13. CHAPTER THIRTEEN #2
Me: Good shit or bad shit?
Rowan: Good.
Me: You could use more words occasionally.
Rowan: 48 is really good, G.
I look at that there. Better.
Me: Thank you.
Rowan: Proud of you.
I stare at the screen. My entire chest warms.
Lucy looks over from the couch. “What?”
I lock my phone. “Nothing.”
“Who are you texting?”
“Nobody. I have forty-eight kids signed up now.”
She sits up. “Wow.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“That’s great, G.”
“Thank you.” I eat another bite of cereal. My phone stays face down beside me. I am extremely normal. I smile at her, and she turns back to what she was doing.
Wednesday is worse, logistically. I have class, work, two conversations about liability language for the event, and an email from Ives asking me to bring an updated staffing plan Friday. By the time I get home, I want to remove my brain and put it in a bowl of ice water.
Lucy is standing by the door with a bag over one shoulder. “I’m staying at Hawthorne tonight.”
I drop my keys into the dish. “Okay.”
“He has video until nine, but I’ve got my group meeting until eight anyway, so I’m just going there after.”
“Okay.”
She reaches for the door. I look toward the hallway. Then toward the kitchen. Then back at her.
“Are you coming home tomorrow morning?”
Lucy’s hand stops on the knob. Slowly, she turns. “Probably not. Why?”
“No reason.”
Her eyebrows rise. I immediately regret asking. She turns all the way around.
“How’s your mom?” I ask, changing the subject.
Lucy looks over her shoulder. “Fine.”
“How’s Tyr?”
“He’s good.”
“Bear?”
“He’s good, G.”
She steps out of the apartment, then leans back through the doorway. “How’s Laurens?”
My entire body goes still. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mhm.”
“Lucy.”
“I’ll keep Benson busy.”
I recoil. “Ew.”
She laughs so hard she has to shut the door.
I stand in the apartment alone. Silence settles around me. Then I slowly look toward my phone.
No.
Absolutely not.
I last maybe seven seconds.
Me: Lucy’s staying at Hawthorne tonight.
Rowan replies almost immediately.
Rowan: Okay.
I stare at the screen, and I actually have to put the phone down. I walk to the kitchen and open the refrigerator. I grab water and drink half a cup. I walk back to my phone and look at the screen. Nothing. Nothing?
Me: Rowan!
Rowan: What?
I type harder than necessary.
Me: My apartment is empty.
Eight seconds.
I count.
Rowan: Oh.
My mouth falls open.
Me: Are you fucking serious?
Rowan: What?
Me: You’re so annoying. Get over here.
His answer comes immediately this time.
Rowan: What do you want to eat?
I smile. Then, because apparently sexual confidence has destroyed the last functioning part of my brain.
Me: The thing between your legs.
The phone rings.
I answer already laughing. “Hello?”
“Fries.”
I cover my face. “What?”
“I’ll get you fries.”
I laugh harder. “Loaded.”
“Okay. See you soon, G.”
He hangs up.
I stand in my kitchen smiling at nothing. This is getting bad.
He gets here a little after seven-thirty with wet hair, a dark hoodie, and a brown paper bag tucked underneath one arm. I open the door. We look at each other. There is about half a second where I assume he’s going to kiss me. Instead, he holds the bag up.
“Loaded fries.”
I stare at it. He walks past me.
“You actually brought dinner.”
“You asked for fries.”
“That was after I asked for something else.”
He sets the bag on my counter and looks over his shoulder. “You can have both.”
My stomach flips. Then he takes containers out of the bag like he did not just say that.
He brought burgers for himself and loaded fries for me.
I pick up the container. “You got the right one.”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
He says easily, “You told me.”
“When?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
I smile and put the food down. “I think we’re both developing a condition.”
He chuckles. “Love Island?”
I point at my tiny couch and almost drop my water. My brows pull together. “You want to watch Love Island?”
He shrugs. “Isn’t that your favorite show? You always watch it.”
I look at him. “That does not explain why you want to watch it.”
“I’ve seen enough at Hawthorne to know who everybody is.”
“You complained about it for an entire episode last month.”
“I asked why they keep saying they have a connection after talking for twelve minutes.”
“That’s part of the show.”
“It’s stupid.”
“And yet?”
He gestures toward the couch.
I smile. “I am always down to watch Love Island.”
We take the food on the couch. He sits at one end.
I sit at the other, but it’s not much distance.
It lasts for almost an entire minute. Then I move closer because pretending I invited him here to maintain three feet of respectful distance would be stupid.
My feet end up underneath his thigh, and then we eat.
I don’t know what to make of this because nothing happens.
Rowan doesn’t start touching me the second we’re alone.
He doesn’t treat my text about the thing between his legs like a binding contract.
He eats his burger, watches a man named Luca explain that he has found something special with a woman he met yesterday, and shakes his head.
“No way. He doesn’t like her.”
