Chapter 16
i’m. fine.
Hannah
Razorblades of sunlight cut my eyelids. The gentle thud of slow footsteps fills my ears a moment before the bed dips behind me.
“Rise and shine, valentine.”
I groan, Mom’s chipper voice a painful contrast to the dull throb in my head. My eyes filter open as memories of last night begin to surface.
Daniel. The parking lot. Rowan. Too many tequila shots. My God, I puked in the alley.
Propping up on my elbow, I take stock of my current state. Clumped mascara lines my lashes. My mouth is dry and tastes like…vomit.
Rowan tucked me in like a child. He knelt by my bed and swept the hair off my face. Lord help me, the man smelled my puke breath.
I’m still wearing the dress I hate. But it gets worse. I’m in my favorite hoodie. His hoodie. The hoodie he helped me put on. Kill me now.
I curse my birth, falling back on my pillow like a damsel on the cover of a Victorian era romance novel.
“That bad?” Mom asks.
Without a word, I roll out of bed and head to the bathroom, needing to delay this conversation because her eyes tell me she knows too much already.
After I pee and brush my teeth, all while refusing to look at my reflection lest the vomit goblin staring back strike me dead, I traipse back to my room. Mom is right where I left her.
I’m not surprised she’s here. She and Rowan probably conspired the whole thing while I was stuck trying to remember how words worked.
Mom stares, patiently biding her time. Waiting for me to crack. I take the coffee she offers me and let the hot liquid set fire to my throat, the sensation a reminder that I’m here. Whole. Fine.
“I don’t wanna talk about it, Mom.” I glimpse the clock on the nightstand. “Holy crap! I’m so late.”
Rushing back to the bathroom, I crank on the shower and throw my hair into a clip. No time for a wash today. Dry shampoo and a spritz of perfume will hopefully mask the tepid scent of tequila. While the water heats up, I run to my closet and pick out a shirt and skirt, tossing them on the bed.
“I already texted Kristen and said you’d probably not be in today. She’s covering for you.”
One foot over the threshold of the bathroom, I freeze and whirl around. “You didn’t tell her, did you?”
“How could I, Hannah? You haven’t told me anything.”
Rowan didn’t tell her anything? The thought steadies the rush of my heart despite there still being so much about him being back in town I haven’t processed yet. I avert my gaze and peel off my clothes, stuffing the dress in the trash bin where it belongs.
When I step out of the shower a few minutes later wrapped in a towel, she’s still there. I dart around my room like a rogue ping-pong ball. Bra. Clothes. Shoes. Earrings. Mom tracks my every move, the pressure of her attention making nerves prickle across my skin until I can’t take it anymore.
“You’re looking at me way too loud right now. Nothing happened, okay?”
I move past her but she grabs my forearm to stop me. “This doesn’t look like nothing, Haddy.”
Her eyes flick to my wrist. I swiftly tug my arm away when I see the bruises for myself. My nose burns, breaths coming shallow and slow. Fists clenched at my sides to hide the tremor there, I shake my head and square my shoulders.
“I’m. Fine.”
She doesn’t respond. Just surveys me like the liar she knows I am.
I throw out my arms. “Nothing happ—” I drop her gaze, take a calming breath. “He didn’t do—” The heel of my hand digs into my sternum to relieve the pressure. “He didn’t actually do…what you think he did.”
“Baby girl”—she steps in close, clasps our hands together—“the most important thing is you’re safe now. You’re here. But it’s also okay to not be okay. It doesn’t make you any less strong.”
I open my mouth, close it, and open it again. My eyes begin to sting.
“I’ll be right here when you’re ready to talk,” she adds before she looks back to my wrists. “I think a little concealer and a few bracelets will cover these up.”
My only reply is barely a whisper. “Thank you.”
Mom quietly tugs me toward the dresser and opens my jewelry box. We scour through my bracelets in silence. I slide a watch over my left wrist, she clips a thick silver cuff on my right.
“Now, you wanna tell me about this Rowan?”
I snort. “There it is.”
“He sure does leave an impression, doesn’t he?”
Turning away, I fight my smile on my way to the bathroom. Mom’s right on my heels, shoulder leaned against the doorjamb as she watches me rush through an abridged makeup routine.
“He’s handsome. A gentleman. Imagine my surprise when I showed up last night to find him doing your dishes.”
My cheeks flush, and I wish I could say it was because of the pink rouge I just applied. Mom smiles because she knows better.
“Checked the locks on the back and side doors, too, before he left.”
I clear my throat, focusing back on my mascara tube, teeth raking over my bottom lip. “How long was he…um…did you guys talk?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
My eyes drift to hers in the mirror, a flat glare as I move the wand over my lashes.
“A little of this, little of that,” she goes on when I don’t answer her. “Could’ve done without all the ‘yes, ma’ams’ and ‘no, ma’ams’ and perhaps a little less honor so I’d know what happened last night, but I digress. A man who keeps your secrets is worth holding on to.”
“And, for the record”—she moves in behind me, face floating over my shoulder, attention sharp—“that’s not me calling for your engagement.”
I spin around and slap her arm. “Oh my god!” Her chuckle follows me out of the bathroom. “I have to go.”
She trails me through the house, peppering out questions. I leave them mostly unanswered as I gather my keys and purse. Mom doesn’t know about that night with Rowan five years ago, and now’s not the time to get into it.
Her own purse in hand, she steps onto the porch and I lock the front door behind us. I hustle toward my car with Mom only a step behind.
“Okay, okay, you’re both human vaults, I get it. But just one more question.” I turn to face her over the frame of my driver’s side door. “Will you at least tell me what Ducati is?”
I cackle. “It’s a motorcycle, Mom. Seriously, I gotta go. Love you.”
She waves over her shoulder and heads to her car parked on the curb. I pull my door shut, dropping my head back on the seat. Mom’s words from earlier take root in the hollow silence—it’s okay to not be okay.
But I am okay. Aren’t I? All I really want is to forget.
My phone buzzes from the cupholder.
Rowan
How’d you sleep, runaway?
A smile spreads across my face. There’s a lot about last night I want to wipe from my memory, but I never want to forget him. I know I drank too much, used alcohol as a coping mechanism, embarrassed myself beyond belief, but I remember everything.
Before I can respond, another message comes through.
Rowan
Got any lunch plans?
Me
Who is this?
Rowan
Cute.
Me
Hmmm. Not ringing any bells.
Rowan
You still have my sweatshirt.
Me
I think you have the wrong number. I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Rowan
I could be persuaded to let you keep it if you ask nicely.
Me
You can pry it from my cold dead hands.
It smells like me now anyway. You don’t really want it back.
Rowan
Maybe that’s precisely why I do.
Me
You flirting with me, soldier?
Rowan
Yes. Should I be? I don’t know.
That okay?
I consider for a beat. Flirting might not be the best idea, I tell myself. But Rowan doesn’t make me feel anxious or unsafe—the opposite actually. On second thought, a little flirting never hurt anybody. Maybe it’s exactly what I need right now.
Me
It’s okay.