Chapter 39
thirty-nine
. . .
Violet
Igot back from Scotland a few days ago. Rowan texted me and told me to stay at our place with the animals while he crashes at Beau’s. I could have stayed with Whit, but I didn’t argue. I missed Echo and Bramble too much.
I miss him more, though. And Bramble’s been following at my heels from room to room, her sad eyes asking questions I can’t answer.
I open the fridge and close it again before wandering back into the living room and dropping onto the couch, Bramble curling into my side like she’s afraid I’ll vanish, too.
“Me too, girl,” I whisper, burying my fingers into her fur. “I miss him, too.”
I take care of Echo every morning before work, brushing her coat until it gleams. There’s something healing about the repetitive motion, about her gentle nickering when she sees me approach. She doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t need explanations.
Three days pass. Then five. Then a week.
Rowan texts each day, just once. Simple messages that don’t ask for responses.
Hope you’re okay.
There’s lasagna in the freezer if you want it.
I read each one, my thumb hovering over the keyboard before I set the phone down without replying.
What would I even say? That I spend half the night staring at his empty side of the bed?
That I keep finding his T-shirts and pressing them to my face like some lovesick teenager?
That I miss him so much that it physically hurts?
On day eight, Whitley shows up at the door with a bottle of wine and two pints of ice cream.
“Intervention time,” she announces, pushing past me into the kitchen. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, closing the door behind her. “Just what every girl wants to hear.”
She sets the wine on the counter and fixes me with a look that’s half concern, half exasperation. “Have you talked to him at all?”
I shake my head, reaching for wine glasses in the cabinet. “No.”
“Why not?” She uncorks the bottle with practiced ease. “And don’t say ‘I need space’ because we both know you’ve had enough to build a small moon colony.”
I pour the wine, buying myself time. “I don’t know what to say.”
“How about ‘I miss you’ or ‘Let’s talk’ or literally anything besides this silent treatment?” She hands me a glass. “He’s miserable, by the way. Beau says he barely sleeps.”
Something in my chest twists. “You’ve been talking to Beau?”
“Don’t change the subject.” She takes a sip of her wine. “The point is, you’re both walking around like zombies. This whole ‘space’ thing isn’t working.”
“It’s not that simple, Whit.”
“It never is.”
“I just… I’m scared, okay?”
She eases immediately. “I know. But being scared and being stuck aren’t the same thing.”
“What if nothing changes?”
“Then you’ll survive,” she says. “You’ll cry and yell, and I’ll help you key his truck. You’ll survive, because that’s what you do. But Violet…” she turns toward me, her voice gentler now, “the man looked completely destroyed when I saw him. I think he’ll make the right choice.”
She nudges the pint toward me. “Eat. Drink. Cry if you need to. Then tomorrow…maybe stop waiting for the perfect words and just say the ones you’ve got.”
Her advice sticks with me long into the night, and the next morning, I’m awake before dawn. The house is quiet except for Bramble’s soft snoring at the foot of the bed.
I reach for my phone, thumb hovering over Rowan’s name. What do I even say after more than a week of silence? Sorry I’ve been ignoring you feels inadequate. I miss you feels like giving in too easily.
I set the phone down and get up. Echo needs feeding, and the familiar routine might help clear my head.
The morning air is crisp as I cross the yard to the stable. Echo whinnies when she sees me, trotting to the fence line.
“What do I do, girl?” I groan as I measure out her feed. “How do I fix this?”
Echo nudges at my pocket. I smile despite myself and press a kiss to the velvet-soft dip of her nose.
“I wish you could talk,” I mutter. “You’d probably tell me I’m being stubborn.”
She flicks her tail like she agrees, and I laugh. It feels good. Normal.
I finish up in the stable, muscles moving from memory while my mind runs circles around itself.
Every moment with him plays like a film reel behind my eyes.
Not just the man he is now, but the boy he used to be.
Rowan at seventeen, grinning beneath the Friday night lights, all reckless energy and scraped knuckles, smelling like cheap cologne and trouble I’d never have the nerve to chase.
And then there’s now. Rowan in the kitchen, smiling softly while the coffee brews, his voice rough with sleep. Rowan laughing, head tipped back, when Bramble darts past him with a stolen sock.
His past and present collide in my mind—this boy I never stopped loving, this man who still doesn’t quite believe he’s worthy of being loved.
By the time I’m back in the house, the sky is transforming into that watercolor wash of dawn.
I hop in the shower, hoping the hot water will untangle some of the knots in my chest. As I let the water cascade over me, the memory of that night—Rowan’s gentle hands washing my hair, his eyes holding mine like I was something precious—hits me with such force I have to brace myself against the tile.
