18. Eighteen
Keeping my distance isn’t working. Keeping her at a distance isn’t either.
Reading her neurotically detailed annotations felt strangely like being with her, letting her wriggle into my brain and root around… in a good way, like an earthworm in the dirt letting in air. Her comments got my creative neurons firing. She enlightened me, as she does every time we’re together.
I’d be an idiot to give that up over fears of us getting too close.
We’re already too close.
Touching her the other day made me feel like her hero, the Superman to her Lois Lane (even though she hates that kind of thing). Touching her scars isn’t off-putting, either. The opposite, really. Beautiful in a strange way. It’s like running fingers over a canvas with thick swirls of expressive paint.
And worth the risk for the two truths it revealed—that she’s rarely if ever, touched there, and I like showing her that not every guy is a heartless prick.
This isn’t too bad either—sitting around the kitchen banquette with her and Sara, feasting on Thai food. Sara is talkative with a dry sense of humor, and it’s a relief that she’s pulled the stick from her ass. Whatever Rowan said to her when she returned inside must have been spot-on, the exact thing she needed to hear.
Mid-dinner, the doorbell rings. Fear spikes that it could be Dean showing up to ruin whatever this is. What is this?
But it’s the neighbors. They shuffle into the little house armed with wine, desserts, and their usual neighborly persistence.
“We can’t stand it any longer,” Rose announces as they stream into the living room. “We must meet Sara.”
“Seconded,” Vernon says. “I need to tell her the air pressure in her back bike tire is low.”
“I need to tell her how much I love her purple hair.” Marcy’s face scrunches in delight. “It’s my favorite color.”
“Purple Haze,” Tom mentions calmly. “Jimi Hendrix.”
“Come in,” Rowan says, though they’ve already invaded. Her hand goes to her hair tie, releasing her messy bun to let her hair hide her scars, and I wonder if it’s subconscious, automatically covering up.
Introductions circle, and Sara takes it in politely, even the interrogation portion. Rowan tenses beside me like she doesn’t know whether to intervene or let Sara handle herself.
“Don’t look so worried,” I whisper. “They’ll figure each other out.”
Her shoulders relax. “You’re right. I’ll sort some wine glasses and start pouring.”
She disappears as Vernon asks, “Did you know Rowan before you moved in?”
Helping Rowan in the kitchen seems the more interesting of my two options until Sara’s answer stops me.
“I haven’t had her as a teacher yet, but everyone knows Miss ‘Mac-n-cheese’ Mackey.”
She says it so matter-of-factly that I imagine it’s attached to a funny story involving a trip-and-fall in the cafeteria and Rowan being stuck in a cheesy blouse all day.
“Mac-n-cheese Mackey? That has a funny ring to it,” Marcy says.
Vernon folds his arms. “I hope it’s not a derogatory nickname, young lady.”
“How exactly would it be derogatory, Vern?” Tom asks.
“Well, I don’t know, but surely calling your teacher cheesy—”
“Sara, tell us. Why on earth would you call her that, love?”
“You don’t know her mac-n-cheese story? It’s why she’s covered in scald marks,” Sara says with a duh tone.
“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about that,” I say.
“It’s no secret,” Sara says. “Everyone at school knows. She talks about it—no big deal. A dumb accident while making mac-n-cheese. She splashed herself with boiling water—”
“That’s right.” Glasses clink together on Rowan’s tray as she stops abruptly beside me. “Not my best move.” A weak laugh accompanies her deer-in-the-headlights expression, and I know right away—that story is bullshit.
She clears her throat before moving again. “Um, I had an after-school hankering for mac-n-cheese, and as Burns wrote, best-laidplans oft go awry.” An uneasy chuckle escapes as she sets the tray on the coffee table. “Let me grab the wine.”
Vernon holds up a finger. “Household accidents are a silent killer—no one talks about them. My Uncle Lou died after an unfortunate scuffle with a toaster…”
Rowan whips by me, her gray-blue eyes catching mine. Her forced smile and her fidgeting fingers give her away. She’s not only uneasy but downright nervous.
And I get why. Her no-big-deal story for her students is her way of controlling the narrative. It’s practiced and delivered in a space where she’s in charge. That it happens here, around her new neighbors, and without her leading the story, derails her tried-and-true explanation. She didn’t plan for this.
She returns, bottles at the ready.
Rose chides Vernon for rambling while Tom agrees, “Most people die close to home.”
