No.It’s Rowan. He deserves better than that and better than me.
“What a surprise seeing you here,” he says, approaching the table with my dads. “You weren’t behind the counter.”
“Rowan,” I rasp and clear my throat quietly. Nervous chuckles bubble in my throat and escape through my gritted teeth. “What—What are you doing here?”
The best thing I can do for this situation is be friendly and get him to go away before?—
Daddy’s eyes go wide. “Is this why you didn’t want to tell us?”
“No, no, no—Daddy?—”
“Rowan!” Dad reaches out his hand and a very confused Rowan shakes it anyway. “How have you been?”
Rowan gives them the charming half-smile and his deep, ocean blue eyes glitter. “I’m doing well, and yourself?” he asks before he takes a sip of his drink, one I didn’t make.
“Natalia didn’t tell us you were dating,” Daddy says, incredibly invested in my love life as usual.
And Rowan snorts, choking on his cappuccino. “What?” He laughs, wiping his lips. “We are?—”
“Natalia, honey, I don’t understand why you were so secretive,” Daddy says with a frown, brows pulled together tightly. “We love Rowan.”
Fuck.“Dad?—”
“Yeah, Natalia…” Rowans sighs, pulling out the seat beside me. He smiles and puts his hand on my thigh. “We planned to tell you together, but it seems you two are too smart for us.”
I force a smile and punch his thigh beneath the table. The corners of his smile don’t waver.
Son of a bitch!
Daddy reaches over the table to put his hand on mine. “Natalia, we know you’ve always had a crush on him?—”
I groan, tampering the scream I really need to release. “Oh my god,Dad?—”
Rowan laughs and shrugs. “I’ve always had a crush on her too, actually. Had to finally act on it.”
I growl quietly and dig my fingernails into his hand on my thigh. I love the weight of it—the warmth and comfort it provides.
But that’s none of his business.
“You’ve always been so sweet, Rowan,” Daddy says,swooning. “I remember how often you came around, always looking out for her. It was so cute.”
“Daddy,” I hiss.
Rowan somehow both tenses and relaxes beside me as he says, “I worry about her,” he says softly—almost earnestly. “Every day.”
I believe him, especially after he followed me home on Saturday to make sure I was safe. No guy has ever done that for me before, and it wasn’t the first time Rowan did it.
I think I could love him. I think I could have feelings for him if I didn’t have this thing in my brain and this ache in my chest. But it’s too dangerous to love him when I know I’ll hurt him.
He deserves better than that, better than me. So I do it from afar—suppress it. Keep it hidden in a sealed vault because I know it’s for the better.
“You’re very sweet,” Dad says. “I’m glad our girl has someone like you to look after her.”
“I don’t need looking after,” I groan, and his hand squeezes my thigh gently.
Is pretending to be in love with Rowan really the best way to get my dads off my ass about my mental wellbeing? Well, it certainly isn’t the smartest way to do it but it’s distracting them just enough for them to forget everything else.
My dads put me in therapy when I was twelve, just after my first period—which was embarrassing enough when I bled through my pants in P.E. It was a rough year for me, wondering why I wasn’t lovable enough for my mom to keep me, or why I didn’t have one to begin with. My friends all had help from their mothers when it came to pads and tampons and feminine hygiene, and, although my dads were educating themselves and trying their best, I wanted that with a mother—not just my aunts and grandmothers.
