Page 203 of Filthy Promises

“Before what?”

“Before everything got complicated.” She gestures vaguely. “Before you became… you.”

I think back. Dusty memories rise up, each bloodier than the last. I don’t want any of those.

“I used to build model ships,” I say finally.

Rowan’s eyebrows fly up to her hairline. “You’re lying.”

“Swear. Started when I was eight. My grandfather—my mother’s father—gave me my first kit. A Spanish galleon with real canvas sails.”

She hides her mouth behind her hand as she titters with laughter. “I’m having trouble picturing a nerdy little Vincent with craft glue and tiny tweezers.”

“I was meticulous,” I admit. “Spent hours getting every detail right. My father thought it was a waste of time, of course, but my mother encouraged it.”

“What happened to them? The ships?”

“They’re in storage somewhere, probably gathering dust. I stopped after she died.” That old, familiar pang of guilt accompanies the memory. “Didn’t see the point after that.”

Rowan’s hand finds mine on the bedspread. “I’m sorry, Vince.” She doesn’t have to specify that we’re not talking about the ships anymore.

“It was a long time ago.”

“That doesn’t make it hurt less.”

No, it doesn’t.But I’ve spent most of my life ensuring that particular hurt stays buried deep where it can’t weaken me. Untilrecently, when I thought I might lose Rowan the same way. Then I found that the pain hadn’t gone away or softened. It was still there, waiting for its day in the sun.

“Your turn,” I say, shoving the spotlight away from myself. “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”

She thinks for a moment. “I wanted to be an astronaut when I was little.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.”

“Why not?”

“You’ve always seemed a bit otherworldly to me.”

She laughs softly. “That’s either very romantic or extremely offensive.”

“The former,” I assure her. “Definitely the former.”

Her thumb taps each of my knuckles in turn like piano keys. “When I was ten, I saved up my allowance for six months to buy a telescope. I used to spend hours on our apartment roof, watching the stars, making up my own names for the constellations.”

I try to picture it—a younger Rowan with the same determined eyes, staring up at the heavens, dreaming of escape. Of something bigger and grander than her too-small life.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Mom got sick again. The telescope got pawned and the money went to medical bills.” She shrugs like it doesn’t hurt her anymore, though I know better than that. “Space had to wait.”

“I could buy you a telescope,” I offer. “The best one they make.”

“Of course you could.” Her smile turns wistful. “But it wouldn’t be the same, would it?”

No, it wouldn’t.Because it’s never been about the thing itself, but what it represented.

Dreams. Possibility. Hope.

All the things I never allowed myself to want, until her.

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