and crackers scored from Trader Joe’s that I’d hoped to share with Sara over a movie. That didn’t happen, of course.
We settle into the living room—wine and cheese plate on the coffee table. When Edgar saunters in, stretching from his long afternoon cat nap, I sit on the floor and play with him. Jack copies me, stretching his long legs before him while nibbling the cheddar.
“So, what’s on your mind today?” I prompt as Edgar circles, emanating his sultry purr.
“Why doesn’t Christine believe in love?”
Taken off-guard, wine drizzles awkwardly down my throat, making me cough. “What happened to the cozy questions, huh? Favorite color? Biggest celebrity crush? You know, the easy stuff?”
His brown eyes narrow curiously. “Okay, biggest celebrity crush?”
“It’s a toss-up between Keats and Shelley. Don’t get me started about Shakespeare and his iambic pentameter.”
“You’re such a dork.” Jack’s laugh dwindles fast, though. “Is your mom’s love life a difficult question?”
My hand slides over Edgar’s arched back. “Mom doesn’t date. Not since my injuries. And I don’t talk about that.”
“Never?”
I shake my head, refocusing on Edgar. But it’s a lie. My mac-n-cheese story gets told at least once a year when brave students ask—so I do talk about it, just not the real it. Even sharing the fake story seems risky with Jack.
“Hmm, what about your no-romance rules? Is that fruit from the same off-limits tree?”
“Um, no. Not exactly. Indirectly.”
“Care to share the reasoning behind them?”
“I have nothing against sweet gestures or romance, theoretically. But at the beginning of a relationship, the goal is to get to know someone. Romantic gifts and the expectations behind them could cloud a person’s judgment—they’ve clouded mine. It’s funny. Parents teach children not to take candy from strangers, and yet, young women not only accept roses, dinners, and drinks from men they don’t know but are impressed with the gesture—as if it’s an epic quest, going to a florist and pulling out a credit card.”
Jack chuckles. “Note to self—never buy Rowan roses.”
“I love flowers,” I say, dreamier than I intend. “I just don’t want them from someone new. I’d much rather have them from someone who knows me and what I like. Not someone trying to impress me… not that men generally try to impress me. Most avoid me.”
“Fuck them. They’re idiots.”
My brow creeps up. “Not all of us are lucky enough to have a contact list full of sex buddies.”
“You consider that lucky?” He leans up, petting Edgar, who has plopped between us.
“What would you call it?”
“Routine maintenance,” he says in a breath. “Fucking lonely, if I’m honest. I wouldn’t buy any of them flowers.”
His confession shocks me. The hot guy with a constant rotation of backyard parties and overnight romps—how is he lonely? I can’t fathom the everybody-wants-me attention he’s used to, but part of me leans into what he’s saying like a plant toward sunlight. I know loneliness.
“Then, that’s how you’ll know,” I say after several silent sips between us.
“Know what?”
“When it’s real—you’ll want to buy her flowers.”
His boyish smile returns like he might be picturing it—a proud stroll into a florist shop for the woman he loves. He’d turn it into a creative mission, choosing only the most meaningful and unique flowers.
Even my sweet imaginings make me sad these days.
“Nice thought, but unlikely,” he says, clearing the air. “So, tell me. Did your rules help? And how did you establish them?”
“My rules were part of my dating profiles on the sites Mira made me join.”
“Made you? Not a fan of online dating?”
“Not a fan of dating… I’ve had an embarrassing number of no-shows, turnarounds, or never-call-agains.”
He doesn’t seem surprised. “You mean, guys that don’t show… presumably because they see you from afar?”
“Right. My profile pics always showed my scars, too, but seeing me in person still surprised them. A few made it to the table before turning around. One guy saw my face and said, ‘hell no’ before leaving.”
“Pricks like that aren’t worth airspace, let alone your time, Rowan.”
“I only signed up for the sites because Mom and Mira were worried about me—I didn’t want to do it. I thought having rules would weed out idiots—they probably helped. But a few snuck in, anyway.”
Jack sits up, crisscrossing his legs and turning toward me. “There’s so much to unpack here, I don’t know where to begin… Why were Christine and Mira worried?”
“I hadn’t dated in a while.”
“What’s a while?”
“Few years.”
“Why not?”
At my hesitation, he pops up, rushes to the kitchen, and returns with the wine bottle. He tops off our dwindling glasses before resuming his position on the floor.
I take a long sip. “I was in a bad relationship, and after, I didn’t want to date.”
When I don’t continue, he stares at me over the tops of his eyes. “It’s okay. Tell me about the prick.”
