Chapter 4 #2
“It might not,” she said with a warm smile. “But not knowing doesn’t mean the answer is no.”
I reached for my coffee again, but it had gone lukewarm. I drank it anyway.
Dad’s footsteps moved down the hall, then a cabinet opened and closed. He didn’t come into the kitchen right away, and I knew it was intentional. He’d always been good at giving space when he decided it was needed.
Mom set her mug down. “You know how to follow orders. You know how to execute a plan. You know how to suppress what you feel so you can get through the next thing. That might have served you well in the Air Force. Maybe it serves you well in a fight too. But love isn’t a mission, Rowan.
There’s no version of this where walking away counts as a win. ”
I kept my face stoic, but the lump in my throat grew.
She reached across the table and touched my wrist. “I’m not telling you to forgive him. I’m not telling you to go back. I’m not telling you he deserves anything from you until you know the truth.”
“Then what are you telling me?”
“I’m telling you not to turn pain into orders.”
I looked down at her hand resting on me.
Pain into orders.
That was exactly what I’d done. I’d left the arena, booked the flight, gotten to Sacramento, moved out, and shut off my phone. I’d taken one step after another, clean and direct, because if I kept moving, I didn’t have to stop long enough to feel how much it hurt.
Dad appeared in the kitchen doorway, his hair damp from the shower and his face clean-shaven. He looked between us, then at the plate in front of me. “You eating?”
I lifted the fork. “Yes, sir.”
While his gaze held mine for half a second, something flickered there that looked like concern, regret, and love all tangled together.
He nodded. “Good.”
Mom stood and carried her mug to the sink. “I’m going to start a load of towels.”
Translation: She’d said her piece.
I watched her disappear down the hall, then stared at the remains of my breakfast.
Dad poured his coffee behind me without saying another word. He gave me no lecture, no order, and nothing to push back against.
I grabbed my plate from the table and stood.
My father glanced over. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“All right.”
After rinsing my dishes and putting them in the dishwasher, I walked down the hall to my old room, where my phone sat on the nightstand. For a long time, I stood there looking at it. Leaving it off would be easier. No messages, no explanations, and no chance for Keaton to hurt me further.
I ground my teeth and reached for it, then stopped myself. The second I turned it on, I’d have to deal with Keaton, and I wasn’t ready.
So I left it there, changed into jeans, slipped on my boots, grabbed my keys and jacket from the dresser, and headed to the garage.
Dad was at the workbench, sorting through a drawer of tools. He glanced up when I stepped inside. “Going somewhere?”
“For a ride.”
His gaze dropped to the keys in my hand, then returned to my face. “Clear your head?”
“Something like that.”
He nodded. “Drive carefully.”
“Yes, sir.”
I shrugged into my jacket, pulled on my helmet, rolled the bike out of the garage, and started it in the driveway. The engine rumbled beneath me.
For the first few miles, I didn’t think.
I focused on the road, the bike’s weight, the vibration in my hands, and the air slipping under my jacket.
I concentrated on stop signs, turns, and traffic lights—the simple shit that required just enough attention to keep my mind from going back to that hallway at the arena.
But Mom’s words still followed me.
Love wasn’t a mission, and walking away didn’t count as a win.
I kept riding, letting one turn lead into another until the roads started looking familiar for all the wrong reasons. These were streets I’d driven with Keaton when we were teenagers.
Back then, we’d waste gas just for the sake of more time alone.
Sometimes we’d say we were going to grab food and end up driving for an hour with a bag of fries between us.
Other nights, we’d park somewhere dark enough where no one could see us, then sit with the windows cracked, talking about everything except what was happening between us.
Then one of us would finally reach across the center console, a hand on a thigh, fingers brushing, and one careful kiss would turn into something neither of us knew how to stop.
I turned down another street and realized where I was a few seconds before Titan came into view.
I slowed without meaning to, then forced myself to keep going.
I couldn’t go back there—not now, and maybe not ever—which meant I needed a new gym and a new routine, somewhere Keaton and Devon weren’t in every room, on every mat, and in every damn memory.
I rode a few more miles before pulling into a gas station and killing the engine. For a second, I sat there with both boots planted on the ground, hands resting on the grips, helmet still on.
I’d left the arena, LA, and the house, but somehow, Keaton was still everywhere.
After taking off my helmet, I drew in a breath that smelled like gas and hot asphalt, and all I could think about was the phone I’d left in my old room.
I could leave it that way. I could ride until I was too tired to think, then go back to my parents’ house and pretend one more night would make this easier.
It wouldn’t.
I already knew that.
By the time I got back, it was after three in the afternoon. Mom’s car was gone, and Dad’s truck was still in the driveway. I parked the bike in the garage, hung my helmet on the handlebar, and headed inside.
Dad was in the living room with the TV on, and he looked over as soon as I came in. “Feel better?”
I rubbed a hand over the back of my neck. “No.”
His mouth twitched, but he didn’t smile. “You will be.”
“Hope so.”
He nodded and looked back at the TV, giving me space again.
I walked down the hall to my old room, where my phone still sat on the nightstand, its black screen facing up exactly where I’d left it. This time, I didn’t allow enough time to talk myself out of pressing the side button.
The screen lit up, and once it booted, notifications started coming through, mostly texts from Keaton. His name filled the screen again and again, but I didn’t open the thread right away. I stared at it like it might hit me if I moved wrong.
Then I tapped his name.
The messages I’d already seen were still there. The ones asking where I was, if I was okay, begging me to answer.
Then came the ones I hadn’t seen yet:
What the fuck?
Are you serious right now?
Call me and tell me what’s going on
He’d been scared, then pissed, and I’d given him a reason to be both.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard. I wasn’t ready to hear his voice, explanations, accusations, or the sound of him saying my name as if I’d hurt him again.
But Mom was right. I didn’t know the ending yet.
I typed the only thing I could manage:
We need to talk