“Um, red or white?” She holds up the wine.
“Red for me,” Sara says.
“Nice try. You can have yellow… as in Mountain Dew.”
“Wait, I don’t get it, love,” Rose says as Rowan fills her glass. “How did the water get from the pot to you?”
Her practiced smile returns. “The pot was too small, Rose. It happened when I turned from the stove to the sink—I did it too fast.”
Vernon seems about to argue the logistics of it, so I jump in with, “Hey, um, Sara, what’s the deal with the purple hair? Do you identify mermaid or something?”
“I want to know what brand you use because it’s awesome,” Marcy adds, twiddling with a wayward lock of Sara’s hair like they’re already best friends.
“What could you do with mine?” Rose asks.
Rowan plays hostess, filling everyone’s glass, and the tension in her shoulders immediately releases with the subject change. Stepping away from the group, her eyes close tightly, as if blocking out the lie.
She brushes by me again, careful not to make eye contact as she retreats to the kitchen. She serves the donated desserts, staying busy, while Sara keeps the group engaged. She talks about her father’s lawn care business, which I joke Rowan should hire as soon as possible, earning a small smile. Sara relates that she loves crystals, horror movies, and RPGs. Rowan seems to relax the more she learns about her roommate.
The party dissipates once Sara promises to visit Rose for crocheting tutorials and Marcy’s for hair dyeing, as if that had been the main goal for them descending on the little house in the first place. The neighbors leave. Sara retreats to her bedroom.
In silence, we address the leftovers and dirty dishes. I hand wash the wine glasses—all but ours, which I promptly refill. She seems somewhat perplexed that I’m helping in the kitchen, but she doesn’t question it.
When the work is done, I take my wine to the living room and play with Edgar on the floor. She takes a spot nearby, not seeming to mind our informality. She tugs the hair tie from her wrist and recreates her messy bun—I take this as a sign that she’s becoming more comfortable with me.
Since everything with Rowan feels like an experiment, I test the waters. “A kitchen accident isn’t the real story. Is it?”
She stares into her wine glass like it might generate an answer for her. She wants to smooth out the lie, and I expect her fake smile and a suitable deflection. Perhaps she’ll claim I’m so desperate for drama that I can’t accept that there isn’t any. Not everything’s a book-worthy spectacle, Jack—cue laughter.
Her words don’t come, though. Instead, she releases her hair again like a curtain, ending the show.
“It’s okay, Rowan. We don’t have to talk about it.”
“Good because I don’t talk about it.”
Her defensiveness surprises me. “First rule of Fight Club?” My attempt at humor falls short. “There’s no judgment here. It’s smart to have an answer ready for an inevitable question, and I bet teenagers can be rude about it.”
“Adults are worse.”
“It’s an awful situation to be in. The thing that affects your life the most is the one thing you don’t want to talk about. I get it, but does it hurt less holding it in all the time?”
“Some stories don’t belong to you, Jack.”
“If you don’t share your stories, what’s the point of having them? How can anyone truly know who you are?”
Again, she doesn’t answer.
“But Dean knows, right?” I edge closer, peering through her hair curtain with skepticism. “Surely the guy you let into your heart and bed knows these fundamental pieces of your history?”
Holy shit, he doesn’t.Her irritation gives her away.
“That’s exactly how we’ve gotten this far—keeping the past out of it. Dean doesn’t care about my scars—”
“He meets the minimum requirements—I get it.”
Her eyes narrow. “It’s more than that. He doesn’t see me as a victim. He’s a fresh start… or he was. I don’t know anymore. I don’t want to talk about him, either.”
“Fair enough. But I’m here… if you ever want to talk about it. Might make you feel better. Talking about Trent did, I think. I promise—I won’t use it.”
I hold up my fingers in a Scout’s honor gesture, making her laugh, and it’s a relief to hear it.
Her eyes roll. “You can’t make that promise.”
“Seriously—I do. Trust me. We’re friends, right?”
“Ha! Friends? Friends don’t steal each other’s annotated books. Besides, our conversations wouldn’t be so one-sided if we were really friends. Enough about me.”
“Ah, are you suggesting a quid pro quo arrangement for conversation?”
“You realize you’re Hannibal Lecter in this scenario, right?”
I smirk deviously. “I’m okay with that. Instead of being on a cell block, I have writer’s block.”
“And instead of catching a serial killer, you’re hunting for killer ideas.”
