Chapter 16
sixteen
. . .
Violet
The playlist I put on for “ambience” is just taunting me. Third heartbreak anthem in a row, and I’ve tried on four different outfits, all of which scream varying levels of I swear I’m not trying that hard.
I settle on jeans and a cropped cardigan that’s soft enough to hide nerves and just snug enough to hint at curves without shouting about them. The top button gapes a little when I move, and I consider changing again, then don’t.
In the mirror, I study myself, but I’m not sure what I’m looking for. The girl I see tonight is a little older, but she’s braver, too.
Why does it feel like such a big deal? It’s just Rowan picking me up with his gym shoes probably still in the backseat and a plan to spend way too much on arcade tokens.
We’ve hung out a million times… Just not for an actual date.
I give my reflection one last appraising look before grabbing my phone from the dresser. My stomach is doing that fluttery, nervous thing it hasn’t done since…well, since him.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, reaching for the light switch.
When I step into the living room, Whitley’s sprawled across the couch, holding the TV remote with one hand and scrolling on her phone with the other. She glances up, eyebrows shooting toward her hairline.
“Holy shit,” she says, tossing both items aside. “Who are you and what have you done with my best friend who owns seventeen identical scrub tops?”
I roll my eyes, moving toward the entryway where my boots wait. “It’s just jeans and a sweater, Whit.”
“A sweater that’s practically begging someone to use their teeth on those buttons.” She grins. “I mean, damn. You’re going for I accidentally look hot instead of I spent three hours planning this outfit, and I respect the psychological warfare.”
I shove my foot into my boot and glance back at her. “So I pass the vibe check?”
She whistles low. “You’re serving accidental thirst trap with a side of nostalgia. I’m obsessed.”
I groan, but my mouth twitches with a smile. “Please don’t use the phrase ‘thirst trap’ in reference to me ever again.”
“It’s a compliment! You look hot without looking like you’re trying to look hot. That’s the ultimate power move.” Whitley sits up straighter, her eyes narrowing with sudden intensity. “So this is really happening, huh? You and Wolfe Boy, take two?”
I busy myself with zipping my other boot. “It’s just a date. Not a marriage proposal.”
“A date with the guy who’s been living rent-free in your head since high school.
” She tosses a throw pillow at me, which I catch without looking up.
“The same guy who had you pacing around this apartment at 2 a.m. last week, reciting all the reasons why getting involved with him again would be emotional suicide.”
“I wasn’t pacing,” I mutter, though we both know I absolutely was.
“You wore a path in the carpet, babe.”
A knock sounds at the door, and my heart does a flip.
“No pep talks,” I say, grabbing my keys and twisting the doorknob before she can open her mouth again.
“At least let me threaten him with a shovel!” Whitley calls after me with laughter in her voice, but I’m already slipping through the crack in the door.
And then I see him.
Rowan’s waiting on the porch, tall and broad and impossibly relaxed—until I notice the way his thumbs fidget in his pockets. He’s wearing a dark blue henley, sleeves shoved up to his elbows. The color makes his eyes look downright criminal.
His gaze lifts when I step outside, eyes sweeping down to the buttons on my cardigan, the jeans that took three different mirror checks to commit to. His mouth tugs up in a crooked grin, and then his gaze snaps back up to mine.
“Jesus, Violet,” he says, low and rough. “You look…”
I raise a brow, arms folding across my chest. “Like someone who owns clothes that aren’t scrubs?”
His grin deepens, but there’s a flush creeping up the side of his neck, and it hits me—he’s nervous. Big, broody Rowan, who once drove a stolen golf cart through the senior parking lot and didn’t flinch when the principal chased him down, is anxious about taking me on a date.
“You look like trouble,” he finally says. “The kind a guy dreams about and never quite gets out of his system.”
I…well. I pretend that doesn’t make my knees turn into Jell-o.
“Are you gonna keep saying things like that,” I ask, moving past him toward the truck, “or are we actually leaving sometime tonight?”
He follows and opens the passenger door for me. When I slide in, I swear I catch him mouthing trouble to himself with a shake of his head.
Rowan climbs in behind the wheel, one knee knocking into the dash as he settles. The door thuds shut, sealing us inside. The cab fills with him, his presence, until there’s nowhere for the air to go and my next breath becomes a task.
“Your roommate is staring at us through the window,” he says, gesturing with his chin.
I follow his gaze and immediately regret having functional eyesight. Whitley’s face is mashed against the glass, lips puckered into something obscene. Then she pauses just long enough to mime a stabbing motion, then mouths something that looks suspiciously like I know where you sleep.
“Oh my god.” I slide lower in my seat. “Please drive. Immediately. Before she remembers where she left the shovel.”
Rowan’s mouth twitches. One eyebrow lifts. “Shovel?”
“Don’t ask.”
He chuckles, throwing the truck into reverse.
“So,” Rowan says, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, “is this the part where we pretend we’re not both overthinking every single thing right now?”
I snort, grateful for the tension breaker. “Is it that obvious?”
“Your left knee hasn’t stopped bouncing since you got in. And now you’re going to be conscious of it for the next hour,” he says, a smirk playing at his lips. “Sorry about that.”
“You’re not sorry at all.”
