Chapter 5 #2
The obnoxious clicking of my heels is left in my wake and I feel eyes burning into my spine as I walk toward the door, squeezing through groups of people waiting for a table. I push open one of the thick black doors and finally take in a breath.
I trail off to the side of the building, putting a hand at the base of my throat where I can feel myself breathing and my heart beating with my eyes closed.
One, two, three.
One, two, three.
One, two, three.
The next breath I take, I peel my eyelids open as a cloud of air forms around my mouth.
“Nat.” My heart leaps at the sudden sound and I look over my shoulder. “There you are.” Rowan takes few long steps until he’s in front of me, holding my coat on his forearm.
“Sweetheart, you forgot your coat,” he says.
“Don’t do that,” I pant, a giant cloud gathering at my mouth.
“Just let me put it on your shoulders,” Rowan murmurs as does so, setting the coat over my shoulders and adjusting it comfortably. “There.”
I sniffle. “You don’t get to do that.”
“Do what?”
I lift my head to face him, the tears in my eyes be damned as I peer up at him. “Be that way.”
His brow quirks. “Be civilized with your parents?”
“You don’t get to go around saying you named your restaurant for me!” I whisper-shout.
“I didn’t.” He smirks. “I named it after my favorite movie.”
“Beetlejuice was never your favorite movie and you know it.”
He shrugs, nonchalantly slipping his hands into the pockets of his navy slacks—slacks that, I’ll admit, do something fantastic for her legs. “You don’t know that. It could be.”
“It isn’t.”
“It’s not like you pay attention,” he mutters so quietly I almost miss it.
I blink. “What? I…Of course, I…” Of course I pay attention to you.
“What’s my favorite movie then, Natalia?” Rowan muses, leaning into me slightly. “Since you know it isn’t Beetlejuice.”
“It’s…” There have been so many. Fuck, there are so many things I know about him that I pretend I don’t because it’s so much easier to not know. Knowing him is how I ended up here in the first place.
He’s still smirking, but now has a cocky, arched brow to match.“Well?”
I hate him. “Between the ages of sixteen and seventeen, you were weirdly obsessed with The Breakfast Club,” I say.
“Then, in college, your obsession was everything that had to do with The Matrix. You had a stupid Die Hard era about two years ago and right now your favorite movies are Grown Ups and Grown Ups 2. Your favorite color is green and you love white sneakers because you think they’re the ‘sleak-est looking kind of shoe.’”
I cross my arms over my chest and put my chin in the air.
Rowan smirks, some of those pearly teeth showing, and that blue in his eyes shining like the sunlight bouncing off the ocean.
“Damn you,” I hiss and stomp my foot.
“You’re so…”
“What?” I snap, eyes narrowed and nostrils flared.
“You’re right,” he says. “Those are my favorite movies.”
I roll my eyes. “And here I thought you were always a total fucking weirdo for naming your restaurant Beetlejuice.”
He gapes at me. “It is not weird.”
“It’s fucking weird, Rowan,” I mumble and lean back against the building, feeling my ears and the tip of my nose go numb.
“What’s going on in your head tonight, Natalia?” he asks softly, his voice low and tender. His hand slowly reaches up, inching closer with each breath until he tugs at a curl, letting it bounce back up.
I love when he does that. I never tolerate anyone touching my hair—it’s a sacred thing for me, and quite fucking annoying. But the way Rowan does it, just a gentle tug to admire the bounce, is like the utmost appreciation for my hair type.
“Just needed air,” I rasp, and his hand drops.
“I’m sorry I got us into this,” Rowan says, leaning back beside me. “I should have minded my own business.”
“I’ve been telling you that for years.” I scoff.
Rowan huffs a laugh, his eyes down at his fingers where he fidgets. “I am sorry.”
“You’re forgiven.”
He exhales what sounds like a quiet breath of relief. “You need another minute?”
I shake my head. “No, let’s not keep them waiting,” I say and push off the wall. “I just want to get to bed.”
“Let’s go.” I step in front of him and he settles a featherlight hand at the small of my back as he pulls open the door for me.
At our table, my dads are smiling and laughing together. Utterly in love—the way they have been my entire life. Dad’s eyes flick to me and he smiles. “There she is. You okay, sweetie?”
“Yeah, Dad, all good.” I paste on a smile.
