We’d spent years apart, and now one night without him here felt strange. Even as Mason started arguing with Enzo over something silly, I found myself glancing toward the hallway, wondering how much longer it would be until Rowan was home. Because once he returned, that would be the best part of my night.
21
ROWAN
I rolledmy bike into my parents’ driveway just before six in the evening, killed the engine, and stayed there for a second with my hands still on the handlebars. My eyes drifted next door out of habit more than anything. It had been years since that house had belonged to Keaton’s family, years since his mom had sold it. Nothing was left that belonged to them now. Different cars. Different people. Different life. But sometimes I still looked anyway, still saw flashes of the boy next door shooting hoops in the driveway or climbing into my window without our parents knowing. Now I was the one sneaking into his room.
I took off my helmet, ran a hand through my hair, and headed up to the front door.
Mom opened it before I could knock, took one look at me, and gaped. “I know that’s not a bruise on your cheek, and when did you decide to start growing your hair out?”
I laughed and stepped into the entryway, the smell of her spaghetti and meatballs making my stomach growl. “Good to see you too.”
“I’m serious.” She reached up and caught a piece of it between her fingers. “It’s getting long.”
“It is.”
“You’re keeping it?”
I pushed it away from my face. “Yeah. I can now.”
Dad’s voice came from the kitchen. “That’s what happens when the Air Force no longer has a say.”
Mom glanced his way. “That doesn’t mean he has to look like he’s auditioning for a band.”
Dad came around the corner with a beer in his hand and gave me a quick once-over. “Let the kid enjoy civilian life.”
I smirked. “See? He gets it.” Although I wasn’t a kid.
Mom pointed at my face. “I’d care less about the hair if you weren’t standing here bruised.”
Dad raised an eyebrow. “Training or stupidity?”
“Training.”
She softly touched my cheek again. “Does it hurt?”
“Not enough to matter.”
Dad took a drink. “That’s a Cross answer.”
Mom rolled her eyes. “That’s because you two think admitting pain is some sort of weakness.”
I set my helmet on the table by the door. “You inviting me in, or are we doing the whole interrogation in the entryway?”
Mom stepped back. “Yes. I just finished making dinner.”
We went to the kitchen, and I sat in my usual spot at the table.
Dad sat down in the chair across from me as Mom handed us plates of pasta. “So how bad are the coaches working you right now?”
I picked up my fork and twirled the noodles onto it. “Bad enough that everything hurts, and I’m sleeping like I got hit by a truck.”
Mom frowned. “That’s not exactly reassuring.”
“It’s just training, Mom.”
Dad took a bite. “That means it’s working as it should.”
