31. Thirty-One
Putting my house on the market may be retaliatory and immature, but who cares? If she goes through with selling the little house, then I’ve lost her.
I can’t let that happen, even if it costs my house. If it comes to that…
Eyeing the old-school clock above the printing counter at Staples, I imagine Rowan arriving home from school about now, already pissed and frustrated that I’ve hijacked her bullshit plan. I’m even using her sister-in-law as my agent. I smirk, imagining the family conversation over that tidbit.
“Sir? Can I help you?” The young employee gives me an indifferent glance.
Did he call me sir?“Pick-up for Jack Graham.”
He fingers the computer before searching his workspace. He pulls out my manuscript, freshly printed and bound with plastic rings. He eyes the scrawling title on the cover, Bare, and my name underneath.
“Is this it, sir?”
My eyes narrow. I long to give a sarcastic answer or send him searching for another bound manuscript with my name on the cover. But I don’t have time to play with this young-as-fuck Staples employee. I have things to do.
“That’s the one.”
He rings up the printing cost and the colorful pens—good pens—and sticky notes I’ve dumped on his counter.
Walking to the car, my phone chimes. Motion at the front door. Doorbell. Doorbell. Doorbell. Rowan stands on my porch, tapping her high heel on the concrete, arms folded over her silky blouse.
My voice over the doorbell’s speaker makes her jump. “I’m not home.”
Her brow pinches as she leans into the tiny camera. “We need to talk.”
“No shit. I’ll be by later.”
She grunts and storms away from the door. It may not be the smartest move—irritating the woman who’s already pissed at me. But I’m pissed, too. My attempt to get rid of Dean was misguided, yes, but done out of love—why can’t she see that?
Leave it to me to fall in love with the most untrusting, jaded woman on the planet.
I show up after dark when Sara assures me that Rowan’s calmed down and all I’m interrupting is them binge-watching The Walking Dead. Apparently, Rowan has claimed Darryl as her rebound guy. I set my peace offerings on the porch swing, out of the way, before knocking.
The wind is knocked out of me when Rowan answers. She looks gorgeous. Her Cleopatra hair holds soft waves and artful crimson tips, making her look fiery and badass. A long, thin white sweater covers a pink cotton tank and soft gray shorts, but barely. My eyes drift over her lips, down her neck, and across her bare collarbone, where her scars spread before ending just over her heart.
She doesn’t smile and pulls the edges of her sweater closer together.
“Um, you look amazing,” I say.
Her hand goes to her hair. “Sara said everyone gets break-up bangs, but I shouldn’t follow trends. We settled for break-up hair dye.”
“It’s working for you.”
She leans against the doorjamb, looking expectant.
“Take the fucking sign down, Rowan.”
Stepping onto the porch, she closes the door behind her like she doesn’t want Sara and Christine to hear us.
“My sign isn’t coming down. Take yours down.”
“You first. Why are you selling? You love this house.”
She takes a breath, seeming to center herself. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”
“Be angry at me. Fine. But don’t make a bad decision because you’re pissed. Selling before you’ve built any equity means losing every penny you’ve sunk into it and taking a huge tax hit.”
A sardonic laugh escapes her. “Are you mansplaining my finances to me? I know exactly what this will cost me, asshole.”
“Then, why do that to yourself?”
“To get away from you!”
That hurts. My jaw hangs in stunned limbo while my brow contorts into a thousand devastated creases. “Um, that’s a shit reason to move. I’m sorry for what I did. It was a dick move, and yes, fucking selfish. But you went to him, Rowan, like he never left, like nothing between us mattered. I’ve never been in love before. Aren’t I allowed one fuck-up? You gave Dean a thousand chances—”
“Yes, but I shouldn’t have!” She dares to meet my eyes and brings her voice down to a soft, desperate plea. “Staying here terrifies me. I could never be enough for you, not for long. I can’t be the woman next door to your… to what would happen when we fall apart.”
“When? How can you have so little faith in me?”
“Easy. You had zero faith in me. All you had to do was wait and trust me. I was seconds from breaking up with him when he got that damn phone call. How could you try to control me like that after everything I told you?”
“You walking off with the wrong guy, getting into bed with him—how could I do nothing?”
“I didn’t get in bed with him. You hurt and humiliated me to prove your point. You wanted Dean to choose a part over me, and he did. Do you have any idea how shitty that feels?”
