33. Rowan #2
I got a blanket and walked it outside, handing it to him, telling myself I’d do this for anyone.
It meant nothing.
I slept terribly, wishing he’d break into my apartment like he did on the anniversary of Adam’s death and hold me, but he didn’t. He stayed away, protecting me but nothing else.
I hate how much I miss it.
The next morning when I woke and found him still there, something inside of me broke a little more.
So I brewed a pot of coffee and brought him a cup.
Our hands brushed for a moment as he accepted it, and I felt a flutter in my chest. I’m not forgiving him, but I can’t be mean.
I just can’t. I tried, and it doesn’t work.
It’s not me. Especially not where Samson’s concerned.
It didn’t help that he returned the gesture by ordering me breakfast from one of my favorite places in town. It made my stomach grumble in approval when I saw the logo on the bag he was holding. I accepted it. Of course I did. I’m a great baker, but a terrible cook.
The way his eyes lit up with hope when I took it from his hand had my insides clenching in grief.
I don’t know how much longer I can keep up this facade. I don’t even think I’m angry anymore.
I’m just sad.
And like Larry said last night when I went over to make sure he was eating and wearing clean clothes, if I can forgive Adi, surely I can forgive Samson.
“At least he didn’t try to kill you.”
“I mean, he did.”
“No. He didn’t. He protected you. Adi was the one who put a gun to your face.”
I shiver, remembering it, and Larry meets my gaze. “How do you know about that?”
“Know about it all, kid. They told me. Samson wants me looking out for you. When he’s no longer around.”
I hated that comment. It sat with me the rest of the next day, my eyes frantically searching for him when I couldn’t see him. But he was there, like he promised, watching and protecting.
Tonight is the first show, and my nerves about being front and center are making me slightly frantic. Along with the usual pressure about not fucking up, I’m all too aware that this will be the final opening night at Rhythm.
Maybe my last opening night ever. It’s not like there are many studios here in St. Dismas.
I could move elsewhere. I probably should. St. Dismas has done nothing but break my heart over and over again. But I know I’ll never leave it.
I might not admit it aloud, but I can’t leave Samson.
I also can’t let myself have him again.
Apparently I’m a sucker for punishment.
“Thanks for the oat bars,” Marcy says, drawing my attention back to the present.
I give her a wan smile. “Want to make sure you all have something in your stomach for tonight.”
She grins at me before pecking me on the cheek and disappearing to her car.
We’re all resting for a few hours before we head back to the studio to perform.
I haven’t told anyone else about the fact that Derek is going to sell, that we’re going to be shit out of luck soon.
I don’t want their spirits to be crushed. I can do that after.
And hopefully, in the meantime, I’ll find a way to salvage this entire shitty situation. I’ll have to get a loan, find a place to open a studio of my own, figure out how to run a business… My head swirls, and I place my hands on my face, breathing deeply.
I sense Samson before I see him. He watched us rehearse, his eyes wide with awe as I moved across the stage. I think that was real, his appreciation of my talent. I don’t think he could fake that.
Honestly, I don’t think he’s faking anything about how he feels.
“What’s wrong?” he asks urgently. “What happened?”
I inhale shakily and let my hands fall from my face. “Just worried. Trying to figure all of this out. The studio, a job after this week, and…you.”
He says nothing, just watches me, offering me silent support. I peer over at him and see the dark circles under his eyes, the stubble on his jaw. He’s exhausted. So am I. I’m so fucking tired.
I want to say the words that’ll make this better. For both of us. I know I can stop this pain. All I need to do is let myself.
Fear. That’s what’s holding me back.
I wish I knew how to move past it. For both our sakes.
I force a smile onto my face. “Never mind. I’ll be fine.”
I hold out a box of oat bars I brought with me—extras I had. I tell myself they weren’t made for him, but deep down I know that’s not true.
“Thank you,” he says.
“You’re welcome.”
He makes a soft sound then, something I’m sure he wishes I didn’t hear, but it’s a small groan of desperation. Of hope.
