21. Twenty-One
It’s after one when we return to the little house. The party has ended, leaving a quiet, sleepy street. Sara slugs inside, exhaustion catching up with her.
“Good night, Rowan,” she says before disappearing into her bedroom.
The game face I plastered all night vanishes with the click of her door closing. Deep breaths keep my heart from racing, but I can’t do anything about my shaking fingers or the nervous energy now pulsing through me. A home invasion was nearly the death of me once, and tonight, I almost let it happen again. The two events replay in an endless loop, clashing with each other and all the what-ifs. We were lucky it ended well. It almost didn’t.
What was I thinking?
I try making tea, but the teabag rips apart. My nerves, my body, my head—everything is rattled. I step outside the sliding glass doors, hoping the cool night air might bring some relief.
It doesn’t.
Movement catches my attention through the hedges in Jack’s yard—he’s still awake. I think of how he consoled me after Sara lashed out, and I long for his comfort again. With him, I won’t have to explain unless I want to. I won’t have to worry that he’ll ignore my call. He’ll just let me be with him as long as I need.
My shoulders buck at the sound of breaking glass as I take the path between our houses. Jack stands at the pool’s edge, holding a bottle and stumbling over his feet. He’s drunk and irritated.
I hesitate, but only for a second before saying his name.
He pauses until I call out again. He whips around, nearly falling. “Rowan? You made it.”
His frustration vanishes like butter melting into warm toast. It’s a wild relief, the change in his disposition, and a surprise, given my previous experiences with drunk men. I go to him, stopping short of walking straight into his arms.
Glassy-eyed, he looks me over. “Something’s wrong. What is it? Is it Sara?”
“She’s fine.” My voice trembles with the words. “Just… a rough night.”
“You’re shaking.” With this discovery, he gently pulls me to his chest, and I press my ear against his heartbeat. A trapped breath sputters out as I latch on, and he curls me up—his arms tight around my shoulders and back, his head resting on mine.
His warmth and comfort are exactly what I need. He’s exactly what I need. His tight hold feels like a shield, us against the world. I can’t remember the last time I felt so safe. He says nothing and lets me linger. Secret tears emerge while I clutch him, leaking out with the released tension. He strokes my hair with his fingertips like he knows I’m crying. As drunk as he is, as late as it is, he doesn’t let go, like he might stay this way all night, if that’s what I needed.
A lovely but dangerous idea that I can’t entertain for many reasons.
Still, I retreat slowly, lingering in our collected heat. He hovers over me, his breath in my hair and fingers pressing me to him. It’s like he doesn’t want me to pull away. Or it could be my wishful thinking.
Meeting his eyes, I force a weak smile. “Um, how was the party?”
“Fucking awful.”
“Why?”
“You weren’t here.” He shrugs like it’s obvious.
A weak laugh rumbles out. “Sorry.” I glance at his white button-down, now smeared with damp mascara. “Oh, shit… and for that.” Quick swipes under my eyes remove the leftover evidence of my breakdown. “Guess you were right about me. I am needy.”
“I don’t care about the shirt.” Awkwardly, he yanks it off and tosses it in the pool. A boyish smirk plays at his mouth as he stands there in his plain white t-shirt. “See? And forget what I said that night. You aren’t needy. You’re human. A perfect human. With your perfect smile, your perfect lips, perfect ass, perfect legs, perfect face. You’re perfect, scars and all.”
“No, Jack. I’m not.”
“You are to me.”
It hurts to hear him say these things. He feels sorry for me, that’s all. He’s overcompensating for what he knows isn’t true, just like Renita did. I’m no one’s ‘beautiful, no one’s ‘perfect.’ Jack’s too drunk to see it.
He stumbles slightly, catching my arm.
“You’re perfectly drunk… And bleeding. Here, sit down.”
I ease him into the nearest chair, careful of the glass and glad for the distraction. The sparkling mess around us almost works with the decor—his backyard shimmers with gorgeous twinkling lights. They canopy the deck and circle the pool, reflecting off the gold and black balloons holding up every corner. I spy the empty dance floor with regret.
“I missed a beautiful party, Jack. I love the lights.”
“I knew you would.” He leans closer, lightly twiddling my hair. “Rowan, can’t believe you’re here. You look amazing. Holy shit, that dress.”
“Thanks, I really wanted to be here.”
“I really wanted you here,” he says slowly. “Want to talk about it? Your rough night?”
Part of me does. But I shake my head. “No… just grappling with some old ghosts.”
“Yeah, me, too.” He looks sad but doesn’t elaborate.
“Let’s take a look at your feet, huh?”
“That’s weird, but whatever you say.”
I prop his injured foot into my lap and tug off his sock. The gashes aren’t deep, but I extract two glass shards. Then, I rinse his feet with a nearby water bottle.
“Sorry, I’m a mess,” he says.
“It’s okay. I’m a mess, too.”
But my mess takes a hard backseat to helping him. I’m no longer shaking or nervous, as if all my anxieties left me during our long embrace.
I help him to the expensive sectional in his gorgeous living room. He tells me where to find the first aid kit in the kitchen. He lays on the couch while I dab his wounds with an alcohol swab and wrap them in gauze.
By the time I finish, he’s drifted to sleep.
Outside, I turn off the excess lighting, clean the glass, and get his laptop. I find aspirin in the kitchen and leave it on the coffee table beside him with two water bottles and a small trashcan, just in case. I ease a throw pillow under his head and cover him with a thick blanket I find draped over the plush side chair.