“It’s the Silence of the Keys.” My embarrassing snort-laugh makes her giggle even more.
“Oh, damn,” she laughs. “If the cheesy jokes have started, we’ve definitely had too much wine.”
“No, this is good… What do you want to know, Rowan?” I stare over the tops of my eyes, drawing out her name to make it sound like Lecter saying, “Clarice.”
After a wine-induced giggle, she shrugs. “What upset you the other night?”
I’m not the only one with good people perception. Given what she did to my book, I shouldn’t be surprised. I pour more wine. “Damn, you’re making it tough on me.”
“Well, you made me talk about Trent, so…”
She says it like she’s kidding, but I feel bad for putting her through it. “Yeah, that was hard for you… Fine. I was jealous.”
“Jealous? Of what?”
“I don’t know. Jealous of…” My frustration returns with the subject. “Of the idea that when you give yourself to someone, you mean it—heart, mind, and body. I’ve never had that.”
“Sure, you have. What about your muse?”
I laugh. “I don’t have a muse.”
“That’s not what everyone else says.”
“I stopped writing. They needed theories to explain it. I didn’t argue. Letting them think I’ve lost my muse felt easier than the alternative.”
“Which is?”
I shake my head, gnawing at my bottom lip in debate. I don’t want to talk about my shit either. But she’s been so honest—every time I give, she’s given something back. And for once, I don’t want to be emotionally stingy, not with her.
My answer spills out in a belabored breath. “I’m abysmally unqualified to write love stories. I cared about Evie. Still do. But I never loved her—not the way I once wanted, not the way I write about. She inspired my heroines, loosely, and she’s exactly what you might picture a muse to be. Beautiful in an ethereal way, accomplished, intelligent. Perfect. She came into my life when I needed someone most. Losing Devin devastated me, and if not for Evie… I don’t know that I could’ve gotten through it.”
I pause, closing my eyes. “I took it hard when Ben died. It was like reliving everything that happened with Devin. I reached out to Evie—the one person I thought would understand—and she… blew me off. That’s not what we’re about, she said.”
I laugh at the irony. “She used my spiel against me. Guess there’s poetic justice there.”
“That doesn’t make it hurt any less. I’m sorry.”
My head hangs in her sincerity. “She’s in love with someone else. She has been for a while. He’s good for her—I don’t have a problem with it. But when things get rocky with him, she comes to me. Old habits, she says. It’s easy with me because not being in love means I can’t hurt her. And I’ve never minded being her safety net.”
“But she couldn’t be yours. Not anymore.” Her hand rests atop mine and squeezes gently before leaving again, and I miss the warmth of it as soon as it’s gone. “That must’ve broken your heart a little.”
“Yeah, a little, but I shouldn’t have been surprised. Evie and I haven’t been truly close in years. Even in high school, I knew it wouldn’t work out.”
“But you stayed with her?”
“I was a teenage boy with a hot girlfriend. Of course, I stayed with her. But there were red flags. She isn’t a reader. Can you believe it?”
The revelation makes her chuckle half-heartedly.
“Worse, she’s ambitious. I don’t mean to say it like it’s a bad word. I love career-minded women. But Evie’s too… Lady Macbeth. She’d do anything to get the crown. She hates this neighborhood. She thought my writing was a fad I’d get over to make a real career in journalism. It’s a wonder we ever clicked at all.” I shrug again. “I mean, it was more physical than anything else. That’s all it is now. All it’ll ever be.”
Rowan looks surprised, maybe disappointed, when she asks, “You’ll keep seeing her?”
“I don’t know. Probably.” Truth is, I don’t want to, but I don’t expect anything to be different when she shows up at my door—a fact that’s hard to explain since Rowan puts so much emotional value in sex. Being with Evie is easy for me, too.
“But everyone says you’re miserable after she leaves, even before what happened with Ben. If it’s just a sex thing, then why does she, in particular, make you sad?”
I consider holding back—our talk has detoured into a minefield. I don’t talk about this with anyone. But I think of those elegant hands of hers trembling when she told me about Trent, and I can’t refuse her.
“She’s the one semi-serious relationship I’ve ever had. Seeing her reminds me how… alone I am… and makes me feel like a fraud. Who am I to write about love?”
She laughs, and my eyes flick to hers in offense. “Sorry, I’m just surprised—”
She delivers a soft punch to my arm, an innocent, playful move that rouses not-so-innocent thoughts.
