Chapter 13 Rowan
ROWAN
The neighborhood looks the same as it always has, which is the first thing that makes my chest ache.
The dogwood at the corner leans slightly toward the street, its bare branches thin and gray against the pale winter sky as if it never quite learned how to grow straight after one bad storm.
Mrs. Hensley’s wind chimes still hang from the porch two houses down, their soft metal knock carrying through the cold afternoon air each time the breeze moves through.
My mother’s mailbox still sags a little on the left side because Ethan promised to fix it three summers ago and then got distracted by work, life, and every other emergency that always seems more urgent than home maintenance.
The familiar details pull at me harder than I expect.
Mikel slows the SUV as we reach the curb, the tires crunching lightly over the thin line of gravel along the edge of the road. My chest pulls tight inside my ribs as the house comes into view.
It sits exactly the way it always has. Pale yellow siding, white trim, modest and unchanged, like the last week never reached this street.
The blue ceramic planter still rests near the front steps, though the soil inside it is dark and empty now, the summer flowers long gone.
The narrow porch stretches across the front of the house, where my mother used to sit in the evenings shelling peas while Ethan and I ran through the yard until the porch light went on.
The windows are closed against the cold, but I can still see the curtains stirring softly behind the glass.
Warm light fills the kitchen window, and I picture exactly what is happening inside without needing to see it.
My mother is moving between the stove and the counter.
Ethan is leaning against the sink, pretending he isn’t hungry.
Lunch is already on the table because feeding people is what she does when she’s worried.
The image lingers in my chest with a quiet ache.
Mikel puts the SUV into park, and the engine quiets.
Kiren sits beside me in the back seat, one arm resting along the door, his presence solid without crowding me.
He doesn’t rush the moment or reach for me.
He waits, watching my face with calmly, giving me the space to decide when I’m ready to move.
I open the door before I can think too hard about it and step out into the cold afternoon air. The chill bites through my coat immediately. Gravel crunches under my shoes as the door closes behind me. My pulse kicks harder with each step toward the house.
The front door opens before I reach it. My mother comes out so fast that the screen door bangs against the frame behind her.
She doesn’t pause on the porch or call my name from a safe distance.
She hurries down the steps in boots and a soft green blouse with a thick cardigan thrown over it, her eyes already wet, one hand pressed flat to her chest like she’s been holding herself together all morning and has finally given up the effort.
“Rowan.”
The sound of my name in her voice breaks the last thin layer of composure I’ve been standing behind.
I meet her halfway, and then she’s there, wrapping both arms around me with more strength than her small frame should allow.
I fold into her, my forehead pressing against her shoulder, breathing in flour, perfume, and the faint clean scent of laundry detergent.
Home. That’s what she smells like. Home, safety, and every ordinary thing I spent the last week pretending I could live without.
Her arms tighten around me again as if she needs proof I’m here.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she breathes into my hair. “Oh, thank God.”
My eyes burn. I grip the back of her cardigan and hold on. I feel her shoulders lift and fall against me, and I know she’s trying not to cry even after everything.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, though I hear the rough edge in my own voice.
“I know. I know you are.” She pulls back just enough to cup my face in both hands, looking carefully at the healing bruises, the fading marks, the places where my skin still carries the week on it.
Her mouth trembles before she gets it under control.
“I knew you were safe. Ethan told me. And then you called. But seeing you is different.”
I give a small nod because I understand exactly what she means.
Behind her, Ethan appears in the doorway, broader than the frame, one arm still secured in a sling across his chest. The sight of him knocks the air out of me all over again.
The bruising near his collarbone has gone from angry purple to a dull yellow-green at the edges, and he’s trying very hard to stand, as if none of it hurts. He fails.
His eyes move over me once, from my face to my shoulders to my stomach and back again, doing his own silent inventory.
“You look better,” he remarks.
“You look terrible,” I return.
His mouth curves into a smile. “Nice to see you too, Ro.”
I step around Mom and go straight to him.
