Page 38 of Almost Yours
I stretch for it without moving anything but my fingers—peak exhaustion—and when I see Rowan’s name on the screen, my pulse does that traitorous little stutter.
Rowan:
Be honest. Did I always look this much like a lumberjack or does the five o’clock shadow age me ten years?
I huff out a laugh through my nose, the sound muffled by fleece. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, but my brain’s already wandered somewhere itshouldn’t.
Because truthfully? The stubble works. Makes him look less like the boy who left and more like a man who came back.
And god, he wears it well. That scruff along his jaw, the way it frames his mouth… It’s wildly unfair, but I’m not about to tell him that.
Me:
You look like you give cryptic advice to hikers and then vanish into the fog.
Rowan:
So…rugged and wise?
Me:
More like “possibly feral.”
I can practically hear his laugh through the screen, and something in my chest loosens. This part of him was always mine. The quick wit. The inside jokes.
Rowan:
Just wait. I’m about three weeks away from talking to squirrels and living off-grid.
Me:
You always did have Big Hermit Energy.
Rowan:
Is it weird that I miss you more when you’re roasting me?
My fingers still over the keyboard. I don’t have an answer that doesn’t give too much away. Thankfully, the doorbell saves me.
I grab the food off the porch, clutching the warm bag against my chest as I kick the door shut with my heel. My phone blinks with Rowan’s message, still unanswered.
It’s always been like this between us. The banter flows like water—effortless, natural, a current we both know how tonavigate. We could trade quips for hours, our words dancing around each other in perfect rhythm. It was the easiest thing in the world.
But the moment something real threatens to surface, one of us freezes. Like now. His simple admission of missing me sits there, impossible to ignore yet terrifying to acknowledge.
I set the food on the coffee table and sink back onto the couch, staring at my phone. Funny how we can joke about him being a mountain man hermit and I can roast his life choices, but the second he mentions missing me, I’m tongue-tied and terrified.
We’ve always been masters at saying everything except what matters.
fifteen
. . .
Rowan
Ilean back in the truck, one leg hanging out the open door in the gym parking lot, the night air cooling the sweat clinging to my collarbone. The phone sits in my hand, and for a second, I let myself imagine her sitting beside me like we’re seventeen again, her lip tucked between her teeth, trying not to smile. God, I used to chase those smiles like they were my damn purpose.
I stare down at my phone where her last message still makes me smile like a fool.
