23. Twenty-Three
Fuuuuucccccckkkkkk! Pissing her off wasn’t my plan.
I didn’t have a plan.
But kissing her felt necessary. Like blinking or breathing. And she didn’t stop me.
Everything between us has built like a wave at sea until it had nowhere else to go but to crash at her feet. That kiss was my confession.
And who wouldn’t want a first kiss under the boardwalk in the rain?
Maybe the woman with rules against romance? Damn it.
I think to chase her, but I can’t. I need a solid few minutes to calm down. I’m too turned on to go anywhere—she is so much more than I expected.
I lean against the piling, take deep breaths, and think about baseball. Or anything but her tender lips, her warm, sun-kissed skin, or the moment she got over her surprise and opened up to me. I still feel her lips parting against mine and the hungry exploration of her hands. And ah, she was so close to wrapping those gorgeous legs around me. So achingly close.
No—that kiss wasn’t a mistake. No matter what she says.
Those incredible five minutes brought more insight than some of our longest conversations.
For starters, all the women I’ve been with suddenly seem like opening acts for the real show. Rowan is beautifully intense. It’s like she’s an overflowing well of heat and desire that’s gone untapped by the selfish pricks of her past. I want to fucking drink her up and be the rain that makes her full again.
Damn it. I am in love with her.
More distressing, she has a shit opinion of me. Plot line. Plaything. I’m not like you. Her words twist together into an ache in my stomach. She thinks I’m playing games, toying with her. That’s what she thinks I do. That is what I do.
At least, that’s what I used to do. There must be a way to convince her that she’s different.
The rain comes to a slow stop. I step from our hovel to find the crowds emerging from their shelters. Ed and Renita stumble from the corner bar. Good thing I’m driving.
I return to the beach and sit in Rowan’s chair, determined to talk to her. The neighbors trickle back to home base, but over an hour passes, and Rowan doesn’t show. While the others are distracted with food and swimming, I nudge Sara’s shoulder, pulling her away from her sketchbook.
“Seen Rowan?”
“Nope.”
“Text her. See if she’s okay.”
Sara’s eyebrow pyramids on her forehead. “Something wrong with your phone?”
“Please, Sara.”
Her eyes roll at my pleading expression. This fucking kid… but she relents, her thumbs flying across her screen.
A moment later, she reads the reply. “Fine.”
That’s the answer I should’ve expected. I lean forward, and maybe it’s immature to pry information from a teen, but I ask, “What do you know about Dean?”
She side-smirks. “Mr. Maddix? Why do you want to know about him?”
“Don’t fuck around. Either you have an opinion of the guy or not.”
She laughs. “He’s alright. Theater geeks love him. I’m taking his class as an elective this year, which I wouldn’t do without hearing good things. His project with Rowan was the highlight of last year—a trans retelling of Taming of the Shrew. It’s on YouTube. You should watch.”
“Including the proposal?”
“Yep… That’s the part people watch most. The project’s highlight reel is also cool—seeing how they put it all together, how Rowan and Mr. Maddix worked together.”
“Hmm,” I grunt, searching the app on my phone. “What else?”
She wags her purple fingernail at me. “Nope. Not until you tell me why.”
My shoulders slump in resignation. “Fine. I kissed her. She… reacted badly.”
“What do you mean? Reacted badly?”
“She was into it, and then suddenly, she wasn’t.”
Sara nods—nothing surprises her.
“—Tell the neighbors, and I’ll switch my playlists to folk ballads, Barry Manilow, and fifty-year-old country songs,” I tack on quickly.
“Who’s Barry Manilow?” She laughs. “Fine. I won’t tell.”
“Good. Now, have any insights?”
She takes a deep breath, glancing at the ocean. “Well, Mr. Maddix is a good guy. Dorky, but he means well. The thing is… everyone knows that Rowan hates crowds and attention. So, I get why she was nervous. He put her in a tight spot. But messing up her answer put him in a tough place, too. Still, everyone’s surprised that he’s bailed on her all summer. There’s a school group chat about it. Team Mackey. Team Maddix.” She huffs and rolls her eyes. “Shows how boring we are, huh? Group chatting about our teachers?”
I shrug. “What team are you on?”
“Definitely Team Maddix at first. He’s always so funny and friendly, and she embarrassed him.”
“What about now?”
“Team Rowan—don’t tell her that. She’d probably want to start braiding each other’s hair or getting mani-pedis together.”
A light chuckle comes out, knowing it’s true.
“She tries so hard, you know? And she’s sad. All the time. I think Mr. Maddix is the type to run away from his problems, like not dealing with the real reason behind Rowan’s answer. It’s easier than the truth.”
“Which is?”
“She doesn’t want to marry him,” Sara says dryly, like she’s remarking on the weather. “But she will.”
“Really?”
“Rowan doesn’t run away from problems. She fixes them, even when she shouldn’t. He’s practically ghosted her, and still, whenever he calls, she puts on her happy voice and pretends it’s okay. It’s sad, really. He’ll come back, and they’ll be just like before—she’ll make sure.”
“You think that’s okay?”
“Look at me—I have purple hair and piercings. I like getting noticed. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be Rowan, with people always staring for the wrong reasons. She probably thinks Mr. Maddix is as good as it gets. Maybe she’s right.”
She isn’t, but I don’t argue. “You’re pretty smart for a teenage dumbass.”