I turn my back and inhale once more, trying to center myself.
“They’re just oat bars,” I say to the wall in front of me, unable to look at him as I bend down and pick up my bag. “It’s nothing more.”
He says nothing to that, but I can feel the vibration of need coming off of him. Or maybe that’s me. Either way, I don’t reach for him, and he doesn’t reach for me. But he does follow me out to my car, tail me all the way back to my apartment, and settle himself outside my door.
That wall between us is almost too thick, too large. I want to open the door and invite him in, let him sit on my couch and rest for a while. That feels too dangerous. Too terrifying for my heart.
I find my eyes wet as I flop onto the bed, my muscles sore, my chest aching.
Now isn’t the time to make any decisions about my future. Because right now I’m too tired to do anything but grieve.
What was, what could have been.
Samson’s there for every show. Of course he is. He watches me the first night from the audience. To raucous applause, I give my final bow with his face front and center. The way he looks so proud of me… It does something to my heart.
The following night, he meets me at the stage door with flowers. The expensive kind that look like they cost the rent on my apartment. Marcy gives me major side-eye when I don’t immediately lean over and kiss him deeply for them. I can’t do that. Even if I want to.
“Thank you,” I say instead.
He nods, looking slightly sheepish. “You deserve this and more. You were beautiful up there.”
That makes me melt. “You could be up there one day too.”
He scoffs in derision. “Never. But I can watch you and live vicariously.”
That night, when he walks me to my front door, he begins to sink down onto the floor, but I find myself pausing. “Why don’t you come in?”
Hope lights his face so brightly it’s almost blinding. “Really?”
That fear is there again, strangling my throat. It makes me blurt out words I know will dim that hope. “Might as well sleep on the couch rather than the floor.”
I fucking hate the hurt in his soft smile. But if I let him in my bed, there won’t be any going back from that.
Each day makes it harder to remember why I’m not with him. Why I don’t want to be a part of his loving family with their chaotic game nights and other weird activities. I have to remind myself of how he lied. How they all lied.
How joining the Buckinghams doesn’t just mean being part of them, but being in The Firm. Part of a group that planned to kill me. That kills others.
It’s too much. Especially with the show. The studio closing.
I’m falling to pieces, and I don’t know how to stop it.
That night I sleep terribly, knowing Samson’s right there in the other room. I could sneak over to him and crawl into his arms, and he’d hold me. I know he would. He loves me.
Maybe it’d be easier on us both if he didn’t.
He continues to show up, giving me the space I need but still being present. He watches me rehearse, lingers in the wings as I review everything with the cast, and stares at me with awe every time I take my final bow.
The show is almost over; my last performance is tomorrow night.
My body aches, my heart full despite it. I’m sad it’s nearly over. Even more sad that the studio is being sold, that this is the last time I’ll be here with my friends, my family.
What does this mean for Samson? Will he still show up for me each day? I shouldn’t want him to. It’s fucking selfish of me, I know this.
I sniffle as Samson walks me into my apartment and his feet falter slightly. “What’s wrong?”
“Just sad it’s almost over.”
“The performance?”
I shudder with a sob. “All of it. The studio being sold, this chapter of my life closing, you and me…”
He stops me, a hand cupping my chin softly. “I will still be here. Even if you tell me to leave forever, I’ll still be here.”
I give a shaky breath, wanting to lean up on my tiptoes and kiss him deeply. He must sense it, the need lingering inside of me. Because his hand drops and he takes a step back.
“I’ll grab the blankets, you just go take a bath. You seem stiff.”
I am, but it’s not what I want to hear. I want more. I miss him deeply, but I do as he says, staying in the tub far longer than I should until the water is cold, and then I get out, hearing the soft breathing coming from the other room.
I linger in the doorway and watch him sleep, his shirt off, a hand on his chest, that raven staring up at me from his arm.
I realize why his family all have the same tattoo. It’s not because they’re the Buckinghams.
But because they are The Firm.
That knowledge is enough to have me heading back to my room alone.