“I don’t really know,” I say. “The pieces of myself I’ve lost. I can’t get them back. Ever.”
“You want to know something amazing about being human?”
“What?”
“We get to grow new, better pieces of ourselves,” he says. “Pieces no one will ever have because the old ones are no good anymore. Sometimes the loss is a gain.”
“Maybe,” I whisper. “You don’t talk about her a lot.”
Rowan sniffs. “It’s weird. I don’t really like to.”
“It hurts?”
“No,” he whispers. “I like to keep her to myself. The last few memories I have with my mom are for me—they’re mine. No one else knows her last words except me. I like it this way.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Rowan lifts a shoulder as his gaze falls from mine. “The gist—She told me she loved me,” he whispers so quietly I almost don’t hear. “She told me to keep my brother safe and help my father move on. I told her no.” He chuckles, a sad crack in the sound. “I told her I didn’t want any of us to move on and she said we had to.”
“I’m sorry,” I breathe as my hands go to his face. I hold his flushed face in my palms and force his head up. His eyes latch onto mine again and I notice the red around the stormy blue. “Rowan.”
He sniffs again as a tear slips from the corner of his eye, gliding down the side of his nose.
“Sweetheart,” I rasp as I wipe it away.
His lip trembles just before he pulls it between his teeth. “My mother would have loved you.”
“Rowan,” I breathe.
“She would have told me to stop being an idiot and go after you,” he continues.
“You did.” I laugh softly. “You were…persistent.”
Rowan chuckles tearfully, his ocean eyes reflecting just enough sunlight to calm my heart. “Why were you avoiding me?” he asks.
“I wasn’t avoiding you.” My thumbs run back and forth across his cheekbones. “I think I was taking time to heal.”
“Hmm.” He pushes unruly curls behind my ear. “What’s going on in thatbeautifulhead of yours?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me, sweetheart, please,” Rowan begs, his voice hoarse and deep. His hands cover mine. “Talk to me.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I lie.
“Then tell me a secret,” he says.
My hands drop and I turn back to the food on the work table. I expect him to retreat—I’m not sure why though, knowing him. But he steps in closer, his chest nearly pressing into my back. His hand settles on my hip, the firm weight of it settling me back into my skin.
“I…” My body clenches and shudders. “I’m going to therapy again,” I confess quietly. “I’m two years clean, or in recovery—whatever they call it. But I almost had a…slip up.”
His expression drops. “Nat?—”
“I didn’t do it,” I promise. “I only thought about it.”
“Still.” He shakes his head, far too disappointed himself. “I would have stayed with you.”
“I know. That’s why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t tell anyone,” I say. “I thought I had it under control.”