“—You’re as close to perfect as any man I’ve ever met. It’s a bit jarring to discover that the great Jack Graham’s just as insecure as the rest of us.”
“I’m touched that my inner pain amuses you.”
“No, I get it—imposter syndrome. I feel like that every time I walk into my classroom. Who am I to teach kids? Or foster one? But that feeling makes me work harder. So it’s not a bad thing.”
She reaches over again, resting her hand atop mine, and damn if my heart doesn’t do somersaults for how fast it’s beating.
“You’re not a fraud.”
Thisis the woman from the restaurant—confident, poised, perfect. My eyes fix on hers, enchanted.
“You are not a fraud,” she says again. “So you haven’t had your great love yet? That doesn’t mean you can’t write about it. The Bront?s wrote gorgeous love stories without finding love themselves. Mary Shelley didn’t animate a dead body to write Frankenstein. Lewis Carroll never stepped foot in Wonderland, nor did he ever meet the Cheshire Cat…”
Her eyes drift to the cat’s toothy grin peeking under my shirt sleeve. She wants to see my tattoos, a realization that brings on my Cheshire Cat grin. But she quickly returns her eyes to mine, pink-cheeked.
“—A writer’s best resource is his imagination, and you use yours so beautifully.”
I chew my bottom lip, watching her like I’m under a spell. She matches my stare like a dare she wants to win.
“Careful, Rowan,” I say, my voice soft and raspy. “Encouragement like that will bring me to your doorstep a lot.”
“I’m okay with that.” She pulls her hand away, but with a twist of my wrist, I catch it, holding it there.
“You’re pretty close to perfect, too, you know. I mean, when you’re not planning everything or dissecting books. No—actually, I take that back. You’re perfect then, too… I hope Dean knows how lucky he is.”
She exhales sharply. “I hurt him. He needs a little time to remember his luck, I think.”
“He shouldn’t need time to remember that.”
“What would you have done? You finally find the woman you want to spend your life with, go through a gorgeous, public proposal, and she blurts out a non-answer.”
“What would I have done? That’s easy. I would’ve kissed you like you’ve never been kissed before, until the only answer was yes.”
An insistent tug releases her hand from mine. She looks bothered. Flushed, even.
So, I push further. “Course, I never would’ve proposed to you like that. On stage in front of everyone—that’s not romantic. It’s a fucking circus. No, you’re more of a beach-at-sunset kind of girl. No, wait… I’d tie the ring to a bookmark and tuck it into whatever book you’re reading. Then, I’d circle relevant words on the page—love, lovely, sexy, whatever—a romantic annotation that only you could appreciate. Then, I’d slap a sticky note in there… Marry me, Rowan. See? Nothing forced or nervous. Just you, about to do the thing you love most and being quietly delighted by the person you love most. Perfect, right?”
Her face tells me all I want to know. Not only are her heartstrings pulled, but yanked hard enough for her to imagine it. A quiet, lovely, bookish proposal. Sweeter still, I don’t think it’s Dean she imagines.
The serene look on her face holds me in place. I mean every word, like a memory that hasn’t happened yet. I see myself peeking around a corner, waiting for her to discover it, waiting for her yes like it’s my first breath.
Shit, what the fuck is happening to me?
She quickly comes to her senses, clearing her throat and setting her glass aside. “Um… another sign of too much wine—Jack Graham dishing out marriage proposals.” Her laugh emerges half-heartedly.
“Admit it—that would get a yes.”
“Yes, no, maybe. You never know with me. I don’t care how it happens, only that Dean asks me again. I’ll give the right answer next time.”
“Really? The guy backpedaled on his proposal and abandoned you for the summer—he doesn’t seem like much of a Prince Charming.”
“Oh, I don’t need a prince. A squire will do fine. Or a duke. Hell, even the local bookbinder could make me happy.”
Her joke falls flat this time. I shake my head at her, saddened by how little she thinks of herself. “Damn, Rowan. If you’re going to bother being with someone, why not hold out for someone who at least makes you happy?”
“He does. He will.” A light shrug stops her useless convincing. “Mom and Mira have given me a hard time about Dean from the beginning, but they don’t get it—he’s a good man who wants to be with me. Or did. Is it wrong to hope that everything will be okay? That this one mess-up won’t be my sliding door to a miserable, lonely life?”
“It’s not wrong to hope, but are those your only choices? Dean or misery? You should hope for more doors.”