Chapter 7
seven
. . .
Violet
The neon sign flickers above the diner, humming low as if it’s struggling to stay alive. The blue glow spills across the cracked pavement, casting everything in a washed-out nostalgia that makes my chest ache. This place hasn’t changed. Not even a little.
I drive by often enough but haven’t stepped foot inside in…well, six years. It was our place.
I kill the engine and just sit there, fingers wrapped tight around the steering wheel. The windows fog faintly with my breath, and through the misted glass, I can see the same chipped white siding, the same red trim around the door. Time stood still here.
I wish I didn’t feel like a teenager again, scared and full of hope I shouldn’t have let consume me. Like I still think maybe this time will be different.
My hands are clammy as I step out. I tug my coat tighter around me and head toward the door. The bell above it jingles, and I’m hit with the scent of old grease, sugar, and coffee that’s been kept warm a little too long. It’s almost comforting.
Then I see him. He’s already there, in the booth by the window. Same spot we used to sit in.
Rowan used to be all wild eyes and mischievous smiles. Restless hands and bad decisions wrapped in denim and defiance. But now… Now, he sits a little straighter, shoulders heavy but controlled. The fire in his eyes hasn’t gone out, but it seems tempered.
There’s also no missing how his jaw is sharper, the stubble darker, thicker, more…grown-up. There are lines near his eyes that weren’t there before, and his dark hair is a little unruly, like he’s been running his hands through it on repeat.
And yet, when his gaze lifts and lands on me, something boyish and familiar flickers in his expression and makes my chest tighten in that awful, stupidly tender way.
I hate that I still feel that pulse of recognition. That burn of something I never quite managed to let go of.
He sees me standing there like I’ve forgotten how to move, and I catch the flash of uncertainty in his expression. Just as quickly, it’s gone, the corner of his mouth tipping up.
Suddenly, my feet are moving. I just go to him, like I’m tethered to some invisible thread that only ever led to him. By the time I reach the booth, he’s standing, and before I can find any words or defenses, his arms are around me.
And I break.
All the walls I’ve carefully built around my heart give out at once. His arms wrap tight, stronger now, more solid than I remember. And yet, there’s a gentleness in the way he holds me, like he’s afraid I might vanish if he isn’t careful.
I bury my face in his chest, and just like that, the tears come hot and fast. They spill down my cheeks and sink into the fabric of his shirt, leaving tiny stains he doesn’t seem to care about.
I don’t even know why I’m crying. Maybe it’s from years of pretending I didn’t need his closeness.
Maybe it’s all the silence of everything I never said that comes flooding back in.
No matter how hard I try to keep it together, I can’t. The sobs rip free from somewhere deep and desperate. I hate that I can’t seem to stop, especially not when he’s holding me like this, so achingly real.
He doesn’t say anything at first. His hands just move in slow circles on my back. His own breath catches, his chest stiffening beneath my cheek.
Then softly, brokenly, he says, “I’m so sorry.”
Three words, whispered into my hair, split me wide open.
I cry harder, and for a second, I forget where we are. A chair scrapes across the floor somewhere behind us, and a fork clinks against a plate, and suddenly, I remember we’re in the middle of a diner. With people who are most likely watching our exchange.
A wave of embarrassment rushes in. I sniff hard, blinking fast, trying to gather the pieces of myself that scattered somewhere between his chest and that apology. I pull back, not all the way, because I don’t think I can just yet, but just enough to tilt my face up toward him.
And what I see nearly breaks me all over again because he looks wrecked. His brows are pulled tight like he’s in pain, like watching me fall apart in his arms might be killing him a little.
“Why are you here, Rowan?”
His jaw clenches, and I sense the shift in him. He’s gearing up to run or confess. “It was time for me to come home.”
Home.
For so long, I wanted to be that place for him. I swallow hard, nodding slowly, trying to quiet the ache that hasn’t stopped echoing in my chest since the moment I saw him in the clinic lobby. But there’s also a sliver of hope seeping through the cracks.
I step back from him, untangling myself from his arms even though it’s like leaving shelter in a storm. I need the space. Something to ground me before I forget every reason I ever learned how to protect myself.
The booth is just a few steps away, but each one drags until I finally slide into the cracked vinyl seat, the familiar squeak tugging at a hundred memories I’ve shoved into the attic of my mind.
