Chapter 15
fifteen
. . .
Rowan
Ilean back in the truck, one leg hanging out the open door in the gym parking lot, the night air cooling the sweat clinging to my collarbone.
The phone sits in my hand, and for a second, I let myself imagine her sitting beside me like we’re seventeen again, her lip tucked between her teeth, trying not to smile.
God, I used to chase those smiles like they were my damn purpose.
I stare down at my phone where her last message still makes me smile like a fool.
Possibly feral.
Yeah, okay. Fair.
But underneath the jokes, there’s this ache for everything we never got to be. The times I looked but never reached. The prom we didn’t go to, the homecoming game we didn’t sneak away from early. All the firsts we never had.
I want a do-over.
Me:
We’ve never had a first date.
I hesitate for half a second, then fire off another.
Me:
I think we should fix that. You, me, cheap arcade tokens, and a pizza slice the size of your head.
I wait, staring at the screen, watching the three dots appear and disappear twice before her response finally comes through.
Violet:
Arcade tokens? That’s your big move?
I can’t help but grin. She’s making me work for it, not giving an inch. I’d expect nothing less. Hell, I want it that way.
Me:
It’s a timeless classic. Competition and those questionable carpets that haven’t been cleaned since the 90’s. Romance.
Me:
I’ll even let you win. First time only.
She doesn’t answer right away. Long enough for doubt to creep in, like it always does where she’s concerned. Then her name lights up my screen again.
Violet:
You won’t have to. I’m freakishly good at air hockey.
I let out a laugh that echoes around the empty lot. God, I missed this. Missed her.
Me:
So that’s a yes?
A full minute ticks by. Then—
Violet:
Yeah. That’s a yes.
My shoulders relax for the first time in days. I don’t care how sweaty or gross I am. I feel like I could bench press the entire damn truck right now.
She doesn’t know what last night on the porch did to me. Sitting next to her in the dark, the air between us thick with tension—I swear, it damn near broke me.
I told her it was killing me not to kiss her. It was. Still is.
And the way she looked at me then…like she wanted to believe me but didn’t know how?
It fucking gutted me. I wanted to say all the right things, prove her wrong with every breath in my body.
I didn’t. I let her have space.
Now I just have to show up and keep doing that. So I tap out a reply, thumb hovering for half a second before I hit send.
Me:
Saturday night. Wear something you don’t mind sweating in. I’m winning you a giant stuffed hippo, even if it kills me. And then I’m walking you to your door with my hands in my pockets like a goddamn gentleman.
I toss my phone onto the passenger seat and lean my head back, unable to keep the stupid grin off my face.
Beau convinced me to start training with him at this MMA place on the edge of town. Said it would help me burn off some of that “restless energy” I’ve apparently got in spades.
It’s not like he was wrong. After six years of military discipline and private security work where staying alert was the difference between life and death, civilian life is…monotonous.
I’ve been coming here every night, working out until my muscles scream and my body finally gets as tired as my mind. Tonight is different, though. Tonight, I could float home.