That’s when I know. I’m done waiting for the perfect words.
I shut off the water, towel off quickly, and throw on clothes without caring what they are. My hair is still dripping when I grab my phone, sending a quick text before I can second-guess myself.
Me:
Can we talk?
It hasn’t even been ten seconds when his reply comes through.
Rowan:
Always, Violet. On my way.
I pace the living room while I wait, unable to keep still. Bramble watches me with curious eyes from her spot on the couch, head tilted, trying to understand my nervous energy.
The crunch of tires on gravel makes my heart leap into my throat. I move to the window, watching as Rowan’s truck pulls up. He sits there for a moment after cutting the engine, and I wonder if he’s as nervous as I am.
When he finally steps out, my breath catches. He looks tired, shadows under his eyes and hair a little messier than usual.
I open the door and, for a moment, we just stand there, drinking each other in.
“Hi,” I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Hi,” he echoes, hands shoved in his pockets as if he doesn’t trust himself not to reach for me.
I step back, letting him in. Bramble darts forward, nearly knocking Rowan over in her excitement. He crouches, burying his face in her fur as she whines and licks at his chin.
“She missed you,” I say, watching them.
He looks up, eyes finding mine. “I missed her, too.” The unspoken and you hangs between us.
We move to the living room, and he sits on the edge of the armchair, like he’s afraid to take up too much space.
“How are you?” he asks.
“Okay,” I lie, then catch myself. “Actually, no. I’m not okay.”
“Me neither.”
I take a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About us.”
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “Violet, I—”
“Let me finish,” I say gently. “Please.”
He nods, hands clasped between his knees.
“I’ve spent this whole week wondering if I should walk away.”
His face pales, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“I’d never be able to do it,” I admit.
I move toward him, close enough that I can reach out and touch him if I want. “Is there any way you can be home more often? I understand you need to work—”
“I quit.”
My heart races. “What?”
“I quit my job,” he repeats. “I handed in my resignation a couple days after we talked.”
“But…your career. I never asked you to—”
“I know you didn’t.” He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “Truth is, I only ever took that job because I wanted to prove something. To you, to your parents. That I could provide. That I wasn’t going to end up like my dad.”
His fragile confession hangs between us. I watch his shoulders sag, like he’s finally setting down a weight he’s been carrying for far too long.
“I wanted to be the kind of man who could give you everything,” he continues, his voice rough. “A stable home. Financial security. All the things my old man never gave us. I thought if I could do that, then maybe I’d be worthy of you.”
My throat tightens. “Rowan…”
“But what’s the point?” His eyes meet mine. “What’s the point of any of it if it’s hurting you, Violet?”
I blink rapidly, tears welling up despite my effort to keep them at bay. “I never wanted you to give up something important to you.”
“You’re what’s important to me.” His voice breaks. “I spent so long thinking I had to have it all figured out, and in the process, I almost forgot who I was doing it for.”
He stands, taking one of my hands in his.
“It’s you, Violet. It’s always been you.
Your laugh, your stubbornness, the way you make me feel like I’m home just by being near you.
I don’t want a life where I have everything except you,” he continues, each word cutting straight to my heart.
“I don’t care how many boxes I check if it means I’m not here for you.
If it means you’re staring out windows waiting for me to come back.
That’s the only thing I could never forgive myself for. ”
His eyes glisten. “You’re the center of my life, Violet. You’re the part that makes me want to be better, the part I’d give up everything else for in a heartbeat. I’m not letting the world, my mistakes, or my stupid pride take you away from me.”
I can’t hold it back any longer. The tears that have been threatening since he walked through the door finally break free, spilling down my cheeks in hot streams. My shoulders shake as everything I’ve been holding inside comes pouring out.
“Can I hold you?” Rowan asks, his voice so tender it only makes me cry harder.
I nod, unable to speak through my tears, and he pulls me against his chest. His arms wrap around me, strong and secure, and I press my face into his shoulder.
“I’m here,” he whispers, one hand cradling the back of my head while the other rests on the small of my back. “I’ve got you, baby.”
“I missed you so much,” I manage between sobs. “I thought maybe we were broken for good.”
“Never,” he says fiercely, his lips pressing against my hair.
His arms tighten around me as his chest expands with a deep breath. I don’t want to pull away yet. After a week without him, I need the solid weight of him against me, his heartbeat under my ear, the familiar scent of him filling my lungs.
“What will you do now?” I ask, my voice muffled against his shirt.
“I’ve got some ideas,” he says. “All local stuff.”
For the first time in weeks, I’m not bracing for the next goodbye. I’m not counting days or wondering when I’ll have to be strong again. I’m just here, held, breathing him in, and letting my heart rest against his.