There’s a plate of greasy fries piled high in the middle of the table. Two milkshakes sweating in their tall silver cups. Chocolate for him. Strawberry for me.
I stare at them, stunned by the simplicity of it. By the fact that he remembered.
My heart stumbles and trips over the past. Despite everything, a small, helpless smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I lift my eyes and catch that barely there curve of his mouth.
It’s so him. So achingly, frustratingly Rowan.
The boy I knew, still tucked beneath the man he’s grown into.
A little older. A little rougher. But still in there.
I shake my head, not sure if I want to laugh or cry or maybe just crawl across the table and punch him in the chest for showing up and being exactly who I’ve been missing.
“You look good, Violet.” he says quietly, and my stomach dips at the way my name sounds in his low, reverent voice.
“Thanks,” I murmur, swallowing past the tightness in my throat. “You…” I trail off, waving a hand toward his arms, his collarbone. “You look…inkier.”
That slow, lazy grin I used to tease him about spreads across his face. Damn it, it undoes me. “Yeah?” he says, voice warm with amusement. “Picked up a few along the way.”
Of course he did. And of course I want to trace every single one with my fingertips. My hands itch just thinking about it.
I let my eyes trail over the tattoos wrapping around his forearms, disappearing under the sleeves of his black T-shirt. “They’re beautiful.”
“They tell a story,” he says quietly. “Where I’ve been. What I’ve seen.”
The air between us shifts again. The lightness of our banter, the old rhythm we used to fall into, fades, and suddenly, there’s something heavier in his gaze.
My smile falters, and I look down at my milkshake, pretending to focus on the swirl of the straw, but really, I’m unraveling inside, thread by thread.
I want to ask him everything. I want to scream at him for making me feel this, for making me feel anything, when I swore I was done with him. I want to ask if I’ve ever crossed his mind all these years, or if I was just a casualty in the life he left behind.
I don’t.
Instead, I take a sip of my milkshake, the cold sweetness sliding down my throat, and nod toward the fries. “I see your taste in snacks hasn’t changed.”
I force a laugh, but it’s thin. My words might be wrapped in humor, but my heart’s not in it.
He doesn’t respond right away. Just watches me with those honest eyes that always saw more than I wanted them to. I used to love that about him. I used to hate it, too.
I used to picture this very moment, sitting across from him again, and wonder what I’d say. I imagined being stronger. Sitting here now, though, I don’t feel like that at all. I’m just raw. Exposed.
“I didn’t think you’d remember the shakes,” I say after a beat, voice quieter now. “Or the fries.”
He shrugs. “I didn’t forget anything, Violet.”
I wish he had. I wish he’d forgotten the sound of my voice and the way we used to laugh like the world would never end. Because if he remembers, then he knew exactly what he was walking away from, and he left anyway.
His knee brushes mine under the table, and the contact sends a shock straight through me. He leans back a little, dragging his thumb over the condensation on his glass, eyes still holding mine. “So, you ended up at the vet clinic, huh? You always did have a soft spot for mangy things.”
I laugh again, but it’s brief. It’s easier to talk about vet clinics and the old you and me—the version of us before we turned into this. But I didn’t come here to talk about the past.
“And you?” I ask. “Where’d you go, Rowan?”
His gaze falls to the table, his fingers still tracing circles on his glass. “Everywhere,” he mutters finally, his voice rougher now. “Nowhere, really.”
“What do you mean?”
He sighs and leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, hands laced together. “I joined the military. Did some contract work after that. Security stuff. Spent a lot of years making sure other people were safe because I didn’t know how to keep myself content.”
His gaze lifts to mine, and I swallow hard. “You just disappeared.”
He nods once. His jaw clenches, the muscles in his neck tightening. “I know,” he mutters, and his voice cracks just slightly. “That was the point.”
A flare of anger sparks in my chest. “The point?” I repeat. “The point was to just vanish without a word? To let me wonder for years what happened to you? If you were even alive?”
His eyes flash with something close to regret, but he doesn’t look away. “I had to go, Violet. I couldn’t stay here.”
“Why not?” I push. “Because of your dad? Because of the fights? Or was it the endless rotation of girls you chased down back roads and parking lots, pretending I didn’t exist while I was right in front of you?”
The second it’s out, I hate it. Not because it isn’t true—but because it is. It’s venom and ache and too many years of silence spilling out. I want to shove the words back down and swallow them whole.