Seventeen
I should be at my desk analyzing study data. Instead, I’m tracking Rowan through the grocery store while she rides a shopping cart like a scooter.
She lifts her feet, glides past the pineapples, and looks back at me with a grin.
“You didn’t have to come with me,” she calls out.
“I’m here now,” I say, keeping pace behind her.
The pale, washed-out look she had yesterday is gone, replaced by color in her cheeks. She’s wearing denim overalls over a white T-shirt, with her red hair pulled into a messy bun.
Our peaceful errand lasts three minutes before she stops in front of the pet food and hauls a twenty-pound bag of cat kibble from the bottom shelf.
“Rowan, let me—”
She spins, shielding the bag with her body, and hisses at me. “Stay on your side of the cart. I’m a strong, independent woman.”
I hold up my hands and step back. “Message received.”
She drops the bag into the cart with a heavy thud and wipes her hands on her T-shirt. “I’m stronger than I look.”
“I can see that,” I murmur, already tallying the joint strain in her wrists and shoulders.
She pushes the cart again. “I thought you should know I don’t always faint. I’m careful about my health.” She hesitates, her fingers tapping the plastic handle. “Things just got crazy. With the show coming up, I haven’t had time to breathe.”
I stay quiet because if I press her now, she’ll shut down.
“I try not to stress,” she says, tossing a handful of lemons into the cart. “But it’s a family trait. Then the stress makes me sick, and I end up stressing about being sick.” She shakes her head and sighs. “It’s a vicious cycle.”
I have a dozen medical questions, but I keep them to myself so she doesn’t bolt. “When’s the show?”
Her shoulders tense. “Autumn.”
“You told me you canceled the last one. Were you sick?”
A flash of something heavy crosses her face before she nods.
“What did your family think?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe that I couldn’t handle the pressure.”
“What’s the real story?”
“During a late studio session, I stretched too far, lost my balance, and partially dislocated my hip and shoulder.”
I stare at her profile. “Jesus, Rowan.”
“It happens,” she says, waving a hand.
We reach the end of the aisle, and I step around to face her. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure. Why stop now?”
“Why not tell your family? Wouldn’t it make things easier?”
She takes a slow breath, looking past my shoulder. “No one knew what was wrong with me when I was a kid. When I was a teenager, they told my dad my fast heart rate was just panic attacks or hormones. Some doctors even hinted I was faking it for attention because my mom was sick.”
My jaw tightens.
“To my family, I was just the clumsy one. I was sent to therapy when the doctors couldn’t find a physical reason for the pain, and I was told it was all in my head.”
My blood turns cold. I’ve seen psychiatric diagnoses explain symptoms, but I’ve also seen them used as an excuse to stop looking. It’s fucking lazy.
“When I was sixteen, Mom had a severe relapse and went to the hospital. That same day, I tripped outside and injured my ankle. I didn’t tell a soul.
” She looks back at me, her green eyes shimmering.
“A week later, Noah came into my room, furious that I hadn’t visited Mom.
He made me get up, saw I couldn’t stand, and took me to the ER.
It turned out I’d been sitting on a fractured ankle for seven days.
” She says it like it’s completely normal.
“I moved out two years later. I’ve been on my own since. ”
I look at the stubborn tilt of her chin, the slight tremor in her hands she tries to hide, the way she shuts down the moment she feels exposed. I see the years of quiet isolation she’s built around herself, hiding her pain so no one calls her fragile.
“Don’t you get lonely?”
I don’t know why I ask it. Maybe because I recognize the quiet space she lives in. I’ve spent the last few years in my self-imposed solitude, hiding behind research papers and hospital shifts.
“I like my own company.” Her tone is uncharacteristically quiet. “But sometimes I think it would be nice to come home to someone. Maybe a couple of kids running around?”
I blink. “Kids?”
“Don’t look so surprised. Children love me. I’m excellent at finger painting and ignoring mess.”
The image arrives before I can stop it.
I can see it. Rowan’s hands covered in paint, laughing as two kids with messy red hair run wild.
“What about you?” she asks, leaning her hip against the cart and watching me closely. “Will you ever be able to share yourself with anyone other than your work or your patients?”
I haven’t thought about a future like that in a long time. My life has been reduced to managing other people’s crises so I don’t have to look too closely at my own empty rooms. Sharing a life—sharing myself—feels like an abstract concept I locked away a long time ago.
Yet, listening to her describe it, coming home to someone doesn’t sound too bad.
“I’d be a nightmare to live with,” I say instead.
Suddenly, she shakes her head and slaps the cart handle with both palms. “Anyway, that’s enough trauma dumping for a Wednesday morning.”
Every part of me wants to ask her more questions, but I can see she’s closed up.
Instead, I lean over the cart and look at the cat food. “I didn’t see any cats at your house. I was there for hours last night. No cats.”
Her smile breaks through. “They’re strays.”
“How many strays?”
“Eight,” she says, turning into the pasta aisle.
“Eight?”
“I have a whole crew expecting dinner. I’m not a fan of the dead mice on my porch, but hey.”
“It’s because they think you’re a terrible hunter and are trying to keep you alive.”
I never thought I’d be in complete agreement with a bunch of alley cats.
She scoffs in response, stopping in front of the pasta display before stretching on her tiptoes to reach a box on the top shelf.
“A little help?” she grunts, her arm straining.
“Are you asking me for assistance? I should document this.”
“Hudson.”
I could get it for her, but that wouldn’t be fun. Wrapping my arm around her waist, I lift her off the ground.
“There you go, you strong and independent woman.”
When I set her back down, she turns in my grip, her face inches from mine.
“Joke’s on you, because now I’m turned on,” she whispers, green eyes flashing with mischief.
Jesus Christ, this woman.
“Good for you,” I manage, my voice rough.
She smirks, dropping the pasta into the cart and stepping out of reach. “You’re not afraid of me, Dr. Vaughn?”
“Should I be?”
“Guys usually find me intimidating.”
I let out a dry laugh and trail after her. “I can’t imagine why.”
She rolls her eyes so hard, I’m surprised they don’t get stuck in the back of her head.
“Miss Rowan!” a voice calls out.
An older woman in a cardigan shuffles out of the next aisle with a basket. Rowan brightens instantly. “Doris! Hi!”
Doris looks me up and down with sharp eyes, then grins. “Well, look at you. Got yourself a new man.”
Most people would blush or stumble over an explanation. Rowan simply loops her arm through mine and leans her weight comfortably into my bicep.
“Uh-huh,” she says proudly, looking up at me. “What do you think, Doris? Climbable?”
Doris doesn’t miss a beat. “Absolutely. Like a tree. Good for you, Rowan.”
After Doris shuffles off toward the bakery, I look down at Rowan, who is still attached to my arm.
“Like a tree?”
She pats my chest. “You are pretty climbable, Shrink Wrap.”
Then she grabs her cart and rides it straight toward the checkout lanes.