Daddy stands first and grabs his coat. “Rowan, thank you again. Really. I hope the next time we come back, we can do this again.”
Rowan’s grin is nothing if not a bright supernova that reaches his eyes. “Whenever. You are both always welcome.”
“All right then,” Dad says, buttoning his coat and tying his scarf. My parents toss around more thank you’s—enough to make the word sound a lot less like English and more like gibberish.
“Sweetie, we’re okay seeing you tomorrow if you want to stay with Rowan,” Dad says.
“No, no, it’s okay.” I’m quick to answer. “I-I’m tired and I’ve had a long day. I see him every day anyway.” I chuckle to lighten the mood, hopefully my own.
I turn to face Rowan, peering up at him.
I take a selfish moment to appreciate the natural beauty he is—the golden hair, dirty blond thick brows, the full rosy lips, the cheekbones, the hair growing around his usually cleanly-shaven jaw.
Rowan’s hand is still on the small of my back, and I inhale deeply, my eyes fluttering at the warm contact as I say, “Goo—Goodnight. Um…” I stretch my neck and brush my lips over his jaw. “I’ll, um, see you tomorrow.”
A half smile. “Tomorrow, sweetheart.”
My heart does a strange little flutter.
Sweetheart.
He’s going to get me used to that.
Rowan bends and his lips brush across my cheekbone, lingering until he has to pull back. “Text me when you get home.”
“Okay,” I squeak and he smirks down at me. “Okay.”
“Please,” he begs, “actually text me.”
I nod and follow my dads outside, leaving Rowan to finish his night in a restaurant that is now overflowing with people waiting for a table. Outside, the cool, late September air feels delicious—comforting after how tight my skin has felt tonight.
“Tonight was really lovely,” Dad says.
“It was,” I agree, and walk beside them toward our cars—they’re driving a rented one so they don’t use their RV around town. “Did you really enjoy everything?”
“Of course we did,” Daddy answers as if to say duh as we approach their tiny rental. “And I love the two of you together.”
I smile. What would it be like if Rowan and I actually were together?
“Natalia, sweetie,” Daddy begins.
“I’m fine, Daddy,” I lie, with a smaller smile this time. “I’m very, very happy. I have my bakery and I…Rowan and I are happy. Very happy. Crazy happy.”
“Are you sure?” Dad asks, brow arched.
“Yes, Dad,” I say like a teenager, with a toilsome smile.
But what I want to say is, No, I’m not sure, but it doesn’t matter because you and Daddy are going to be gone soon, again.
You’re going to continue traveling, spending your money until there isn’t one space in the world that you haven’t seen.
And it’s okay, because I’m still here. Trapped, yet free, all at once. I will still be here.
“Are you sure sure?” Daddy insists.
I smile and think, It wouldn’t matter if I told them no. They’d tell me to get back into therapy, take the antidepressants, and focus on the good.
The funny thing about “the good” is how it seems to disappear in an instant. “The good” is good to everyone else, but to you it’s just a blur in the same dim room you’re standing still in.
The good is only good when you feel good too.
To them, the bakery is part of “the good,” and it should be. It is. But some days it isn’t, and I don’t think they’d understand that. They’re free—traveling and flying to wherever they feel like going. Yet, I remain stuck as a prisoner in my mind with my dark friend that lurks in its corners.
“All right then, baby,” Dad says, grinning. “We’ll see you tomorrow for brunch?”
“Of course.” I smile and he wraps me up in his arms, suffocating me with his chest. Daddy’s arms come around too, trapping me in a group hug that feels too tight to feel okay. But they are both beyond happy tonight, and I won’t damage that. “All right, baby girl.” Dad yawns. “Love you.”
“Love you,” I say.
“Love you,” Daddy says, getting in the driver’s side.
“Love you,” I say to both of them.
I wave at them and they wave back through the windows as I walk a few cars down to my beloved Chevy Trax.
I named her Wednesday when I got her, and I plan to keep her forever.
It’s once I’m inside and locking the doors that my dads drive off to the B it’s what he’s always loved to do. I was almost disappointed he wasn’t the one cooking tonight, but I am glad he was the person sitting beside me as my rock.
It doesn’t take long until I’m parking across the street from my building.
I get home to Binx and a silent apartment, and I think about it again—leaving it all behind.
It would be really easy. I don’t have much.
