Chapter 3 #2
I’d gone over to their house the next day, needing to see Rowan.
He had been the only person I wanted to be around, but I’d walked in on him talking to his dad, some heated discussion, and the look Rowan had given me made me realise they might have been talking about me.
It shattered me even further. I had bolted before he’d even really acknowledged my presence, his voice echoing behind me as I’d run into the bush behind our houses.
I’d known then and there that I couldn’t stay in Barrenridge.
“You seriously believe that?” He stared at me, through me, like he couldn’t decide if I was the same Sadie who left or a new one wearing her skin. “You didn’t even give me a chance to explain.”
I swiped at more of my tears. Traitorous things, they were.
“I’m not talking about this with you,” I said, opening my bedroom door. My hand trembled on the doorknob, and I wasn’t sure if I was letting him out, or begging myself to stay in. “Please, just leave.”
Rowan didn’t even flinch. “Tell me what happened,” he said, his voice ragged, less sure as he cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing gently over my bruise. He grew bolder, as though we were destined to dance around each other like this forever. “Who the fuck hurt you?”
“It doesn’t even matter,” I said, stepping away from him. “It’s done now.”
He swayed then, the booze taking its toll. He slumped forward with a grunt, his head falling onto my shoulder. I staggered under the weight of him, under the memories, wincing as a stabbing sensation slashed through my ribs .
“Christ, Rowan,” I said, barely holding him up as I steadied his weight against mine.
If he went down, I was going down with him. No question.
“You’re back,” he mumbled, words thick, slurred, “and you’re going to run again.”
“And you’re wasted,” I muttered, more to myself.
Figured. Some things really didn’t change. And Rowan was already losing the fight to stay conscious, his body swaying back and forth too much to even register my words.
How much had he had to drink? And was this a regular occurrence? I had to get him home before my father got back. Pretty sure a big, bad biker in my room would warrant another lecture. One I had no interest in listening to.
I shifted, and Rowan’s arm slumped across my shoulders, anchoring me to something I didn’t have the strength to carry.
“Come on,” I said, more to myself than to him. “Let’s get you home.”
He grunted again, but it was the first time he remained silent. No smart comment. No questions I didn’t want to answer. Finally.
His body was heavy against mine, and the scent of his cologne brought me back to when I used to pause in the hallway every time I walked past his room when I’d be over. He had almost caught me once, so after that I had to be a little stealthier. I had loved that smell. Still did.
And I hated that. I hated how even now, he could still make my lungs tighten with nothing more than a scent.
With an arm wrapped around his waist, I dragged him downstairs and out the front door.
This was only the beginning, I knew that much.
I just had to ride it out, like every other storm that had blown through this damn town.
I had no plans for what came next, barely making it through one day without an old wound opening back up.
My lungs burned, and I was out of breath by the time we hit the driveway. I stumbled over some loose rocks, the jagged edges stabbing into my bare feet.
The town was made to break you one stone at a time. I kept putting one foot in front of the other, and Rowan kept moving with me, not quite conscious, but also not completely useless either.
One thing I did know was there was no way I was getting him up the stairs inside his house.
The porch light flickered as we reached his front steps, casting him in and out of shadow like some reluctant ghost. I fought the urge to shove him inside and let him fend for himself. I wanted to, just to see how he would react. But I couldn’t. Not when he was like this.
I fumbled the door open and nearly fell with him as we crossed the threshold—me half-carrying, half-dragging his dead weight inside. Every step jarred my ribs. Every breath tasted like regret.
The living room was a time capsule, stuck in the same moment I’d left it. Same tan leather couch, now showing its age. Whiskey bottles stacked together like they were being showcased. Magazines scattered like remnants of old conversations.
Tears stung my eyes, blinding me to the truth of what stood before me. I wanted to cry, to scream, to let it all out.
But I didn’t. I wouldn’t allow myself that moment of weakness.
I just stood there, Rowan’s dead weight dragging me down, and let the exhaustion of the last week wash over me.
It was a bone deep tiredness, one untouched by any amount of rest. I understood that it wasn’t from lack of sleep—this was a tiredness that only came with giving up .
It was too much. All of it. Too much and somehow not enough, all at once. Like coming back to a place that should’ve felt like home but was really just another prison.
It hadn’t always been that way. Logan’s house had always felt like home, more than mine ever had. Then he killed himself.
I couldn’t do this. Not again. I had to get out of there.
I swallowed the tightness in my throat, and moved toward the couch, Rowan mumbling incoherently, his breath warm against my cheek. He had no choice but to follow me.
The springs creaked under Rowan’s weight as I dropped him onto the creased leather. He groaned, his eyes remaining closed.
