Harsh knocking sounds at my front door. Three sharp bangs. And before I can even register what’s happening, three more rain down. I check the time on my phone—7:25 p.m.
I stand shakily, unwilling to allow my hopes to rise to the same tempo at which my heart is pounding.Could it be him?
The time between when I texted and the arrival of these thudding knocks would pan out with the time it takes to get from his place to mine. But he would have called, right? Or messaged, at least.
Silently, I approach the door. As I peer through the peephole, the loud banging carries on.
There Rowan stands, and through the magnified lens I can see the panic and the fear on his face. His black curls are disarranged, and his hoodie strings are hanging lopsided.
Wild green eyes dart all over the expanse of the door, as if he doesn’t know where I will appear from.
God, he’s just as beautiful as he was when I left him at the airport.
I slide open the door chain and flip the dead bolt. Rowan freezes, and I finally pull away from the peephole. The door opens, and he releases a loud, long breath.
“Elijah,” he says, and it’s almost as if he can’t believe I’m here. At my own apartment.
“Rowan,” I respond, stepping aside for him to come in.
He hesitates only for a moment, then he inches past me and stands awkwardly in the living room.
“I didn’t know—when did you…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, only stares at me, wide-eyed.
“I got home about an hour ago,” I say, and Rowan nods as I take a step towards him. “I went back to Cali for the holiday. To see my family.”
Rowan doesn’t seem surprised by the information; he only blinks a few times before rubbing anxiously at the back of his neck.
“And how was that?”he asks.
I shrug. “Fine. I dressed up as a cop.”
Slowly, a small grin takes shape over the curve of his full lips.“Oh yeah? How cute.”
“Carrie insisted,” I interject quickly, finding myself flushed for some reason.
“The middle sister?” he asks, and, surprised that he remembers such a random detail, I just nod. “She sounds fun.”
We stand in another awkward silence, and when I gather the courage to look at him again, I find him tracing my body with assessing eyes.
When his gaze returns to mine, he speaks.“Marissa has been my only friend since I was a teenager. We met online, and I’ve grown to feel very comfortable with her. She’s like family to me. That’s why I have no issues with her being in my house. It has nothing to do with attraction or romance.”
My skin feels tight and hot as I listen to him, and once again, this nagging feeling returns with a vengeance. I want to cut him open and bleed out all of his secrets.
But what happens if I gut him and there’s nothing to find? When all that’s there is my own paranoia and a handful of brand new, ugly scars?
Rowan continues. “It’s different with you. I still want you to think highly of me. I care about your opinion and want to show you only the best sides of myself. Not the things… the things that could turn you away.” I can feel the honesty in his words, in hisvoice. He’s afraid, too. I can feel it. “I don’t distrust you, and Ireallydo like you. Please—believe me.”
I say nothing. I’m not sure how to voice what I’m feeling, or how to explain myself without feeling too vulnerable. I’ve never been the most diligent with words, anyway.
So instead, I will use actions. Isn’t there a saying for that? Do actions always speak louder than words?
It takes two long strides to reach Rowan, and I hear his breath catch as I close the distance in a matter of seconds.
My palms slide over his jaw with a heavy sense of desperation: a pure, unadulterated desire tofeelhim.
I want him to see me. I want him to crave my skin and my taste as much as I crave his.
It’s so simple. Behind all of the fear and the uncertainty, the confusion and the weariness—I wanthim.
