Page 129 of Stolen Harmony
“I should head back,” I said finally, though I was reluctant to leave the warmth of their company.
“Door's always open,” Kepler said, standing to walk me to the gate. “And Rowan? The suitcase will still be there tomorrow. But maybe sleep on it before you finish packing.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. As I walked back toward town, the apartment I'd been so desperate to escape felt less like a prison and more like a place where I still had choices to make.
Chapter 25
Chords in the Rain
Elias
Isat in my car across from the train station, engine off, watching the entrance through water that turned everything into watercolor impressions of real life. The station looked smaller in the gray afternoon light, more like a bus stop than a gateway to anywhere important. But it was where Rowan would go when he ran, and I knew he would run because running was what we both did when things got too complicated to bear.
I'd been keeping tabs on him for the past three days, unable to stop myself from tracking his movements like a stalker or a guardian angel, depending on how charitable you wanted to be about my motivations.
Sarah had mentioned seeing him at the grocery store, looking like he hadn't slept in days. Anna had called to ask if I knew why he'd stopped coming to the bar, why he'd seemed todisappear from Harbor's End's social ecosystem as completely as if he'd never existed. Mrs. Chen had wondered aloud why the young man with the sad eyes had been carrying suitcases, whether he was moving or just traveling.
The signs were all there, painted in the careful language of small-town concern. Rowan was leaving, and I was sitting in a parking lot like a creep, waiting to watch him go.
The irony wasn't lost on me. I'd driven him away to protect him from scandal, from gossip, from the kind of attention that could destroy a young man's future. Now here I was, creating the exact kind of spectacle I'd been trying to avoid, lurking outside the train station like a character in someone else's tragic love story.
Movement at the station entrance caught my attention, and my chest tightened like a fist closing around my heart. Rowan emerged from the warmth of the waiting area, hauling a small black suitcase that looked like it contained everything he owned worth keeping. He was wearing the same dark coat I'd seen him in that first night on my doorstep, but it hung differently now, like it was carrying more weight than fabric and thread should be able to bear.
He looked pale, shoulders hunched against more than just the rain, moving like he was carrying invisible wounds that made every step an effort. There was something broken in his posture, something that spoke of damage deeper than disappointment, more profound than the simple heartbreak of a relationship that hadn't worked out.
My first instinct was to get out of the truck, to cross the street and stop him from leaving, to finally tell him the truth about Victor's ultimatum and my own cowardice. To explain that walking away had been the hardest thing I'd ever done, that every moment since had felt like dying in slow motion.
But I forced myself to stay put, hands gripping the steeringwheel like it was the only thing keeping me anchored to sanity. What right did I have to stop him? What could I possibly say that would undo the damage I'd already done, that would convince him I was worth the complications that came with caring about someone like me?
I'd made my choice. Now I had to live with watching him make his.
Rowan disappeared inside the station, swallowed by the crowds of people who had places to go and reasons for going there. I sat in the truck for another few minutes, trying to convince myself that this was for the best, that letting him leave was the kindest thing I could do for someone I'd already hurt enough.
But something wouldn't let me drive away. Some stubborn part of my brain that refused to accept that this was how the story ended, with both of us alone and broken and too proud to admit we'd rather be broken together than whole apart.
I got out of the car and walked toward the station, not with any plan beyond the need to be closer to him, even if he never knew I was there. The rain soaked through my jacket immediately, cold water running down my neck and into my collar, but I barely felt it. All my attention was focused on the lit windows of the station, on the figures moving inside like actors in a play I could observe but never join.
I found a spot near one of the concrete pillars that supported the station's overhang, far enough in the shadows that I wouldn't be obvious to anyone looking out from inside. From here I could see the departure board, could track the trains that would take him away from Harbor's End and back to whatever life he'd been living before he'd made the mistake of coming home.
The 6:47 to Boston was boarding in twenty minutes. From there he could catch a connection to New York, could disappearinto the anonymity of eight million people who wouldn't know his story or care about his pain. Could go back to being nobody special, just another damaged musician in a city full of them.
The thought should have been comforting. Instead, it felt like watching someone die.
The rain had soaked through my coat by the time I reached the house. I stood on the porch for a long moment, my fist hovering near the door, before I forced myself forward.
It opened before I knocked. Dad stood there, shoulders bowed, his face lined with something heavier than age. He didn’t ask why I was there. He only stepped aside, and I walked in.
The familiar smell of polish and stale smoke clung to the walls. It should have felt like home, but it didn’t. Not anymore.
I sank into one of the chairs by the fire. My voice came out raw. “He’s gone.”
Dad lowered himself across from me, his hands restless against his knees. “Rowan,” he said quietly.
I nodded, and the silence stretched until it felt unbearable.
The fire snapped in the grate, a sharp crack that made me flinch. I stared into the flames, unable to meet his eyes. For a moment it was like being ten years old again, sitting here with scraped knees while he tried to teach me how to tune a guitar. His hands had been steady then, his voice patient. A different life. A different man.
“You look tired,” Dad said finally, his voice tentative, as if reaching for something ordinary. “More than tired. Hollow.”
