Chapter 12 #2
My throat stings with all the things we never said, all the moments we let slip through our fingers. Still, I manage a smile. “And now?”
This time, he meets my eyes, and that look folds around my ribs and tugs hard.
“Well, I’m still probably gonna screw it up,” he says, chuckling under his breath. “But I’d rather risk it than regret it again.”
He steps toward me, closing the last of the distance, and holds out his hand.
No performance. No swagger. Just Rowan, steady and sure, asking for a chance.
I slide my fingers into his without hesitation. His palm is rough and warm and…perfect. Like it was always meant to find mine in every lifetime.
Patsy’s voice rises again, drifting back in on a new song, the music crackling softly through the barn. Rowan draws me in slowly, giving me every chance to pull away, but I don’t think I could if I tried.
I lean into the solid lines of his body, into the hand he rests at my waist, into the way his thumb brushes absentminded circles against the back of my hand.
We sway there in the middle of the barn, feet barely moving, the light slanting gold across the dusty floor, the air thick with hay and sun-warmed wood.
“You’re not screwing it up,” I whisper.
Rowan makes a sound deep in his chest that sounds a lot like relief and pulls me in just a little closer.
I let my head fall against him, right over the beat of his heart, and for a few long seconds, I forget about the years apart and the missed chances.
“This is nice,” I mumble against his shirt.
His thumb traces small circles against my lower back. “Yeah,” he says, his voice rumbling low against my skin. “It is.”
The song fades out, the final notes drifting into silence, but neither of us moves. Finally, I take a small step back. Just enough to remember how to stand on my own two feet. The barn seems bigger without him wrapped around me. Emptier, too. Like the air got sucked out the moment I stepped away.
Before I can get too far, he catches my hand.
“You want to go up to the house for a drink?”
I glance in the direction of it, heart doing a series of backflips I’m pretty sure he can hear.
“That depends,” I say, tilting my head, teasing him even though every part of me is buzzing. “Is it an actual drink or a ‘pretend we’re just friends and avoid eye contact’ kind of drink?”
His mouth twitches, not quite a grin, but close. “Whichever you’d prefer.”
“I could sit for one,” I say, giving his hand the smallest squeeze.
He smiles, and my heart leaps in my chest as he tugs me toward the house.
It’s nothing.
It’s everything.
I settle into one of the old rockers on the back porch, the wood groaning under me. Rowan disappears inside for a beat, letting the screen door slam shut behind him. I sit there, letting the early night breathe around me.
When he comes back, he’s holding two bottles by the necks, condensation already slipping down the sides.
“Fair warning,” he says, sinking into the rocker beside mine. “I’m out of wine coolers. No tiny umbrellas, either.”
“Tragic,” I murmur, accepting the beer. Our fingers brush for the briefest second, warm skin against warm skin. “Guess I’ll have to rough it.”
He leans back, our knees angled just close enough to feel the pull but not close enough to touch.
Overhead, the stars spill across the clear, unfiltered sky.
No city lights. No traffic. Just the slow drone of crickets and the occasional whisper of wind slipping through the trees.
I take a sip of my beer, the crisp bite grounding me and giving me something to focus on besides turning to stare at him like he hung the constellations himself.
“You remember when you convinced me to steal Mrs. Pruitt’s garden gnome junior year?”
Rowan lets out a low, genuine laugh, his head tipping back against the chair. “How could I forget? You were so nervous you threw up afterward and made me put the damn thing back.”
I laugh too, the sound tumbling out before I can stop it. God, we were so young. So stupid and brave in ways that only teenagers can be.
The porch groans again as Rowan shifts, turning toward me. One corner of his mouth tugs higher, softening his smile. “That’s exactly when I knew you were too good for me. You’re the only person I know who could puke from guilt and still make me return stolen property.”
I look at him, and for a second, I swear the years between us shrink down to nothing. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t laugh it off. Just sits there, knees brushing mine now, letting the silence stretch wide and full and a little bit wild between us.
I loved him even then, when he was all restless energy, when his laugh cracked open the heavy spaces inside me and stitched them back together in the same breath.
He was rebellion and safety wrapped up in one beautiful, reckless boy.
I drag my gaze away from him, past the porch railings and out to where the field stretches wide and silver under the moonlight. “Well,” I say lightly, “in my defense, it was a very dignified gnome. He looked completely traumatized bouncing around in the back of your truck.”
He huffs out a low laugh and shakes his head like he’s remembering it all—the way we had peeled out of Mrs. Pruitt’s driveway like a couple of half-hearted criminals.
“God,” he sighs, voice thick with something heavier than nostalgia. “I was such an idiot. But you…you were always so damn patient with me. I should’ve known sooner, Violet.”
My chest twists, that soft, fluttery ache waking up again.
I don’t dare look at him. Instead, I lift my beer to my lips, pretending I’m far too interested in the way the stars look tonight.
“Don’t do that,” I plead.
“Do what?”
I finally look at him, and it’s a mistake. Because he’s here, being open and so breathtakingly earnest it knocks the wind out of me.
“Make it hard to leave.”