While bringing the blanket up, his tattoos catch my eye. I chuckle, raising the edge of his sleeve higher—the Cheshire Cat.
As my fingers trace its wide, devious grin, Jack wakes and says, “How puzzling all these changes are! I never know what I’m going to be, from one minute to another.”
His Cheshire Cat quote makes me laugh and gratefully hides my embarrassment for touching him like that. “I’m stranger. You’re stranger. Together, we are… strangers.”
“Strangers together. I like that.” His dark eyes lock on mine, lips curving like the cat on his arm.
I smile, too, relieved that he’s a pleasant drunk and grateful I’m here, helping him, just as he’s done for me. I really care about this man.
He lifts his fingers to my face and, cupping my scarred cheek, his thumb softly traces my skin’s uneven texture. And I don’t stop it.
Trent used my scars. Dean avoids them.
Jack’s gentle affection makes me think it’s possible to love all of me, even the rough parts. And why shouldn’t I be loved completely?
“A rose is still a rose, even hidden under different petals… You are… absurdly beautiful, Rowan. In the strangest, most intoxicating way.”
My breath catches and holds, a little enamored. “Um, you’re quite drunk.”
“No! Just drunk enough to say what I really think. He doesn’t deserve you, you know.”
My eyes catch his, almost surprised at how serious and lucid he is.
“That’s the real, ongoing travesty in all this.” His fingers slip over my cheek and tickle my neck. “The stories people tell you, and you believe… that you’re not enough. That you’re damaged goods. That it’s okay for everything else to come before you. It makes me sad. Sad that you aren’t loved the way you’re meant to be loved. You should be ravished, Rowan.” His goofy smile returns. “And cherished. And fucking adored.”
“Spoken like a true romantic,” I mutter through the lump in my throat. I tug his hand away from my face, holding it against his chest. “No one lines up to do that.” Not even Dean. “But don’t worry about me, Jack. I’m okay with it.”
“You shouldn’t be. Don’t you want to be ravished?” He asks like I’m an alien species, yet to learn human ways.
“Who doesn’t?” I say, not hiding my sarcasm. “I appreciate the sentiment—I think. But everything will look different tomorrow. Promise me you’ll stay here and crash?”
“Only if you make me a promise, too.”
I sigh, giving him an expectant look.
“Promise me… you’ll tell me the real story one day—when you trust me enough. Not for me to write or to satisfy my curiosity. But because letting it go will make you feel better—I know it will. Like tonight. Like it always is with us.”
His sincerity breaks through his drunk facade easily, like a train through a tunnel—he truly wants this for me.
“Okay, I will—When I trust you enough.” It’s not hard making the promise, not with that disclaimer. When. It’s like saying when hell freezes over or when pigs fly. But still, I imagine it wouldn’t be difficult. He is like wine to my inhibitions, sweetly able to lessen my defenses.
Satisfied, he leans against the pillow. “Okay, Rowan. It’s a deal.” He pulls the blanket up while I tuck the edges around him. A fat, orange tabby jumps into the space between his legs, startling me.
“Ah, who’s this?”
“Harper Lee. We both have author-cats.”
I laugh, surprised he hasn’t told me before. “Aw, I love To Kill a Mockingbird. That’s the perfect name for a cat. She’s gorgeous.” I lean over and rub her back, initiating heavy purrs.
“So is Edgar Allan Poe. I got tattoos for both. Wanna see?”
“Not tonight. I should go.”
He grabs my hands. “Please, Rowan. Stay. I’m trying to tell you something.”
“I’m listening. What?”
His brow kinks like he can’t remember. “I really like… holding you. We should do it more often. Make it a thing.”
“A thing?”
“Our thing,” he says. “This isn’t drunk-Jack talking. This is real-Jack.”
A chuckle sputters out, knowing exactly which Jack I’m talking to. “It was nice, but it can’t be a regular thing.”
“Why not?” Then, he grunts and rolls his eyes as he realizes the answer. “When’s your acting friend coming back?”
“Next week.”
“Straight into your open arms, right?” His tone shifts to frustration. “Like he hasn’t abandoned you all summer. Like he hasn’t put you in purgatory and made you feel like shit. I see it all over your face. It amazes me what desperate women will put up with for a ring on her finger and a kid down the hall.”
“That’s what you think of me?”
“I get it. You’re marrying him because he’s safe. Well, can’t get safer than a guy who’s gone half the year.” His mocking laugh hurts my ears. “If he cared about you at all, he’d be here to get you out of that dress.”
“Mind your own business, Jack.” I head to the sliding glass doors, suddenly anxious to escape him.
“Everyone thinks I’m alone because of the one that got away, but you’re alone because he stays away. I don’t know which is worse. Or more pathetic.”
My feet stop on the word pathetic. “Telling me I’m beautiful one minute only to cut me down the next? Lecturing me on how I should be loved as if you know best? As if your sex buddies aren’t flawless Barbie dolls? Spare me your condescension—you would never want someone like me, not like that. Not sober, anyway. You don’t know Dean… or me and Dean. And you’re the one who got shit-faced at your own party—that’s pathetic.”
I never should’ve come over here. Never should’ve entertained ideas of being anything more to him than an arrangement. Never should’ve let him hold me. I leave without looking back.