15. Fifteen
Idon’t know why I’m pissed. Rephrase—I know why, but I don’t like it. It’s jealousy—the familiar pangs of discontent I’ve felt lately over other authors pumping out new books and my friends talking about their kids’ games branches into new territory. And I don’t like it at all.
Rowan takes the call, her voice lifting into feigned cheerfulness as she answers—she doesn’t want to talk to him. I shouldn’t have pushed her. She paces the living room, head lowered. Whatever he’s saying to her, it’s bullshit, but she listens, giving him attention he doesn’t deserve.
I’m not jealous of that. Unlike the rest of the neighborhood, I’ve never doubted the existence of Dean. Her semi-engaged status has been stuck on repeat in my head ever since striking our deal. Neighbor. Engaged. Off-limits.
It’s what she said—everything she said—that upsets me.
From the living room, I hear a weak, “…yes, Dean, but…” Her words linger in the air, unfinished.
My anger upticks. Where does she find these asshole fuck-heads who won’t even let her finish a sentence? I can’t listen anymore.
I put the food away and eye my book on the counter with its bent spine and sticky-note-rainbow. I tuck it into my waistband under my shirt and make a quick exit.
At home, I toss the book on the kitchen counter—I’m in the wrong headspace for that right now. I pour Jim Beam and watch the liquid swirl in my glass.
Rowan’s dating history makes my blood boil. I hate how she’s been treated. And tonight’s revelations aren’t the worst of it—her reluctance makes it clear. She blames her face. I blame fucking men—the entitled, manipulative, twisted pricks who leech onto her because they think she’s an easy target. Her words to Mira make more sense now—dating is torture for her.
But that’s not entirely why I feel like shit right now. If anything, I should be thrilled that she shared something so personal—she’s dropping her iron shields around me. That’s a momentous win.
“Then, what’s the prob, Bob?” Devin’s voice brings a light smile. I picture him on the barstool, eyeing my drink with nostalgia for the days we’d sneak Dad’s bottle and get stupid-drunk with Corey on boring Saturday nights.
“The prob is she racks up assholes like she’s curating a collection for a dickhead museum. She could do so much better.”
“Like you?”
“No, not me.” I toss back my drink. “I’d just be another asshole.”
“Then don’t be another asshole.” Devin challenges with his goofy grin. “Be a friend, and see what happens.”
Scoffing, I pour another drink. “I’m off to a good start with the novel. I don’t need her.”
“Then, why are we talking about her?”
“I don’t know. She’s… got me flustered. Intimacy means everything to her—I wonder what that’s like. To slowly ease into her heart until she gives all of it. That’s what I’m missing. Meaning. Substance. Real affection.”
“I believe the technical term for that is love. But in book jargon, it’s the slow burn neighbors to friends to soulmates story—I know that one well,” Devin says deviously.
“I’m talking theoretically. Rowan isn’t interested. Or available. Or a good idea.”
“Excuses, excuses. Who are you trying to convince, huh? Be honest—” He leans over the counter, locking eyes with me like he’s a human lie detector. “You want to be the one easing into her heart and getting to her everything. Right?”
“I want…” My brow pinches in futile deliberation—what I want doesn’t matter. Still, I give imaginary Devin an answer, if only to keep the conversation going. “… her to have the love she deserves. She’s earned it.”
“I dare you to give it to her,” he says as if we’re playing a game. “Who knows? You might get love, too.”
I scoff again while my phone chimes. Jennifer, the sexy optometrist and roller derby maven, sends a suggestive text before asking to come over.
“I prefer my usual happy endings, but thanks anyway.” I send the thumbs-up emoji. When I look up, Devin’s gone. Not that he was really there in the first place.
Twenty minutes later, Jennifer’s pinned against the foyer wall, my tongue plunged into her mouth, and my hand between her legs. I didn’t even say anything when I answered the door.
But despite the gusto of our good time, our reindeer games don’t play out like normal. I’m distracted. I keep thinking how different this would be with Rowan. Slower. Softer. Sexier. Intimate. I imagine her legs wrapped around me, her fingers on my arms, my hands lacing her hair. And that smile—delicate, wanting, hopeful.
Rowan’s face shows up whenever I close my eyes like she’s a virus fucking with my normal programming.
Keeping my eyes open isn’t better, because I can’t pretend I’m with the girl next door.
So, I keep them closed and let my head go wherever it wants. I imagine Rowan’s hands and mouth all over me, my lips devouring her, my fingers exploring her warmest places. We don’t even make it to the stairs before she’s naked and quivering.
“Holy shit, Jack. What’s got into you, huh?”
I answer by making her come, and her question is lost in her outcry. Then, I take her against the kitchen island, hard and fast. It’s the best sex I’ve had in ages.
Still, I’m glad when she leaves. I feel empty. Pissed, though I don’t get why. Since when is amazing sex not enough for me?
A long shower washes Jennifer away but does little for my irritation. So, I return to what’s been going well. I’m 47,323 words in, but still missing a crucial element—the inciting incident. Incredible scenes with complex, wounded characters have cued up in no particular order, but not what sets off the string of events in the first place. I need the original domino.
Harper Lee meows and hops onto my desk, sauntering across my keyboard and notebooks in a not-so-subtle plea for attention. I pick her up, rubbing her back as she hooks over my shoulder. Her paws knead into me as she purrs. I breathe into her fluffy orange fur, and that’s when it comes to me.
Caleb, the boy with the shockingly red hair, and my version of Rowan searching for him wherever she goes…
Harper Lee protests with a sharp meow when I release her for my keyboard, but it’s okay. She lives a lovely cat life and understands that my books are partially responsible. Pencil tucked against my ear, I switch on a random playlist, volume relatively low, and invert my hands over my keyboard, cracking them, before I start typing. The scene plays in my head with striking clarity—a late-night hospital emergency room and two injured teenagers who don’t want to go home.
I don’t look up until the sky is gray, and I hear Rowan’s front door shutting as she goes on her morning run. I watch her from my front window—it’s not stalking if you live next door. I consider texting her something funny about her always running away from the neighborhood or a random good morning. She opened up to me yesterday in ways she rarely does with anyone, however shitty it made me feel after. I want to reach out. Assure her. Thank her, even.
But as soon as my eyes drift from her face to her tight running outfit, I turn away.
Distance, asshole. Distance.