These are things I don’t talk about. But you should, I hear Mira saying like a little devil by my ear. But it’s Jack’s loneliness confession that eases me into it. His vulnerability tugs at strings I keep tied tightly, loosening them.
“I’ve had my… features since I was fifteen,” I say, stealing Renita’s word. “When everyone else was going out and getting boyfriends, I was stuck in surgeries or at home recovering.” I pause as a memory resurfaces—vague like a ghost rounding a corner. “There was one time… in recovery after a skin graft. The boy in the bed next to mine flirted with me.”
Jack’s head cocks curiously. “Given your cheesy grin, he must’ve had a nice bedside manner.”
“It’s funny—I didn’t remember until now. Isn’t that weird?”
“Memory is a mystery, elusive sometimes. Tell me about it.”
“I don’t remember much. He had shockingly red hair. His name was… Caleb. He’d had a skin graft, too, for burns on his hands and arms. A botched arson, he claimed, but I didn’t believe him. He was funny. Talking about movies, music, and books with Caleb was the most normal thing I’d done in months. Gosh, I can’t believe I’d forgotten… I thought about him for so long after. Every time I went to the hospital after that, I looked for him. Sounds silly, but I hoped I’d see him again, that fate would give us a re-do so I could do things better.”
“Like what?”
“Uh, get his number, give him mine, find out where he went to school… basic, I want-to-know-you things.” I take another long sip, wondering about Caleb. “Sorry, you want to know about the prick.”
“No apologies. I love a good diversion.”
“Mira and her wife, Jane, introduced me to Trent. He worked with Jane in real estate. He was an exceptional charmer. He’d seen me before, visiting Jane with Mira, and he liked me, anyway.” A light smile perks my lips, remembering how that felt.
“Trent loved romance—he was all roses, wine, dinners out, and surprises. He lavished me with gifts and attention—he said he was making up for lost time and the previous idiots who missed their chance.”
“Yikes, he was a charmer.”
“I was a sucker for it. I’d never had that before. I’d also never known to look for red flags.”
“Like what?”
“Small controlling things at first, like him always choosing the restaurant or making suggestions. You should wear more green—you look stunning in green. Or flats are okay, but heels are sexy. Why don’t you wear your hair up more? If a skirt goes below the knee, it might as well be pants.”
“An order veiled as a compliment.”
“Exactly. But I didn’t see it. I thought I’d hit the jackpot—a good guy who didn’t mind being seen with me.”
“Wait, you call that a jackpot? Sounds like base requirements to me.”
A wine-bolstered chuckle blubbers from me. “You sound like Mira—yes, I have self-esteem issues. Do you blame me?”
His eyes roll while he nods. “Fine. So, when did you realize Trent wasn’t Prince Charming?”
“He’d get bothered by strangers supposedly staring at my scars. At first, I thought he was being protective, but it got weird.”
“How?”
“I know when someone’s staring—I can’t help it. It’s a side effect of this.” I motion to my face. “But he started noticing the stares and whispers before me, and sometimes, when I didn’t believe they were staring at all. He pointed it out everywhere we went, angry at the injustice of it. I feared he’d do something—confront these people or pick a fight.”
“Did he?”
“No. No matter how close he seemed to the edge, I always managed to pull him back. Usually, that meant leaving the restaurant or wherever and me spending the rest of the night calming him down, making him feel better.”
“Oh, shit.” He leans forward, hand to his mouth like he’s trying to keep himself from talking.
My head droops as I stare into my wine, ashamed. “You know where this is going.”
“He manipulated you into being the damsel in distress so he could play the hero… and reap the rewards of your gratefulness.”
“Sick, right? I fell for it, over and over. I stopped going out. Covered up more. Eventually, the anger he directed toward others reversed to me. He’d say or do something horrible, and the next day, I’d get roses or candy or, if it was really bad, jewelry. The worse the offense, the greater the gift.”
After another gulp, I say, “Mira dragged me out of the relationship and to a therapist. But endings aren’t easy. He couldn’t accept that the damaged girl had rejected him. He stalked me, hacked my social media, got creepy…”
I set my glass aside to run my hands over my face as if to wipe the memories away. “A restraining order ended it—most women don’t get so lucky. Without Mira’s law enforcement connections and Jane making things hard on him at work, things would’ve been worse for me. He backed off and later moved. And that’s the story of the prick.”
Anxiety waves over me with the story out there, lingering between us, and my creepy Trent vibes resurface with it. Trent slamming my head against the wall and digging his fingers into my scarred cheek as if trying to peel off the marks makes me shiver. My face itches with the memory, and my fingers fidget with the urge to scratch it. My eyes close as if I can block out the images.