“Not even a little bit.” His eyes flick to me, then back to the road. “It’s cute. You being nervous about this.”
“I’m not nervous,” I lie, then immediately cave under his skeptical sideways glance. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m a little…tense.”
“Just tense?”
“Apprehensive.”
“Try again.”
“Mildly concerned about the statistical probability of this ending in emotional carnage?”
He barks out a laugh that fills the cab of the truck. “There she is.”
I press my lips together, but it’s useless—I’m already smiling. The kind that feels more like surrender than amusement. It’s dangerous how easily he does that. That deep, unguarded laugh is like a match striking something dormant inside me.
Rowan pops the glovebox open with his knuckle and doesn’t even look when he tosses something my way. The bag lands in my lap with a soft thump.
Peach rings.
My breath catches. “You remembered.”
I can’t tear my eyes off the bag, but he’s there, in my periphery. His hand on the wheel, forearm flexed just enough to be distracting, profile lit by the golden spill of the setting sun.
“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again as many times as you need me to. I remember everything about you, Violet. Plus,” he continues, “I figured we both could use something sweet to take the edge off.”
I laugh, tearing open the package, the sugary scent filling the truck cab. I offer him one first, and he takes it, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest second.
“You look good, too, you know.” The words tumble out before I can catch them.
Fantastic.
Heat floods my cheeks as his eyes find mine again. One corner of his mouth tilts up, slow and smug and entirely too aware of the effect he has on me. My stomach does an undignified drop.
Because good is a lie of omission. Good doesn’t cover the way his shirt pulls tight across his chest or how my fingers itch with the sudden, overwhelming desire to test the fabric’s durability.
It definitely doesn’t cover his forearms—bare, inked, unfairly solid—doing insane things to my imagination.
I tear my gaze away and fixate on the blur of streetlights outside my window.
“You think so?” His voice has that rough edge to it, like he’s pleased but trying not to show it.
“Don’t fish for compliments,” I mutter. “Your ego is healthy enough.”
He laughs, and the sound slips under my skin. “My ego where you’re concerned has been on life support for years, Larkin.”
There it is again. Larkin.
Everyone else says Violet in a sweet and polished way.
But my last name, from him, is like a tether. Like he’s reaching back through time to that girl I used to be, and saying, Hey. I remember her, too.
He saves Violet for when it counts. When his voice drops and sheds the humor, turns honest and heavy. For moments that matter—sitting on his porch, admitting it was wrecking him not to touch me. When he says Violet, it sounds reverent.
“I’d say your ego is doing just fine,” I mutter, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. “Mr. I’ll Let You Win.”
He chuckles. “That was strategy, not ego. I wanted to make sure you’d say yes.”
“By challenging my competitive nature?”
“By reminding you we’ve always been good at this part.” His eyes stay on the road, but the weight of his words settle between us. “The teasing. Even when everything else was complicated, we always had that.”
He’s right. Through all the years of almost-somethings and not-quites, the banter never faltered. It was more than just teasing—it was our lifeline. We could joke when the world was heavy and laugh when everything else threatened to crumble. It was our safe ground.
He eases the truck into the arcade parking lot.
“You ready?” he asks, cutting the engine but making no move to get out.
I raise a brow. “Are you ready to be publicly humiliated?”
He huffs a laugh, reaching for the door handle. “Cocky. I like it.”
Inside, it’s everything I hoped it would be. Loud, a little sticky, and soaked in enough nostalgia to smother any lingering nerves.
Rowan makes a beeline for the token machine, dropping a twenty. “We’re going big. No mercy.”
“If you’re trying to seduce me with competitive talk, it might actually be effective.”
He places a handful of tokens into my palm, his smirk borderline haughty. “Good to know. Let’s see what else I can win tonight.”
The air hockey table flares to life, neon lights pulsing along its edges.
“You sure you don’t want me to take it easy on you?” Rowan asks with that overconfident tilt to his head, eyes sparkling with the same mischief that always got him into trouble…and into my head.
I settle into position. “If you go easy on me, I’ll make you regret it.”
He chuckles, sending the puck gliding my way, and just like that—game on.
Rowan scores first, throwing his hands up with a loud, “Yes!” that manages to turn a few heads.
I tuck my hair behind my ear, scoffing as if I’m entirely unbothered. “That was charity. Didn’t want you crying in public.”
“Oh, we’re talking trash now? Is that what this is?”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Rowan.”
And then I get serious. Three goals in less than a minute.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes out after the fourth. “Where the hell did that come from?”
I shrug. “Told you I was good.”
He stalks around the table, recalibrating, eyes narrowed. “You played me.”
“I warned you.”
He points a finger at me. “You look all sweet and studious, but underneath it’s just ruthless competitiveness.”
“I contain multitudes.”
His eyes drop briefly, lingering at my mouth. “Yeah. You really do.”
It’s as if I’ve been holding my breath for six years, and this playful, ridiculous, perfect mess of a night is the first inhale that doesn’t burn.
Maybe it’s just nostalgia. Maybe it’s hormones. Maybe it’s the stupid, pulsing lights and the fact that he’s wearing a henley that I’m positive was custom made just for him.
Then he smiles, and my world tilts just a little further in his direction.