I make a face. “How do you know?”
“He hasn’t listened to anything she said.”
“You’ve watched them for six minutes.”
“He asked her twice where she grew up.”
I stop chewing. “That is actually a good point.”
Rowan looks smug. “He’s not listening.”
“Okay, relationship expert.”
He laughs. “I didn’t say I was an expert.”
“You dated a girl in high school.”
His head turns. “How do you know that?”
“I don’t.” I smile. “You just confirmed it.”
He stares at me, and I start laughing.
“You got me. You could’ve asked.” He shakes his head and eats another fry off my plate.
I smack his hand. “Those are mine.”
We make it through half the episode before either of us remembers we could be doing anything else.
That might be my favorite part of the entire night.
Not because I don’t want him. I do. I am extremely aware of his leg under mine.
Of his hand resting near my ankle. Of the fact that we are alone and my bedroom is approximately fourteen steps away.
But he came here and brought me food. Then he sat down to watch TV.
He wants to be here. The thought settles somewhere deep enough that I don’t touch it too much.
During an ad, I look over at him. “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
Rowan stops chewing.
“The worst?”
I nod.
He considers that.
I wait for something dramatic.
He keeps thinking.
“Come on,” I nudge him with my foot.
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s concerning.”
He says, “Okay. In high school, we were playing flag football in P.E.”
I turn toward him. “Already hate it.”
“My best friend was in the class. I scored, turned around, and grabbed him.”
“Okay.”
“To twist his nipples.”
I lower my fry. “What?”
“I don’t know. We were sixteen. It wasn’t him.”
I stop.
Rowan’s mouth moves.
“Oh no.”
“It was Vanessa.”
“Who the fuck is Vanessa?”
“A girl in our class.”
“You grabbed Vanessa’s boobs?”
“Yeah.”
“Both?”
He closes his eyes.
I sit straight up. “Both?”
“I thought she was him.”
“And you twisted them?”
Rowan starts laughing because I’m laughing now. “Yes.”
“How do you mistake breasts for your friend’s nipples?”
“I turned around fast. I realized immediately.”
“Oh my God.”
“I apologized probably fifteen times.”
I fall back against the couch laughing.
Rowan covers his face.
“This is the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
“That I can think of.”
“You accidentally sexually assaulted Vanessa in gym class.”
“Do not phrase it like that.”
“She probably told that story for the rest of high school.”
“She was cool about it.”
“Of course, she was. Rowan Laurens grabbed her boobs.”
His laughter stops. He gives me a flat look.
I grin. “She probably would’ve let you do it intentionally.”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“I’m sure you could’ve hit that, Row.”
“No.”
I lean closer. “I’ll let you twist mine.”
His mouth actually falls open.
I lose it.
I throw my head back and laugh because there it is — the tiny break in his composure that I have become absolutely addicted to finding.
“Jesus, G.”
“You blushed.”
He grabs my ankle when I try to kick him and holds it against his thigh.
“Your turn.”
“My turn?”
He nods. “Worst thing you’ve ever done.”
I think. “That’s hard because unlike you, I have range.”
He laughs.
I consider several childhood crimes involving Benson and decide none of them make me look remotely sane.
“I once convinced Benson that our mother had adopted him.”
Rowan stares at me. “How old were you?”
“Eight.”
“How old was he?”
“Ten.”
“What did you say?”
“That I found paperwork.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
He starts laughing.
“But I made paperwork.”
That makes him laugh harder.
“I used one of my mom’s folders and wrote ADOPTION CERTIFICATE on printer paper.”
“G.”
“I didn’t understand what official documents looked like.”
“Did he believe you?”
“For twenty minutes.”
“What happened?”
“He cried.”
Rowan looks horrified.
“I was eight.”
“You made your brother cry because you told him he was adopted.”
“He ate my popsicle.”
Rowan laughs. “Oh my God. That is not equivalent.”
I smile sweetly. “My mom called me an evil little bitch.”
His eyebrows go up. “Your mom said that?”
I nod. “She was mad.”
“I would be too.”
I point my fork at him. “You’re supposed to be on my side now.”
Something shifts in his face. “Am I?”
The question lands in a place neither of us expected.
I look at him.
Rowan looks back.
He isn’t being serious-serious. But he isn’t joking either.
I reach across and steal one of his fries. “Yes.”
He smiles. “Okay.”
“Don’t ruin it.”
He laughs.
I pull my feet out from underneath his thigh and turn sideways on the couch so I can look at him properly.
“Ask me something.”
“What?”
“You asked about my criminal history. Ask me something else.”
He thinks. “What do you want to do after college?”
I roll my eyes. “That is so boring.”
“You said ask something.”
“Ask something fun.”
“What’s fun?”
“Sex. Murder. Secrets. Dreams. Embarrassing things.”
He looks at me. “That explains a lot.”
“Rowan.”
He smiles. “Biggest dream.”