“What are you remembering right now?” His voice is soft, but it jolts me.
“His anger. He was violent once. That’s when I got out.” The words come out with surprising ease, like I’m under hypnosis. I fear he’ll ask more questions and want details I don’t want to give.
Instead, a strange sensation on my fingertips peels my eyes open. Jack softly eases my jittery hands into his from across our laps. His thumbs roll over my outer palms, grazing my scars like they aren’t there, before moving to my fingers. He touches me like he knows me, and maybe now he does a little, but it makes me breathless and confused and mesmerized all at once.
“I’m sorry.” He takes me in with an intense stare. “There are certain things in this world that should never happen. I hate that some of those things have happened to you.”
A pinched smile breaks through. “This is why I prefer the easy questions.”
“I get it.” His eyes fall to our linked hands as his fingers curl with mine. “But be proud of your scars, Rowan. Inside and out. They tell stories—stories worth sharing. You survived something difficult. You’re still surviving it. Your worldview is forever altered and unique. That doesn’t make you less than. It makes you badass. A beautiful badass. I feel more connected to you knowing you’ve been through shitstorms—maybe that’s why I’m writing again.”
His hands are strong, like the rest of him, and calloused where he’s held a pen for too long—he writes and types to create his books. I have the same callous on the inner side of my right index finger from hand-grading thousands of essays, and he smirks when he finds it.
Absorbing his words, I smile. “Well, since you put it like that… then, sweet are the uses of adversity.”
Lacing his fingers through mine inspires a heat wave through my core.
“Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in its head,” he recites dramatically, his grip tight as he caresses my hands. “And this our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones and—”
“Good in everything,” we say together. Laughing brings us closer. I catch the piney scent of his cologne and the sweetness of his breath. Our foreheads nearly bump, bringing on more chuckles.
A shameful fantasy stirs—me tackling him to the floor with wild kisses, sex sparked by wine and Shakespeare. But I come to my senses. That road would only lead to a dead end and absolute humiliation. This thing between us isn’t like that, anyway.
I tug my hands from his.
Amused, he says, “There you go again. You and your dead white guys. But this time, I think Shakespeare would—”
My phone rattles on the coffee table. Dean lights up the screen, but I make no move to answer.
“Should you get that?”
The aftermath of Dean’s last call comes over me like a dark shade—I don’t want to feel like that again. “I should, but I don’t want to.”
Jack’s face twists with sudden discomfort. “Um, Rowan, I—”
“No, Jack, not because of you.” A chuckle bumbles out at his obvious distress. “Don’t look so horrified. Save your let’s just be friends lecture for your bed bunnies—I have no ideas about us.”
“Wait. What?” His discomfort switches to confusion. “That’s not what I was going to say—”
“It’s okay.” I flip the phone over as it stops ringing and take the food into the kitchen. “You don’t need to explain. I’m engaged, sort of, and you’re… well, Jack Graham.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He follows me with our empty glasses.
“It means I’m not your type.” I sort some plastic containers to put the leftovers away.
“Why not?” Looking amused and curious, he leans against the counter beside me, nudging me with his shoulder.
My eyes roll at the question. “What difference does it make?”
“For research purposes. Tell me… Why aren’t you my type?” His hand lays over mine, fiddling with containers, forcing me to look at him. “We’re around the same age. Unmarried. Accomplished professionals. And we’re both hot—”
“Not exactly,” I argue, tugging away from him again. But his words roll over mine.
“—So, either you think I’m too shallow to want you as you are, or you’re too insecure to think it’s possible.”
I stop my work and stare at him, feeling uneasy. “I don’t like these questions.”
“No shit,” he laughs. “But those are the most interesting questions to ask. Come on. Why aren’t you my type?”
“Fine.” My eyes narrow to slits. “You have a very lackadaisical attitude toward sex that I could never have. I’m not judging—just observing. Sex is just another fun party for you. But it’s a milestone for me. To get to that place where I feel close enough with someone… it means everything.” I shrug lightly, feeling childlike with my admission, like I’m flashing my badge of inexperience. “That probably sounds—”
“Don’t assume you know what I’m thinking.” He looks pensive—the amusement has vanished from his face. “You don’t know me.”
“Did I say something offensive? I’m sorry—” My phone rattles from the other room.
“You should answer it.” He takes the food container from my hands. “I’ll finish this and let myself out.”
Unsure and uneasy, I do as he says. Moments later, Jack’s gone.