Page 7 of Almost Yours
“Well, I hate to break it to you,” she says, crossing one leg over the other like she’s got all the time in the world to watch me unravel, “but your brain always short-circuits when you talk about this guy. The look on your face when you say ‘Rowan Wolfe’ is the same look most people get when someone says ‘free pizza.’”
I groan a little louder this time. “Why are you like this?”
“Because someone has to tell you the truth while also making fun of you a little. It’s my love language.” She grins, completely unapologetic, like she knows she’s getting under my skin and is absolutely okay with it. “What’s so special about him anyway?”
I go quiet. It’s not that I don’t have an answer. I’ve got more answers than I could ever voice. The truth is, every single one of them seems a little ridiculous when I try to put it into words.
“I don’t know,” I say finally, though it’s a lie. I know exactly what’s special about him. “He was just…different.”
Different, like the day he caught me trying to open my locker with one hand while using the other to keep my iced coffee from spilling down my front. I’d been running late, nerves already fried, and naturally, the locker wouldn’t open. So I was talking to it—like full-on whisper-threatening it under my breath.
Then suddenly, this voice came from behind me.
“Locker giving you attitude again?”
I jumped so hard I spilled coffee all over my shirt. A perfect, tragic arc. Right across the front.
I wanted the ground to eat me whole. But when I turned around, there he was, smirking like he’d just watched the whole thing go down in slow motion.
“Nice shot,” Rowan said, nodding at the coffee stain. “Bold choice. Very modern art.”
I wanted to melt into the floor. I think I said something like, “I hate Tuesdays,” which made no sense, because it was a Thursday. He just laughed and offered me his hoodie without a word.
It smelled like mint gum and trouble. I wore it the rest of the day.
Whitley raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to elaborate. “Different how?”
I sigh and shift so I’m lying on the couch, letting my head drop back against the cushions as I stare up at the ceiling.
“He wasn’t loud about it,” I begin, then pause, trying to find a way to capture the essence of him without sounding like I’m romanticizing the whole damn thing. “He didn’t try too hard. But he saw people. And I think... I think for a long time, I just wanted someone to see me.”
That last part escapes before I can stuff it back down. Whitley doesn’t jump in with one of her usual snarky comebacks. Her mouth is parted, but nothing comes out. So I keep going, because if I stop now, I’ll never get it out.
“He made me feel…less invisible. Not in a look-at-me, homecoming-king kind of way. Just in this quiet sense. He remembered things. Said hi in the halls even with his friends around. Asked about my family and waited for the answer. Once, when I had a panic attack before a test, he didn’t ask questions or tell me to breathe or whatever. He just sat next to me and let me fall apart without making me feel stupid for it.”
I swallow hard, the memory rushing in on me like a wave I’m not prepared for. It’s been almost ten years, but I remember every second of that moment. The way his knee brushed against mine, just a simple gesture, but it held me together.
“My dad used to light up when my brother walked into the room,” I continue, the words softer now. “You know that. It’sstilllike that. He was the star quarterback, the straight-A student, the kid who never forgot to say thank you. I was…background noise. Quiet. Good enough not to cause trouble, but never quite enough to shine.”
I clear my throat. “Rowan was the first person who made me feel like I mattered. And you don’t just forget that.”
Whitley lets out a long, slow breath. Then she lets out a quiet, “Damn.” She takes a moment before adding, “Okay. That’s actually a pretty solid reason.”
I huff out a laugh, a little surprised by the sincerity in her tone. “Told you.”
But she’s not done. Her finger comes up, wagging at me like a caution sign. “But,” she adds, her voice taking on that no-nonsense edge of hers, “people change, Violet. And sometimes the version you built in your head isn’t the one that shows up in real life.”
“I know.”
But do I? Because the Rowan I saw today, and the way he looked at me like the air around us shifted, likeIshifted something in him, didn’t feel like a faded memory. It felt like something…incomplete.
“You should talk to him.”
My gaze snaps to hers. “What?”
Whitley just looks at me, and I alreadyknowwhat she’s going to say. She’s not telling me to talk to Rowan. She wants me to talk to Travis, my current boyfriend.
“You’re not really in love with him,” she says, gently now.
