Something wet rubsagainst my neck and jaw, pulling me out of my dream. A warm breath blows into my ear, causing me to lift my shoulder to block it.
The wet feeling is trailing across my cheek and to my nose. I groan out of frustration before something rough and calloused bops me on the head.
What the hell?
Finally deciding to open my eyes, I see big chocolate brown ones staring right back at me.
“Milo,” I whine. “Is this how you wake up your dad?”
He looks at me with his tongue hanging out to the side, giving me one quick lick on my cheek, and runs out of the room. I rub my eyes, willing myself to get up and stretch.
The sound of clinking pots and pans echo from downstairs. My nose is hit with the smell of wood-smoked bacon. I'm almost positive my body levitates like a cartoon character, my nose following the scent to the hall, down the stairs, and into the kitchen.
Rowan is at the stove, his back facing me, but he has a shirt on. That’s no fun. I want to see his smooth skin, his muscled back, his —
Wait, get your head out of your ass Ellie. You just got home, and you’re already drooling over your best friend. Your best friend you dated in high school. And have seen shirtless. But his muscles, oh his muscles.
The sun streams in through the window above the white ceramic farmhouse sink. The light wooden counter spreads across on either side of the sink. Above the sink on the windowsill sits small pots of soil and green leaves sprouting above. All edible plants: mint, basil, parsley, cilantro, and rosemary.
A skylight window shines more natural light down into the kitchen.
Rowan grabs a copper cast iron pan that hangs on a hook above the stove. The other pans line up on hooks that hang from beneath the cabinets on either side of the stove.
The sound of crackling bacon echoes in the kitchen while Milo’s nails tap on the hardwood floor, disappearing as he lays down on a rug below the sink.
I tug at a chair to sit down, resting my elbow on the table, and plop my cheek into my palm. Rowan opens one of the glass cabinets and pulls out a deep blue and purple mug that’s sprinkled with stars all over it. Mimicking the night sky.
It’s embarrassing to think about how much tea I drink when visiting Rowan. He has an entire drawer that is meticulously organized with any tea you can think of. I always felt bad for constantly using his mugs and dirtying them, telling him I’d buy my own to keep here.
When I came back for another visit, he was already brewing water in the teapot, and I spotted a mug on the counter. He poured me a cup of tea in the starry mug, and told me it was mine, that no one else can use it. The deep swirls of blues and purples had golden flecks of stars. He looked at me with softness in his eyes and said,it reminds me of the nights we would go on the roof of your parents' house and watch the night sky.
I cried later that night on the plane going back to the city. Because Rowan was right. The night sky and its twinkling stars are my favorite. You can’t see one single star in the bright lights of New York the way you can see them in Dove Point.
Rowan sets my mug filled with chamomile tea down in front of me. He smiles and turns back to the stove to finish cooking. I pick it up, the warmth going around my hands, and take a deep smell. He added honey–my favorite–for sweetness.
“I don’t deserve you as a friend,” I drawl.
Rowan’s shoulders bounce lightly, letting out a laugh while he continues to cook.
“And why is that?” he asks without looking at me.
“Well, for one, you let me crash in your bed. I didn’t realize how exhausted I was until I fell asleep in your office.”
He flips over a pancake, the sizzling sound hitting the pan gently and then subsides.
“And two, you served me tea just the way I like it without having to ask.Andinmymug.”
Rowan stops and turns to me. “Ellie, it’s tea with honey. I would be shocked if someone couldn’t remember that.” He turns back to the stove.
“You would be surprised,” I say into my mug as I take my first sip. The steam from the mug hovers over my nose, and the warmth of it coats my throat nicely.
“If they don’t know your favorite type of tea, then they aren’t worth calling a friend.”
I grimace. “So, it doesn’t make it any better that it was Charlie who didn’t know?”
Rowan turns back to me, a stony look on his face. “You’re joking?”
“I wish I were,” I say as I take another sip.
