Page 117 of Almost Yours
I pour the wine, buying myself time. “I don’t know what to say.”
“How about ‘I miss you’ or ‘Let’s talk’ or literally anything besides this silent treatment?” She hands me a glass. “He’s miserable, by the way. Beau says he barely sleeps.”
Something in my chest twists. “You’ve been talking to Beau?”
“Don’t change the subject.” She takes a sip of her wine. “The point is, you’re both walking around like zombies. This whole ‘space’ thing isn’t working.”
“It’s not that simple, Whit.”
“It never is.”
“I just… I’m scared, okay?”
She eases immediately. “I know. But being scared and being stuck aren’t the same thing.”
“What if nothing changes?”
“Then you’ll survive,” she says. “You’ll cry and yell, and I’ll help you key his truck. You’ll survive, because that’s what you do. But Violet…” she turns toward me, her voice gentler now, “the man looked completely destroyed when I saw him. I think he’ll make the right choice.”
She nudges the pint toward me. “Eat. Drink. Cry if you need to. Then tomorrow…maybe stop waiting for the perfect words and just say the ones you’ve got.”
Her advice sticks with me long into the night, and the next morning, I’m awake before dawn. The house is quiet except for Bramble’s soft snoring at the foot of the bed.
I reach for my phone, thumb hovering over Rowan’s name. What do I even say after more than a week of silence?Sorry I’ve been ignoring youfeels inadequate.I miss youfeels like giving in too easily.
I set the phone down and get up. Echo needs feeding, and the familiar routine might help clear my head.
The morning air is crisp as I cross the yard to the stable. Echo whinnies when she sees me, trotting to the fence line.
“What do I do, girl?” I groan as I measure out her feed. “How do I fix this?”
Echo nudges at my pocket. I smile despite myself and press a kiss to the velvet-soft dip of her nose.
“I wish you could talk,” I mutter. “You’d probably tell me I’m being stubborn.”
She flicks her tail like she agrees, and I laugh. It feels good. Normal.
I finish up in the stable, muscles moving from memory while my mind runs circles around itself. Every moment with him plays like a film reel behind my eyes. Not just the man he is now, but the boy he used to be. Rowan at seventeen, grinning beneath the Friday night lights, all reckless energy and scraped knuckles, smelling like cheap cologne and trouble I’d never have the nerve to chase.
And then there’snow. Rowan in the kitchen, smiling softlywhile the coffee brews, his voice rough with sleep. Rowan laughing, head tipped back, when Bramble darts past him with a stolen sock.
His past and present collide in my mind—this boy I never stopped loving, this man who still doesn’t quite believe he’s worthy of being loved.
By the time I’m back in the house, the sky is transforming into that watercolor wash of dawn. I hop in the shower, hoping the hot water will untangle some of the knots in my chest. As I let the water cascade over me, the memory of that night—Rowan’s gentle hands washing my hair, his eyes holding mine like I was something precious—hits me with such force I have to brace myself against the tile.
That’s when I know. I’m done waiting for the perfect words.
I shut off the water, towel off quickly, and throw on clothes without caring what they are. My hair is still dripping when I grab my phone, sending a quick text before I can second-guess myself.
Me:
Can we talk?
It hasn’t even been ten seconds when his reply comes through.
Rowan:
Always, Violet. On my way.
