Page 31 of Beautiful Ruins
“Until we know what your mum was into, you aren’t going anywhere near it. I mean it, Sadie.”
I arched an eyebrow. “I’m the one with the notebooks, Rowan. You want answers, you’re going to have to trust me.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. Trust wasn’t something Rowan gave up easily. Especially after Logan.
“Damn it, Sades.” He was in front of me in seconds, yanking me up by my arms. His grip was fierce,like he needed to feel I was real. But it wasn’t cruel. “You don’t get it, do you?” His voice cracked. “I can’t have anything happen to you.”
The lamplight cast long shadows across the walls, the hum of silence broken only by our heavy breathing. Mine especially.
His words made no sense.
“Why?” The word was barely above a whisper. But it was all I could say under the heat of his glare.
He shook his head and huffed out a humourless laugh. “Jesus Christ, Firefly, you’re just as blind as you were back then.”
My eyebrows shot up. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Blind about what, exactly?
“Just drop it.” Rowan broke eye contact, his voice tight, and stepped back, motioning to his bedroom door. “It’s probably time you go home.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to stop me from saying what I really wanted to. Rowan was as stubborn as they came. I had proof something was up with Logan before he’d died, and still, Rowan wouldn’t let me in.
It was always his way or the highway, and quite frankly, I was over it. So, I decided I was going to take the highway. I just wasn’t going to tell him where I was going.
With the notebook pressed against my chest, I squared my shoulders, lifting my chin. “Fine,” I said, stepping up to him so we were chest to chest.
He glared down at me, his eyes darkening, his chest heaving with barely contained . . . I don’t even know—rage, hate? It didn’t matter, he could hate me, resent me, wish I’d never come back. But I wasn’t done. Not with this. Not with him.
“Have it your way, Rowan.” I shoved past him, my shoulder clipping his upper arm, hard enough to be intentional, but not hard enough to stop me.
He didn’t even flinch as I stomped outof his room, yanking his bedroom door closed behind me. The slam echoed like a gunshot. I waited half a breath, hoping—stupidly—that he’d follow. But nothing.
Arsehole.
When I got back inside my room, everything felt colder, like Rowan’s silence had followed me home and unpacked its bags. I snatched my phone from the bedside table and pulled up a number I should have called years ago. It was too late—or early—to call, so I typed out a text instead, and hoped that she hadn’t blocked me.
Chapter Nine
SADIE
Jasmine was late.
My left leg bounced under the small round table as I tapped my phone screen for what felt like the hundredth time. The movement shook the teacup on the saucer sitting in front of me, tea sloshing over the sides. I stared at the delicate porcelain like it might reveal a message, anything to prove this hadn’t been a mistake.
Then again, I couldn’t blame her. It was enough that she had answered my text message from the night before. Still, my nerves refused to settle, no matter how many times I checked the time.
It had been years, but I was hoping she’d at least hear me out. Besides Logan, she had been my best friend, and right then, she was all I had. Or maybe that was unfair. But I didn’t have the luxury of pride anymore.
I dragged my teeth over my bottom lip and scanned the inside of the Whitmore House Cafe once again. A couple sat at a corner table, leaning toward each other, their hands linked in the middle, talking in low voices I couldn’t quite make out.Two kids chased each other around their mother’s legs as she stood at the counter. The more she tried to make herself heard, the louder their laughing became.
The overhead lights were too bright, the air tinged with burnt coffee and something fried. A spoon clinked against a saucer in an endless loop that buried beneath my skin. A few more people sat alone, their focus on phones, or books. No-one paid me any attention.
Exhaling, I pressed my fingertips into my eyes. What was the average time someone should have waited before they realised they’d been stood up? Twenty minutes? An hour? Maybe a lifetime? That’s often how it felt with Rowan.
A shadow fell over the table, and I dragged my focus from my teacup to the person standing beside me. Jasmine stood to one side, her hands gripping the strap of her handbag like it was the only thing keeping her from bolting.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said with a shrug. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure I was going to come.”
“Oh.” I frowned, chewing on my bottom lip for a second. She had always been to the point, but I’d expected maybe something a little softer. It felt like a door slamming in my face before I’d even knocked. “Well,” I said, gesturing to the seat opposite me. “I’m glad you did. Do you want to sit? Or not . . .”
