Page 37 of Stolen Harmony
“Probably me,” I said. “I've been told I'm territorial.”
“Yeah?” He glanced at me sideways. “About what?”
The question hung between us, loaded with meaning I wasn't ready to unpack. “Things that matter,” I said finally.
“What matters to you?”
It was such a simple question, but it felt like standing at theedge of a cliff. “Fewer things than I thought. More things than I expected.”
Rowan nodded like that made perfect sense. “She used to say I was afraid of wanting things. Said I'd rather pretend I didn't care than risk being disappointed.”
“Were you?”
“Probably.” He threw the last piece of bread, watching the ducks scramble for it. “Still am, I think. It's easier to be angry than sad. Anger makes you feel like you're doing something, even when you're just making everything worse.”
The honesty of it gutted me. “I know that feeling.”
“Do you?” His voice was challenging now, testing. “Because from where I'm sitting, you look like someone who's forgotten how to feel anything at all.”
The words stung because they were true. “Maybe I have.”
“That's worse,” he said quietly. “At least anger is feeling something.”
We sat there until the bread was gone and the beer bottle was empty, watching the ducks lose interest and paddle away to harass other potential food sources. The sun was starting to set, painting the water in shades of gold and orange that would have been beautiful if either of us had been in the mood to appreciate beauty.
“I keep thinking I should visit her,” Rowan said suddenly. “The grave. But I don't know what I'd say.”
“You don't have to say anything.”
“Then what's the point?”
“Sometimes the point is just showing up.”
He was quiet for a long moment. “Is that what you do? Just show up?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes I tell her about my day. Sometimes I ask her questions I know she can't answer.” I paused. “Sometimes I just sit there and remember what it felt like when she was alive.”
“Does it help?”
“No,” I said honestly. “But it feels necessary.”
Rowan stood up, his movements careful and deliberate like someone who wasn't entirely sure of his balance. He crumpled the empty bag and tucked it into his jacket pocket instead of dropping it on the ground.
“See you around,” he said, not quite looking at me.
“Rowan.”
He paused, half-turned away, and for a moment our eyes met directly. The connection was electric, unexpected, lasting just a beat too long to be casual. I could see something raw and unguarded in his expression before his walls went back up, but the awareness lingered in the air between us like static before a storm.
“The offer for coffee still stands,” I said, my voice rougher than I'd intended. “If you ever want to talk about her. Or not talk about her. Whatever you need.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth for just an instant before snapping back to my eyes, and I felt something shift in my chest, dangerous and unwelcome. Something shifted in his expression too, too quick for me to read but impossible to ignore.
“Maybe,” he said, and for the first time, it didn't sound like a polite deflection. His voice was softer now, almost uncertain.
I watched him walk away, his shoulders squared against a wind that hadn't picked up yet. He moved like someone who was used to walking away from things, used to leaving before anyone could leave him first. But he'd stayed long enough to share a memory, long enough to sit in silence without it feeling hostile.
It wasn't much, but it was more than we'd managed before.
