Page 134 of Threaded Lies

FIFTY-SIX

Rowan

“Rowan. You have to talk to me at some point.”

“I know, Sloane. I just … I need to process everything.” I look through my windshield at the outside of the Sanctuary.

I’ve driven for hours.

I’ve avoided physically going into the office.

I’ve called in several times for updates on my dad and while all remains positive, his road to recovery still seems so very daunting.

And I’ve avoided, to the best of my ability, all talk, all thoughts, all emotions when it comes to Holden Knight.

At least I pretend I have.

“I know you do, but you don’t have to do it alone.”

“It’s just a lot,” I whisper. “All at once.”

“Where are you?” she asks in that mom voice that says she’s already grabbing her keys and heading out the door to find me.

“I’m okay. I promise.”

“You don’t sound okay, Rowan. That’s a lot for one person to take in. Let me be there for you, please?”

“I know. And you are being here for me. I just need … right now I’m going to head into the Sanctuary and play my cello until my fingers fall off. For some reason it’s all I can think of doing. To feel closer to Cass. To remind me that my problems are nothing compared to those of everyone else here who’ll be listening. To just … feel the music.”

She’s quiet for a beat and I can see her standing on her front porch, keys in her hand, debating whether she should ignore what I’ve said or listen to me.

“I promise you—this is what I need right now.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m more than sure.”

And that need only becomes more apparent when the upper bout of the cello rests against my chest and my fingers rest on its strings.

I close my eyes and lose myself in the music, in the sounds I create, and the emotions those sounds evoke.

Women come and go from the room where I perform. Some stay for a while, their own eyes closed and tears slipping down their cheeks, while others sit stone-faced, presumably reliving whatever events led them to this place in their lives.

I’m not one to judge how others process their grief—because isn’t that what this is? Grief. It can come in many forms and over many things. I don’t purport mine to be even close to the grief of any of these women in the Sanctuary, but it doesn’t mean I feel it any less.

And it sure as shit means I’m trying to make us all feel better.

I play songs from memory. One after another after another. Some I repeat. Others I improvise. I simply allow myself the freedom to feel in this space where judgment isn’t allowed or welcome.

Holden played me. He made me feel. He made me believe. He made me love … and it was all a game to him. All a means to an end that only he knows.

One I’m not quite sure I want to.

I don’t know how long I play for. The sky outside the window has turned dark and the sound of kids playing down the hall melds with the melodies I create. But at some point, I’m all played out and emotionally spent.

“That’s all for today,” I murmur as the last chord floats through the room. “Thank you for indulging me to come and play today.”

When I look up, the whole room is staring at me. As broken as my heart is, this moment is providing the glue that will help piece it back together. I’m certain of it.