I watch as he climbs off the bed to head to the ensuite only to return with the washcloth and tissues. He takes time to clean my skin with gentle strokes, his attention caught on the movement of his hand and his brow creased as he seems deep in thought.
“What are you scared of?” I ask when the silence stretches so long that it feels like it’s tugging on my bones.
Rowan shrugs, not looking up when he says, “I dunno. Having my eyeballs sucked out of my head with an industrial vacuum is a recurring nightmare. Not sure how I came about that one.” When I slap his arm, Rowan’s stoic mask finally cracks into a faint smile. But it slowly fades, and he doesn’t answer until it’s gone. “I’m scared of you destroying me. Me destroying you.”
I blow out a dramatic breath. “Going straight for destruction, huh? Not the easy stuff to be terrified of, like the fact that we live in different states, or that we’re both crazy busy at work, or like, I have one friend and you apparently hang out with the entire city of Boston. Nope. Straight for destroy.”
His smile returns, but I can still see it in his eyes, how fear clings to his thoughts, finding its way into mine too. “None of those are insurmountable things. We just have to do what normal people do. Talk and stuff.”
“We don’t have a good track record of normal people stuff.” I point to my face. “Exhibit A. We could have gone for beers.”
“Then we’ll get good at it. We’ve just gotta practice.”
Seems simple enough, doesn’t it. Practice. Get a little better most days. A little stronger. It’s hard to imagine how to climb past these obstacles that seem like mountains when you’re standing in their shade. But I’ll never climb if I just keep standing still. And Lark was right, I have been lonely standing in the shadows.
So I keep asking myself the same question: What if I try?
I don’t let my mind wander to an answer. Because the real answer is, I don’t know. I’ve never really tried and meant it before, not like this.
Don’t answer the question. Just try.
That’s what I think when I look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. It’s what I think when I come back to the bed and Rowan helps me into a tank top before putting my sling back on. It’s what I think when I lay down next to him. He watches me openly, and I watch him back. His eyelids are heavy, just like mine, but he refuses to look away. And still I think, just try.
I shimmy my right arm from beneath me and raise a fist between us. “Rock-paper-scissors.”
“What for?”
“Just do it, pretty boy.”
He gives me a suspicious grin, and then he meets my fist with his. On the count of three, we make our selection. Rowan goes with rock. I go with scissors.
I already know that rock is chosen the majority of the time in games of rock-paper-scissors. I looked it up after the first time I met Rowan and he suggested it in the event of a tie-breaker. And I already know that Rowan almost always chooses rock.
“What did I just win?” he says.
“You can ask me anything, and I’ll answer you honestly.”
His eyes flash in the dim light. “Really?”
“Yeah. Go on. Anything.”
Rowan chews at his lip as he deliberates. It takes him a long moment to settle on a question. “You were going to leave when we were in West Virginia and I killed Francis. Why didn’t you?”
The image of Rowan kneeling on the road bursts to the forefront of my mind. I’ve thought about it so many times, the way he rained relentless blows on the man clutched in the grip of his madness. I’d watched from the shadows, and as Rowan slowed and stopped, I backed away. Leaving was the smart thing to do. He was clearly unhinged. Dangerous. He’d grabbed me by the throat only moments before, and even though I was afraid, I still trusted him. Part of me knew he pushed me away from Francis and the car to hide me in the shadows. And when it was over, my mind screamed at me to run, but my heart saw a broken man on the road, struggling to find himself in the haze of rage.
And the first word to pass his lips was my name.
I hadn’t made it more than two steps backward. I never even turned away.
“You called out for me. It sounded like loss. I…” I swallow, and his touch finds me from the shadows, a trace of tingling warmth that flows up my arm and back down again. “I knew you didn’t just want me to stay. You needed me to. I haven’t been needed like that in a long time.”
His gentle caress finds my cheek, a contrast to the violence that carved scars into his knuckles that night. “It’s probably pretty obvious by now, but I’m glad you stayed.”