“No shittier than him ghosting you all summer. He could’ve said no. After what you said about not wanting to hurt or lose him… I got worried, okay? I’m sorry.”
My pleading apology stirs an exasperated sigh. She motions to the sign on my lawn. “And what’s this, huh? Another manipulation? Is pretending to sell your house supposed to make me feel better?”
“I’m not pretending. Ask Jane. We’re looking at properties in Landfall tomorrow, and she’s already booked three showings.”
Her arms fold. “Why are you doing this?”
“So you don’t have to. You shouldn’t have to leave the place you love because of me. If one of us has to go, I want it to be me.”
She softens instantly, but watches my expression like she’s hunting for insincerity.
But I mean every word. “I’ve priced it under market. My place is all upgrades and fun times—it’ll sell fast. When I have a signed contract in hand, you’ll know I’m not kidding and trust me enough to take your sign down.”
Her head tilts, and a tear escapes. She wipes it away quickly as if embarrassed. “But you can’t move, Jack. What about the neighbors? What about Devin?”
“Devin’s with me wherever I go. As for the neighbors, I’ll bus them to Landfall once a week. They’ll love it.”
She shakes her head. “No, I can’t let you do that. Please, take your sign down.”
“The only way my sign comes down is if you want us to be neighbors again. Otherwise, I’m leaving as soon as possible to save you from doing it. I’m Sydney Carton.”
A spurting laugh breaks through her quiet tears. “You’re no Sydney Carton.”
“Course, I am. I’m sacrificing myself for the woman I love—Dickens couldn’t write this scene any better.”
She laughs again, music to my ears. “This is hardly A Tale of Two Cities.”
“It’s A Tale of Two Neighbors.”
More laughs. “Sydney Carton would never tell Lucie his plan to sacrifice himself—he’d just do it. Stop trying to seduce me with books.”
“Do you have a better idea of how I might seduce you?” My eyes circle her face, stopping at her lips. Damn, I want to kiss her. And the way she looks at me, I suspect she entertains the idea. Her arms fall to her sides, and her cheeks flush pink. Leaning closer, I trace her hairline with the tip of my finger before tucking a wayward lock behind her ear. “I fucking adore you, Rowan… forgive me. Please.”
A struggle ensues behind her eyes. Her trust has taken a double hit between me and Dean, and lumping me into her overfull memory bank of shit-boyfriends probably seems like the safest plan. Moving, too. If she stays and we’re not together, it’ll be awful for us both. When another tear slips, I brush it away with my thumb.
She clears her throat, glancing with a pinched brow from her feet to my eyes again. “I don’t want you to give up anything for me… but I’m not ready to take my sign down, either.”
“Fair enough. How about a compromise?”
“I’m listening.”
“The signs stay up, but we agree not to sign anything until we finish what we started.”
Her head cocks in curiosity while I grab two items from the porch swing. I hand her the manuscript first, and another tear slides down her cheek as she looks up at me.
“You finished it?”
“Yep. I want you to be the first to read it cover to cover.”
She holds it like a baby, letting her finger run over the oversized scripted title on the front page, and she smiles.
The cat mug stuffed with good pens and sticky notes comes next—I set it in the crook of her arm. “Like we agreed, you have full veto power over any of it. Mark it up to your heart’s content.”
Nodding, she smirks. “I will… as we agreed. I’ll need a few days.”
“I have to visit your class, too. That was the deal.”
She chews her bottom lip. “Monday, then. Be there at eight.”
“Done. How did today go?”
Another smile breaks through. “Um, really well. They loved the plan, and um…” Her brow pinches like she wants to tell me something but can’t put the words together. “Um… Congratulations on finishing your book.” She taps the manuscript and turns toward the door.
“Rowan, wait.” I reach for the last item on the porch swing—a vibrant array of flowers. “I selected them myself: the full blue hydrangeas to match your eyes, friendly yellow Gerber daisies to go with your smile, delicate lilies and soft dahlias for your gentleness, and lavender sprigs for your calmness. I frustrated the hell out of that florist.”
I lay them atop my other gifts, watching her expression bounce from them to me.
When her bothered brow creases even more, I say, “You said that’s how I’ll know, right?”
“Um, I have to go.” Arms full, she awkwardly ducks inside her door, leaving me wondering if I went too far.