Chapter 37
thirty-seven
. . .
Violet
Rowan left for his next trip this morning. He actually left a few days earlier than he was supposed to, though. He’s flying out to Arizona first to deal with Melissa…and I’m trying so hard to be okay with that.
I sit on the edge of my seat, watching Echo flick her ears in the morning breeze, and force myself to breathe. Deeply. Slowly. I keep telling myself that the empty space he usually fills beside me, the absence of his warmth, is temporary. That he’ll be back. That he’s always coming back.
But my stomach twists anyway, and my mind can’t help but play every possible “what if.”
What if Melissa refuses help? What if he gets frustrated or—god forbid—something goes wrong?
I shake my head, scolding myself. This isn’t about me.
He’s facing things he’s spent a lifetime avoiding, and I’ve seen the weight that lifts when he finally lets himself act.
That takes courage. I’ve seen how Rowan is when he’s wrapped up in responsibility—intense, focused, completely committed.
That same focus he gives to me. And right now, he’s taking care of someone who can’t take care of herself. That’s Rowan, the man I love.
I close my eyes and let myself remember the moments from that phone call, how he let me stay and watch him handle something that’s difficult for him.
That’s trust. That’s partnership. And I guess maybe that’s the lesson for me today.
Letting him go, even for a few days, doesn’t make me small. It makes me part of something bigger.
But how come even though I trust Rowan so completely, it still kills me that a phone call can come in and, just like that, his life tilts elsewhere? A bag packed. A plan rearranged. Me left standing in the doorway. It’s getting heavy.
I’ve been telling myself I shouldn’t need him to choose stillness. He’s already drawn lines at work so he won’t be gone so long at one time. Yet every time he goes, I’m worn thinner by the realization that he’s always been good at leaving, and I’ve been too good at pretending I’m okay.
He’s been gone for twenty minutes, and I miss him already.
Opening my eyes, I watch Echo nuzzle her feed as the sound of tires rolling down the driveway comes from the front of the house.
A car door slams and footsteps follow before Whitley appears at the porch steps.
Sunlight catches her red hair, igniting it like fire against the pale blue sky.
Her jeans are streaked with swirls of paint, the sleeves of her tee smudged in every color of the rainbow.
She drops a paper bag on the step beside me. “Bagels. Still warm. And before you ask, yes, I got the everything bagel with extra cream cheese because I know you stress eat carbs.”
I peek inside the bag, the smell of fresh bread making my stomach growl despite the knot of anxiety that’s been sitting there all morning. “How did you know I’d—”
“Because Rowan left this morning, and you texted me at six a.m. with a thumbs-up emoji and nothing else when I asked if you were okay.” She sits down beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. “That’s your I’m fine, but I’m actually dying inside tell.”
I let out a breath that’s half laugh, half sigh. “I hate that you can read me that well.”
“It’s a gift.” She pulls out a bagel and hands it to me before grabbing one for herself. “So. Talk to me. What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”
I tear off a piece of bagel, not quite meeting her eyes. “I’m fine. Really. He’s just helping someone who needs it.”
“Uh-huh.” Whitley takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “And how do you feel about the fact that this someone is a woman he used to sleep with?”
The directness of the question makes me flinch. “I trust him.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I set the bagel down on my lap, appetite suddenly gone. “I trust him,” I repeat, firmer this time. “I do. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t…” I trail off, searching for the right words.
“Suck?” Whitley supplies helpfully.
“Yeah.” I laugh, but it comes out hollow. “It sucks.”
She bumps my shoulder with hers. “Look, I’m all for helping people in need.
It’s literally my job. But there’s a big difference between helping someone in a professional capacity and dropping everything to fly out of state for someone from a previous fling.
You’re allowed to feel whatever you’re feeling, babe. ”
I take a bite of my bagel, forcing it down.
I miss him so much, it’s like a physical weight pressing into my ribs.
My mind keeps flashing to the spaces we share when he’s home—the smell of him leaning over me in the kitchen, the warmth of his hand sliding into mine, the way he laughs at the stupidest things.
Now he’s stretching himself across states, across a part of his past that I don’t fully understand and probably never will, before leaving the country for work.
I tell myself I’m fine. I repeat it like a mantra. I’m fine. I’m fine. But the truth flickers beneath it all—I want him here. I want him to hold me and tell me it’s going to be okay. It terrifies me that wanting him this much still tethers me to the fear of losing him, again.
“I miss him,” I admit.
Whitley’s eyes soften, balancing honesty with warmth. “I know you do, babe. He’s out there doing hard stuff, and you’re here waiting.”
I nod, biting my lip. “Yeah. And it’s stupid, because I know he’s doing the right thing. I think I need another one of your verbal slaps.”
She doesn’t actually slap me with anything, verbal or otherwise. She just laughs before turning fully toward me.