Sara chuckles. “You’re pretty dumb for putting Rowan in another tight spot. No wonder she reacted badly.”
“Couldn’t help it.”
She gives me a skeptical look. “Are you… serious about her?”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
“Ah, yeah. You’re a man-slut. Plus, she’s your neighbor. Your engaged neighbor.”
“You’ve stopped being helpful. Do me a favor. Find her and see if she’s really okay?”
Before she answers, Vernon and Rose stroll up, hand-in-hand, and he says, “More storms approaching. Might be time to pack it in.”
“I’ll find Rowan,” Sara says, setting her sketchbook aside.
By the time Sara returns, our base camp is mostly dismantled. Rowan looks bothered and guarded—brow pinched and arms folded over her buttoned cover-up.
Renita says, “Rowan, you’re as pale as a ghost. Feelin’ alright, sugar?”
“Oh, love, what’s wrong?” Rose coos, latching onto her arm.
“Headache came back,” Sara answers for her before dealing with Rowan’s chair.
“Should we pop into a market for some Tylenol or BC Powder?” Tom asks dutifully.
“No, thanks. I’ll be fine. Too much sun, that’s all.” She picks up her little pink cooler, trying not to look at me.
“What the heck is BC Powder?” Sara asks.
“Pain medicine in powder form. You dump it on the back of your tongue and then chug-a-lug,” Marcy says.
“Gross.” Sara winces.
“My mother, God rest her soul, swore by BC Powders,” Vernon says as we trek up the beach. “Quicker to work. She was a teacher for decades, and those powders saved many a—”
“Vernon, no.” Rose cuts in softly.
“I prefer Advil,” Ed says, and the group launches into a conversation about pain medications and ailments.
I zone out, focused only on her. I see exactly what Sara meant—she sees me as a problem.
A wedge between her and Dean.
An obstacle to the life she’s planned.
An impossible risk, no matter what her heart tells her.
The longer she refuses even the simplest eye contact, the more I fear I’ve lost her. Backseat conversations create a constant hum behind us on the way home. In the front seat, no one else sees the worry on her face. It kills me that I made her feel this way.
“Fuck!”
Her shoulders jerk, but she doesn’t look over. I shake my head, strangling the steering wheel.
I drop Renita and Ed off first. They make a stumbling production, exiting the van, that would normally have me laughing my ass off. Not today.
I park on the road between our four houses. “Everyone out. Unload your stuff.”
She’s already out of the van and speed-walking across her lawn before I get my orders out. To chase or not to chase. Glancing at Sara in the backseat answers my question. She gives me a stony look—not to chase. Maybe it’s best to give her time.
Course, that doesn’t help my frustration. I write shit like this all the time—it’s alwayschase. On the page, I know exactly what needs to be said: the perfectly swoony, desperately needed words that will make her melt.
But with Rowan, words battle too harsh a reality—mine and hers. I can’t seem to string the right ones together.
Inside, Harper Lee joins me and my tall whiskey on the couch. I stream the YouTube videos Sara suggested to the big screen. As rain pelts the back deck and pings against the windows, I watch Ten Things, the Shakespearean spin-off she created with her students. Not only is it well-written, but packed with meaning and humor. I couldn’t have done it better.
The play ends. Dean takes the podium, looking self-important and pseudo-humble. He’s like a poor man’s Greg Kinnear or Carson Daly. He does his spiel about the students, charming the audience into well-deserved applause.
Then, the mood changes.
Roses come out—idiot. So cliche… and that dumb expression on his face.
He recites expressions stolen from Hallmark cards. What an asshole! He’s not even trying.
Then, he calls her up. The suspense grows the longer she avoids him. A laugh rumbles from me as I lean forward in my seat. Don’t do it, Rowan. Like I don’t already know what happened.
She takes the stage, looking beautiful but rattled. Uneasy. Her forced smile looks plastered on like a wax figure, melting in the sun, and her heels drag along the floor like she’s not used to wearing them—something I know isn’t true. Another red flag—the spotlights hit her wounded side. He didn’t even give her the courtesy of picking stage right for his spectacle. It’s no wonder she flubs her answer.
But the worst part is how desperately she tries to fix it. For a second, I think she might drop to her knees and propose to him. Anything to save face. To save his face. The charming Mr. Maddix does nothing to help her. He even holds back a real kiss. Prick.
The highlight reel plays next, counterbalancing his shit proposal. It shows that their students like them, and they like each other. Smiling conversations over the scripts, consulting about costumes, and sitting together in the audience during rehearsals. This thing with Dean started as friends.
It’s the kind of love story I’d write about. Unlikely partners to friends to lovers. Two jaded people, resigned to being alone, find each other and realize they don’t have to be.
Seeing them together hurts unexpectedly. He isn’t the dickhead I want him to be, and I get why she’s trying to save it.
Only he can’t be the hero of her story.
I send Rowan a text. Can we talk?
Nothing.
I shower. Try writing. When that doesn’t work, I rotate through my current reads. Nothing holds my interest. I keep thinking of her. That kiss. And her sudden coldness.
The rain stops. Desperate for a distraction, I invite my friends over to enjoy copious amounts of alcohol while watching the Yankees play the Red Sox. It works for a while.
But late into the night, I reach out again. I couldn’t help it, Rowan. You have no idea what you do to me. Please say I didn’t ruin us. Please say something.
Her silence is as telling as her kiss.