Page 36 of Almost Yours
He leans back just enough to give me space but not enough to be distant. “When you’re ready…I’ll be right here.”
I exhale slowly, heart stuttering. Then I nudge his knee with mine. “You always this patient now, or is that just a me thing?”
Rowan’s laugh is low and warm. “Honestly?” His fingers brush mine. “Just a you thing.”
It’s terrifying how easily he can undo me with just a look, just a few words spoken in that rough voice.
“I’ve had a lot of practice waiting,” he adds, rubbing a hand along his jaw. “And this is too important to mess up.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Because the truth is, I don’t know what I’m waiting for anymore. What magical sign am I expecting that will tell me it’s safe to fall? Rowan has always been the beautiful risk I’ve both craved and feared.
fourteen
. . .
Violet
The next morning, I’m blinking against the fluorescent lights and the buzz of the reception printer, the memory of Rowan’s voice echoing somewhere in the back of my mind. It slinks in briefly before I shove the thought away and slip the clipboard into my palm.
Deep breath. Professional smile.
I tug open the exam room door and call into the waiting room, “Mr. Biscuit?”
A woman stands.
Quinn Whitaker. The girl who spent half of our junior year draped over Rowan every chance she got.
She’s exactly the same and yet completely different with her shiny blonde hair, high-waisted jeans, and too-casual smile. She approaches like we’re about to grab mimosas and talk about our husbands at brunch. She’s holding a tiny tabby with murder in its eyes and a pink carrier dangling from one wrist like it’s a fashion accessory.
I don’t know if my smile holds. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t, because my lips feel like they’re made of glass, and one wrong move will shatter the whole fragile thing.
“Quinn,” I manage, keeping my voice professional eventhough my stomach just dropped somewhere around my ankles. “Hi.”
She lights up like we’re old friends. As if she isn’t already delighting in the fact that I’m standing here in cat hair and Crocs while she’s channeling a Pinterest board. “Oh my god, Violet! I didn’t realize you worked here!” She shifts Mr. Biscuit to her other arm, and the cat hisses, clearly sharing my sentiment. “It’s been forever!”
I nod once, my face frozen somewhere between polite and professionally numb. “Come on back.”
She trails after me into the exam room, settling Mr. Biscuit on the table like he’s royalty. I turn to pull gloves on, buying myself a second to breathe.
Quinn leans casually against the counter. “I swear, this cat is testing me. He’s thrown up three times in the last two days—once in my Fendi tote.”
I hum, checking the chart. “Any other symptoms? Lethargy? Appetite changes?”
She shrugs, glossy lips twitching. “Not really. He eats, knocks things off shelves just for fun.”
I jot a few notes, keeping my eyes down. I can feel her watching me, the quiet stretching too long.
“So…” she starts, voice lilting with sugar. “I ran into Rowan last weekend.”
I don’t look up. “Oh?”
“Yeah. At that hole in the wall place. He was with a couple guys we graduated with. Good lord, he looks good.” She laughs, breezy and cruel without meaning to be.
I force a neutral hum. Quinn was the resident high school mean girl who apparently never outgrew the need to stick her perfectly manicured fingers into everyone else’s business. She was never heartless in the obvious ways—no shoving people into lockers or stealing lunch money. No, Quinn was surgical. A well-placed comment here, a too-sweet smile there, always showing up exactly where she wasn’t wanted with that innocent “I’m just being honest” routine that made you feel crazy for being upset.
She made it her mission to know everyone’s secrets. It was like she could smell vulnerability the way sharks smell blood in the water.
“We got to talking,” she continues, absently stroking Mr. Biscuit’s fur. “He mentioned he ran into you.”