“Okay,” she says gently. “But this one’s more of a pat. Maybe a light shoulder squeeze.”
She blows out a slow breath. “You’re allowed to ask for his presence. You’re allowed to tell him this is hard for you. If he’s the guy you think he is, he won’t hear it as you trying to clip his wings.”
She reaches over and squeezes my knee. “You don’t need to keep pretending you’re made of iron.”
A couple weeks later, I’m staring out the window of my hotel room in Scotland, watching raindrops race down the glass. The view is breathtaking. Rolling green hills disappearing into misty mountains like the scenery people frame and hang above fireplaces.
My phone buzzes in my hand. I answer, heart leaping at the sight of Rowan’s name on the screen. “Hey, you.”
“Baby.” His voice is strained, immediately putting me on edge. “I’ve got bad news.”
I sink onto the edge of the bed, already knowing what he’s going to say. “You’re not coming, are you?”
“The airport’s a nightmare.” Frustration bleeds through his words. “All flights are grounded until further notice.”
“I’ve tried everything,” he goes on. “Private charters, connecting through other cities—nothing’s moving out of Mexico City right now.”
I watch another raindrop trace its way down the window, joining others at the bottom. Just like all my expectations for this trip, pooling into a puddle of disappointment.
“Violet? Say something.”
“What do you want me to say, Rowan?” I sigh. “It’s not your fault.”
“I’m so sorry, Violet.” His voice deepens with regret. “I know how important this is to you.”
This was supposed to be ours. Our first real trip together.
The kind where we’d hold hands walking through cobblestone streets and steal kisses in ancient castles and laugh over pints in some cozy pub.
Where I wouldn’t have to explain to every single person at the wedding why I’m here alone or have to field sympathetic looks from my cousin or dodge questions from my parents.
My throat tightens. I wanted him beside me when I walked into the rehearsal dinner. I wanted to introduce him to my extended family, watch him charm my grandmother, see him in a suit that would probably make me forget how to form coherent sentences. I wanted to dance with him at the reception.
Instead, I’m going to show up alone.
“I’m tired of this, Rowan.” The words spill out before I can stop them. “There’s always a reason why I have to wait. But I smile and tell you I understand because that’s what I always do.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I want to scoop them back up and smooth them out. My pulse thuds in the silence, and Rowan doesn’t rush to fill it.
“Now I’m sorry.” The apology breaks on a sob. “That came out harsh.”
I rub my thumb along the edge of the phone, watching the rain smear the world outside into watercolor. “I know you don’t do this on purpose. I know you’re trying.”
A breath. Then another.
“But I don’t know if I can keep doing this,” I admit. “Loving someone who’s always half gone. Missing dinners, weekends, the little things that make life purposeful. I don’t want to measure us in apologies and airport delays.”
His inhale is audible this time.
“I’m not giving you an ultimatum,” I add quickly. “I’m just… I need more presence than this. I don’t know how to make that work if this is always how it is.”
“I don’t want to lose you,” he says.
“I don’t want to lose us, either,” I say, and it hurts because neither of us sounds sure about where this goes from here.
“I just don’t see how I’m supposed to be everything at once.”
“That’s not what I’m asking for, Rowan.”
Another pause. He’s breathing harder now, like he’s pacing. “I’m trying, Violet. But every time we talk about this, it seems like no matter what I do, it’s never going to be enough.”
“I’m not asking you to be perfect! I just don’t think it should feel like I’m losing you every time you leave the house.”
“Maybe I’m just not that good for you.”
I hear my own heart break in two, a jagged snap that makes my chest ache like it’s physically splitting apart.
“Rowan…you don’t mean that.”
“I think I do, Violet,” he admits, voice breaking. “I’m just fucking this up. And I don’t want to hurt you, but I keep doing it anyway.”
I close my eyes, pressing the phone to my cheek like holding it closer might somehow make the distance disappear. My chest is hollow, but my mind is racing because I know him. I know that guilt in his voice when he thinks he’s failing me.
“I don’t want us to end over this. But… I can’t keep pretending it’s fine when it hurts.”
There’s a beat of silence. Shallow breaths on the other end of the line.
“When I get back,” I continue, “I’m going to give you a little space. I think we both need room to hear ourselves think.”
My throat tightens, emotion climbing fast and unwelcome. I don’t want to keep crying into this conversation and have my tears muddy what I’m trying to say.
“I love you,” I add quickly, before my voice can betray me. “And I want us to choose each other on purpose. Not out of guilt.”
I inhale. Exhale. Both are shaky.
“I’ll talk to you later, okay? Bye, Rowan.”
I don’t wait for him to answer. I end the call before the tears spill over and my resolve cracks. I press the phone to my chest as the first sob slips free into the space he isn’t filling right now.