I pull her into my arms and press a kiss to the top of her head. “Come on, baby, let’s get you home.”
I throw her bag over my shoulder and wrap my free arm around her, guiding her toward the car, where Macie is sitting in the front seat, sobbing. The sound of her distraught sister seems to crack Rowan from the frozen hell that she’s stuck in and she slides into the front seat, pulling Macie onto her lap and holding her tight.
“I’m so sorry, kiddo. I’m so sorry he scared you,” she says in an attempt to console her.
I toss the duffel into the back seat and make my way to my own. As I turn the key in the ignition and the engine roars to life, I catch view of Rowan covering her mouth tightly with one hand, turning her face toward the window.
Her body shakes with the sobs she’s hiding from her sister – no doubt trying not to scare her even more. It must have been hell for her in that house since she lost her mom. Unable to grieve, not allowed to feel anything without consequence. The punching bag for her father’s misplaced anger.
I keep one hand firmly on the steering wheel but place the other on her back, gently rubbing soothing circles over her with my thumb. I don’t dare take it off of her until we get to my house.
I’m here.
I sit Rowan on the edge of my bed and crouch in front of her, wiping away her tears with my thumbs as my hands cup her face. She doesn’t look at me, instead keeping her eyes downcast.
“Did he hurt— did he hit you?” I correct myself. I already know he hurt her. If what happened to her on that lawn were a physical wound, she’d be in critical condition, on life support. He may as well have sliced her open andscooped out everything that held her together with his bare hands.
She shakes her head. “Just grabbed.”
I tuck her hair behind her ear and guide her face until her eyes meet mine. “You didn’t deserve that,” I whisper to her. “You did nothing wrong. Rowan, I’m so sorry.”
I’m sorry he said those things. I’m sorry you lost your mom. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you.
I reach for the glass of water on the nightstand and hold it in front of her.
“Drink.” She holds the glass, but doesn’t move to drink it, so I repeat, “Drink some water. At least a few sips.”
She lifts the glass to her lips and takes down three slow sips.
“Good girl,” I tell her, stroking her hair, then I take the glass to set it back in its place.
“I was wrong,” she whispers after a few moments.
“About what, baby?”
“You rode in on your shiny white horse and saved us after all.”
TWENTY-THREE
Rowan
My eyes blink open and I realize I have no idea where I am. Buttery yellow sunlight streams in through a window, illuminating a room with abstract art pieces hung on the walls, framed with thick black metal, and small sculptures are littered across the top of the dresser.
The smell of vetiver and sandalwood hits my nose, drifting off of the bedding. That’s right, Colt brought us to his house last night. Am I in his bed?
When I move to climb out of the bed, I realize that there are pillows under my feet, keeping them elevated, and my heart swells in my chest. Did he do that?
The hall seems like it’s miles long, decorated in art similar to the pieces in his bedroom, and once I’m down the stairs, I see little tables set out against the walls to hold framed photos, plants and more small sculptures.
I stop at one of the tables and pick up a framed photo. Colt must be twenty, twenty-one in this. He looks the same, just missing the grey flecks in his hair and the little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that show up especially when he smiles really wide.
He’s dressed a lot more casually than he usually is these days, wearing a pair of jeans that look well-worn and at-shirt that hugs what I can see of his arms. Sitting on his knee is a sweet little boy who I can only assume is Emmett, laughing his tiny little head off.
I find myself wishing I knew the story here just so I could share in the joy they had in the moment this was captured.
Macie’s laughter tears me away from the picture and I carefully set it back in its place to follow the sound, using it to navigate through the massive house, until I find my way to the dining room. Macie and Colt sit next to each other at a long mahogany table, smiles on their faces as Colt cracks open a jar of rainbow-colored sprinkles.
“Say when,” he tells her, and starts to dump them onto the heaping tower of whipped cream on top of her stack of pancakes. My sister just watches with an evil grin on her face, saying nothing as he empties what has to be half of the jar onto her plate. “Say when! Mercy!” The two of them burst into another bout of laughter at his dramatics as I approach.