He catches me one-handed and pulls me in carefully against his good side, keeping the injured shoulder away.
The hug is awkward because of the sling and because Ethan has never done anything halfway in his life, including pretending he isn’t emotional.
He clears his throat against my hair and pats my back once, rough and fast.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he mutters.
“I know.”
He leans back and keeps his hand on my shoulder for a second, his eyes searching my face in that blunt, unpolished way he has. No diplomacy. No attempt to hide what he’s checking for. He wants to know if I’m eating, sleeping, functioning, or lying.
“You really okay?” he asks.
I nod. “I’m okay.”
My mother has already turned toward Kiren, who now stands at the foot of the steps, giving us enough distance that this moment remains ours.
He looks large in the narrow front yard, all dark clothes and quiet stillness against my mother’s dormant flower beds and the white porch rail.
The contrast is almost absurd. He belongs in glass offices, guarded buildings, and rooms where everyone pays attention when he enters.
He doesn’t belong beneath the empty hook where my mother hangs a fern every summer, the chain swaying lightly in the cold breeze.
And yet he’s the reason I’m standing here.
Mom moves toward him with the same sincerity she brings to everything. “Thank you for bringing her home.”
Kiren inclines his head. “Of course.”
The formality of his voice doesn’t hide the care in it. My mother notices. She’s always noticed more than people think. She reaches for his hand with both of hers, and for the briefest instant, I see him pause, as if he’s still adjusting to this kind of gentleness. Then he lets her take it.
“Thank you,” she repeats, more quietly this time. “For keeping her safe.”
His eyes dart toward me, then back to her. “I will continue to.”
There’s nothing theatrical in the words. No show or effort to impress. He offers them plainly, and my mother receives them the same way.
She nods once, blinking back fresh tears. “Well. Then you’d all better come inside before lunch gets cold.”
The house wraps around me the moment I step through the door.
The air is warmer than outside and scented with baked rolls, roasted garlic, lemon furniture polish, and the faint trace of cinnamon from whatever my mother stress-baked this morning before deciding on lunch as well.
The old runner rug still lies in the front hall.
Family photos line the wall beside the stairs.
Me in a cap and gown. Ethan, in his EMT uniform, grinning with one arm thrown around Mom.
A faded picture of Dad holding both of us when we were little, his smile easy and open in a way that still hurts to look at if I’m not prepared.
Kiren steps inside behind me and closes the door gently.
Mom fusses immediately, which is her natural state when scared and relieved at the same time. She touches my elbow, smooths my hair back once, then waves all of us toward the dining room as if movement will keep her from crying again.
“Sit down. I made too much food because I didn’t know what else to do with myself.”
“That sounds right,” Ethan remarks, following us in.
The table is already set with the good placemats she only uses when she’s trying not to make a thing feel like a thing.
The casserole dish steams near the center.
A platter of roast chicken sits beside a bowl of green beans with slivered almonds.
Rolls rest under a clean dish towel. There’s sweet tea in a glass pitcher, with lemon slices floating on top.
The normalcy of it meets the past week, and for a moment, I’m not sure how the two belong in the same room.
I take my old seat automatically. Ethan drops into his, careful with his shoulder.
Kiren moves toward the chair my mother indicates, accepting the place she gives him.
He remembers the quiet order of this room and understands, without being told, that in this house, my mother directs the small logistics of a meal, and he accepts it without question.
The conversation stays in safe territory, which is its own mercy.
Mom asks Kiren if he wants sweet tea or water.
Ethan complains about physical therapy in the tone of a man twice his age.
I tear a roll open and watch steam curl into the air, then spread butter across the inside and feel my throat tighten again at the simple, ridiculous comfort of it.
My mother reaches across the table and puts another spoonful of green beans on my plate without asking, the same way she’s done since I was twelve.
“You need feeding,” she informs me.
I let out a breath that turns into a small laugh. “Apparently.”
“Yes,” Ethan puts in, reaching for the chicken. “You do. You look like you’ve been surviving on stress and coffee.”
“That’s unfairly accurate.”