Nothing to leave behind for anyone, just my pretty little cat who is also one of my best friends.
I fall onto my couch with a sigh and take off my heels, leaving them off to the side as I curl up on the cushions. Binx hops on beside me and curls up against my chest. “Hey there,” I croak, petting her soothing, black fur. “You’d miss me, right?”
Binx purrs.
“I hoped so.” I scratch at the top of her head. “I’d miss you too. But it’d be selfish of me to take you with me.” Binx becomes a black blur in the clouds blocking my vision. “I sometimes think you should have gotten a different human. Don’t you?”
Silence.
“I’ll wait until you’re awake and ask again,” I mutter, and the tears run. Even if Binx doesn’t think she should have gotten a different human, I think I should have been a different human entirely.
I feel the vibrations in my coat against my hip and sit up carefully; Binx doesn’t move a muscle. I take my time to remove my coat and grab my phone, pressing the green button to answer as I toss my coat. I’ll hang it later. Maybe.
“Hello?” I croak, and curl back up with Binx.
“Are you home? You didn’t text me.”
“I’m home,” I breathe.
“You scared me,” Rowan’s soft, gentle voice says. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I rasp. “That was a bit dramatic of me back there, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” Before I can open my mouth he continues, “We needed fresh air. It got too stuffy.”
I chuckle with something like a sniff. We.
“You’re crying.”
“I am not,” I lie.
Rowan sighs through the line and I roll in my lips, trapping it all inside and waiting for it to simmer down. “I’m sorry if tonight was hard to get through.”
I hate that he’s like this with me—patient and caring.
I hate that his favorite color is green, because his green matches my purple and it deceives me into thinking we might just be a match after all.
I hate that when he smiles at Grace, it makes me think of the smiles he’d give his children. And I hate that it makes me think of our children. I hate that it triggers fantasies I can’t afford to live in. Fantasies I won’t admit to having since we were teenagers.
I hate that I think about him at night, and I hate that I want him even when I try not to.
“It was fine.” I decide it’s time to drag myself to my bedroom, Binx following behind with a quiet meow.
“Fine never means fine,” he says as I put him on speaker and unzip my dress.
The lilac dress falls from my upper body and I pull it down over my hips until it’s a pile at my feet. I step out of my panties and swap them out for sleep shorts.
I pick out a tank top, put my hair up in my silk hair wrap, and climb into bed. “Fine means fine.”
I lie back and put the phone back to my ear.
“Fine means I’m lying because I don’t want you to know I’m not fine,” he retorts.
“Read a dictionary, Asher.”
“Natalia—”
“Shouldn’t you be cooking?”
His chuckle is low and barely there. “I am. I took a quick break to call since I didn’t get a text from you.”
“Sorry, I got…preoccupied.”
“It’s okay,” Rowan says. “And I’m sorry again—”
“I’m really tired, okay? Just…thank you for…”
“Of course,” he says. “Goodnight, Natalia.”
“Goodnight, Rowan.”
The phone rests on my ear and cheek, static still coming through the phone, providing a lifeline.
“You still there?”
“Yeah,” I breathe.
I wish I could keep him on all night, or have him here with me. He may insistently ask if I’m okay, but if my only reply was a cry, he wouldn’t ask anymore questions, he’d just hold me. I know he would.
I’ve wondered before—about us. It was around our prom. Lana and Christian had just starting dating, and then Nico asked Isa, Luca invited Elena, but I went alone, technically. And so did Rowan.
I kept imagining going to prom with him, acting out all of the clichés of the prom-posals, love confessions, and losing your virginity on prom night.
But it was also around the same time I’d begun planning my funeral.
“Natalia?” Rowan whispers.
“Yeah?”
“Are you okay?”
“If I tell you no, will you leave me alone?”
“No,” he says. “Definitely not.”
I sigh and lick my lips, tasting the salty tears that fall in all directions across my face. “I’m okay, Rowan.”
“If I hang up this phone…” Rowan knows, but doesn’t know it all.
“I’ll be okay.”
“Can I trust you?” he asks.
“Yeah.” Maybe not.
“Okay,” he says. “I’m trusting you. Goodnight, sweetheart.”
The term of endearment he’s only started using tonight is a salt on a gaping, bloody wound.
“Goodnight, Rowan.” I hang up first.
I don’t deserve to be anyone’s sweet-anything.