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Zahra
The house is exactly something I’d expect Brady Kane to build for himself. The cute wraparound porch looks empty but well-loved, with a bench swing and a series of rocking chairs moving softly from the wind. It’s a house built for a family, and I can imagine he spent many years here with his.
I walk up the steps. My hand hovers over the doorbell, but I’m hesitant to press the button.
Might as well hurry up and get tonight over with. I press the doorbell and wait. The wood door creaks open less than a minute later, and I’m hit with a version of Rowan I’ve yet to see. I blink twice to confirm he’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. He has a new pair of glasses, this time with a tortoise-shell pattern.
My eyes drag across the contours of his body before landing on his naked feet. His entire outfit seems like a completely unfair war tactic against my racing heart. It’s… He’s… Ugh!
I frown. “Hi.”
He makes a show of checking me out. Somehow, he makes my bell-bottom jeans and vintage T-shirt feel inappropriate.
He opens the door wider, giving me space to enter. But not enough, because his body remains in the middle of the door frame, forcing our skin to brush against each other.
He leads me toward a dimly lit living room fit for a family of fifty. The massive couch reminds me of a cloud I want to dive into while the carpet is plush enough to take a nap on.
He points me toward a cushion on the floor.
“This seems an awful lot like a date,” I mutter under my breath.
“Don’t be difficult. I know you’re hungry.”
I glare at him, hating that he’s right. I drop onto the cushion and cross my legs. He grabs the bag, removes the cartons, and serves me a plate of my favorite pad Thai. My stupid heart betrays me, clenching at the smallest hint of Rowan’s attention to detail.
Get a grip. It’s just di I straighten my spine. “Well. Let’s hear your apology.” “Eat first.” I roll my eyes at his command and keep my hands settled on my lap. He sighs. “Please eat? I don’t want it to get cold.” A ghost of a smile crosses my lips at his request. I only comply because I’m starving. Rowan takes a bite of his food with every bit of elegance I expect from American royalty. If only I looked half that good while eating. We both eat in silence. I hate it enough to speak up because I can’t take it anymore. “So you like to draw?” His fork clatters against the plate. Well, aren’t I the queen of casual conversations? I grin at my plate because making Rowan uncomfortable has become my new favorite game tonight. He picks up his fork and twirls some noodles. “I used to love drawing.” “Why did you stop?” Rowan’s shoulders tense before he releases a shaky breath. “Why do most people stop doing things they love?” I relate to that question. After everything Lance did, I stopped wanting to create anything. I paused my dreams because it seemed easier than facing the pain of his betrayal. The path of least resistance included shutting down things I loved because I was too afraid of the backlash. At least until Rowan threw me out of my comfort zone. And for that, I’m indebted to him. It doesn’t make his choices correct, but it makes me a bit more forgiving. Because without him taking a chance on my drunken proposal, I wouldn’t have finally let go of the last bit of hurt holding me back. The only person who has power over me is myself. Not Lance. Not my past mistakes. And definitely not fear. I pluck at a loose thread on my jeans. “I’m not asking about people. I’m asking about you.” “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?” “If apologizing was easy, everyone would do it.” He readjusts his glasses in a way that has my thighs pressing together to stop the dull throb. I swear he only wore them to wear me down. “My grandpa got me into drawing at a very young age.” I stay silent and waiting, not wanting to spook him. “He always had a special something with my brothers and me, and drawing happened to be our thing. I was the only artistic one of my family besides him so I think he enjoyed having that kind of co “That’s sweet.” His lips press together in a thin line. “The bond I had with my grandfather was different from the one I shared with my father. And I think that frustrated my father. He was never artsy and that was all I wanted to do as a kid. It was like he didn’t know how to co My entire chest aches at the look on Rowan’s face. “Cancer, right?” His throat bobs as he nods. “I’m sorry.” I grab his hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. He clears his throat and looks down at his plate. “That was the start of my rocky relationship with my father. Eventually, I gave up on drawing and moved on to more appropriate activities that were expected of me.” I want to beg him to tell me all the stories because I’m desperate to learn more about the man sitting across from me. Rowan’s probably spent years with pent-up emotions. The way he speaks of his mother, laced with pain breaking through his emotionless facade, has my heart cracking. “What made you want to stop?” “It’s…complex.” I think he might hold back, but he continues. “He might have not intentionally told me to stop, but he made sure to take the joy out of it. Whenever I had an exhibition, he wouldn’t show up, so I had to watch all the other kids’ parents celebrate while I stood there by myself. It got to the point that I refused to participate anymore, despite my grandfather trying. Then there was a time that he found all the old cards I drew for my mom while she was in the hospital—” His voice shakes. “He ruined them because he felt like it. They were some of the last memories I had of her, and they were gone after a drunken rampage.” “Drunken rampage?” A vein in his jaw ticks. “Forget I said anything about that.” But I can’t. I want to go back in time and protect Rowan. “It’s okay if you can’t talk about it.” I reach out and place my palm on his clenched fist. “I owe you after everything.” He releases it, giving me room to interlace our fingers. I give his hand another squeeze before pulling away. “I’m not going to use an apology as a way to pull information out of you. It’s your choice to share your past.” He looks at me. As if his eyes are gauging my soul, assessing me for deception. “You mean that?” “Of course. But will you tell me what made you want to start drawing again? If that’s okay.” He nods. “Because your drawings were terrible, and I had this burning desire to help you.” “You started drawing again because of me?” “Yes,” he mumbles under his breath. I smile and nod. “Oh, wow. Why?” “You almost cried during your first presentation.” “And?” This is the same man who told me he had no fucks to give. His wanting to help me without even really knowing me…it makes no sense.