Am I running from this? Am I making excuses and hiding from Rowan so that he can’t hurt me?
This fucking ache in my chest hurts so damn bad, and I want to breathe it in until I can taste nothing else. I want it to disappear.
A part of me wants to hold onto this anger and this fear and never see him again. That way, I won’t be uncertain anymore; my life can go back to normal. I moved here toescapethe exhausting environment I was in, not to create another.
But then there is the larger part of me that wants to believe every word Carrie threw at me, if only so that I can call Rowan up and see him standing before me. So I can hear his voice and feel him under my hands.
Is it that easy? Can I ignore this nagging feeling that something is being hidden from me and brush it all aside as some sort of self-preservation tactic?
I groan, opening my text messages before I can think better of it.
Elijah 6:51 p.m.
I’m home. Come over?
I hit send before I can second-guess myself.
Was this a mistake? Maybe. Will I see his face and immediately regret my decision, suddenly overcome with sadness and anger at what has transpired? Well, at least if that happens, I’ll know there is no need to keep debating an outcome.
It’ll be time to end things.
But what if I see him and nothing that mattered before matters anymore? What if I’m immediately transfixed by his face and his body, and his voice plucks all logical thoughts and actions from my mind?
There are too many uncertainties, too many terrifying, exciting things that can happen once Rowan Alexander is here in my apartment with me.
Will he touch me?
From the moment he steps through the threshold, how many seconds will it take for me to have him on his knees? I want to hear it:little angel. I want to feel it—his hands tracing every inch of me.
I want his explanation and his pleading. I will forgive him.
I’ve decided here and now, long before he’s ever arrived, that I will forgive him.
How dangerous it is, this thing that passes between two people.
It makes me sick; it turns me on. I want more of it, and I want to run.
Only, I can’tdoanything when he does not respond to me. Rowan does not type, and he does not call. I would know—I spend every moment from the second I hit send watching our message stream.
What is he doing? Is Marissa still there? Is workthatbusy? I would imagine he’d be blowing up my phone, losing his mind that I’m finally communicating.
Did he… finally lose interest? I would. If someone ignored me and fled town after I pleaded for forgiveness at their door, I would lose interest, too.
Fuck. Did I royally fuck this up?
My anxiety peaks for the first time in ages, and I find myself breathing heavily. I haven’t felt this shaky in a long time.
I sink back into the couch cushion, resting my phone on the seat next to me.
I really thought he’d come running; I really thought it would all be mended tonight. That I’d have him in my arms, forgiving and forgetting one slow touch at a time.
Instead, I am lying in a grave of my own making while I drown under the weight of this ache.
I have never been one to reflect on how my actions affect others—not when I believe they are justified. That waitress from this morning is a perfect example of that.
But now, I wonder if I was a bit too harsh on Rowan. If maybe my reluctance and my fear drove him away, whether I intended for it to or not.
Carrie was right—the answer did come to me once I returned home to Fort Myers. And the answer is that I want to keep him, whether I feel weary or not. Only now it’s too late. Now—