Thank God. He was such a pain in my arse already, and I’d only been home a total of twelve hours. Exhaling, I leaned against the wall and sucked in breath after breath. He looked peaceful, lost in some drunken dream where things made sense. Would he let me join him in there?
Sense was something I was lacking at that moment.
“Damn it, Ro,” I mumbled, my anger burned out.
For a long moment, I just stood there, watching him.
Watching the rise and fall of his chest, the same chest I’d only once pressed my ear to, listening for the rhythm of his heart like it was my own.
It had been all I could do the night we’d found Logan, the only time Rowan had wrapped me in his arms, and it was all because my best friend had killed himself.
Rowan’s breathing shifted, a soft murmur escaping his lips. Words, almost unintelligible but sharp as knives, cut through the silence and stabbed into me.
“Just back to break my heart again.” They were raw, unguarded considering this was Rowan of all people.
It had been hard enough back when he was fourteen to get him to admit he was in pain after breaking his arm from falling out of a tree. Yet, there he was, mumbling about broken hearts in his sleep. He was acting like I owed him something, and I suppose I did.
But I wasn’t ready for that just yet. I was too tired to understand what his words meant, too tired to do anything but stand there and take it.
A light sheen of sweat coated my skin, the room closing in around me, suffocating. The weight of the past pressed down on me until I thought I’d choke on it.
Rowan’s breath hitched again, and I froze, bracing for more words, more confessions from the depths of his sleep. But none came. Just the soft hush of unconsciousness and the ache he left behind.
Memories crashed over me, of the day I’d left, the way I’d run from him like a coward, afraid to face the storm that was coming. Now, with Rowan out cold, the house loomed large, a cavernous void sucking me right back in. Maybe it always had been that way.
My gaze drifted to the stairway just off the living room. It stretched long and dark, like a tunnel into everything I wasn’t ready to face.
My feet carried me up the stairs before I realised I’d moved. The carpet whispered beneath each step, the air colder the higher I went.
Logan’s door stood before me, closed tight, but it may as well have been wide open, the way it sucked me in and ripped me apart. I’d barely survived living there the first time, yet there I was again, caught in the same damn trap.
It would’ve been laughable if it hadn’t felt like punishment. If it hadn’t been so fucking tragic.
My pulse pounded inside my head, throbbing against my skull. My body locked up tight, my muscles vibrating. I knew what was behind that door, and I wasn’t ready to face it. I might have never been ready.
Logan’s room. The place he had ended everything.
Where he thought things through and decided that I was better off without him.
He’d never left it tidy, not once in his life.
It had always been a disaster, like his brain was too busy coming up with ways to cause trouble to bother with things like picking up his dirty laundry or making his bed.
The last time I’d seen it, his clothes were everywhere, spilling out of drawers and off the back of his chair.
And he was hanging in the middle of it all.
How could he have done that to me? We had our lives planned out, at least until reality beckoned and we’d have had to settle down and make something of ourselves.
I pressed my forehead against the cold wood. I tried to get a grip, but it was impossible. It all came rushing back, not like a wave, more like the dead thud of a body you couldn’t un-see. I hadn’t even opened the door, and it was already killing me.
I remembered the songs he used to make up, the way he had bounced around like a puppy on speed. He’d laugh until he cried, run his mouth and get into trouble. Usually from Rowan, who had always been the calm and brooding one. But Logan? He had been a live wire, charging everything up around him.
But he was still dead. And it was still quiet.
I wrapped my fingers around the handle. Cold.
Solid. Familiar. I squeezed my eyes shut, but the memory waited on the other side—louder than the silence.
It never left me. Even after six years, I could still see the image burned behind my eyelids.
It was there when I went to sleep, and it was there when I woke up.
I thought of Logan’s funeral. Of Rowan. Of the words that still echoed, louder than any goodbye I’d never said .
Rowan never knew I’d been there that day.
I had hidden in the background so no-one would know I’d come back to say goodbye.
It had been so cold, as though all the warmth had been sucked out of the entire universe.
I couldn’t look at Rowan without wanting to scream.
Without wanting to cry. Without wanting to throw my arms around him and tell him how sorry I had been for leaving him.
Yet, I had done none of those things. I had just left again, leaving behind everything I had ever known.
And now I was back.
I pulled away from the door, and staggered back down the stairs, away from the memories, away from Rowan. And away from my own damn heart.
It hurt worse than I imagined. Worse than anything.
Logan. Rowan. The past. It was pressing down on me, suffocating me the longer I stayed in that house.
I knew I’d choke if I stayed.
So, I ran.