Page 21 of Stolen Harmony
I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache building behind my eyes. This wasn't my responsibility. Rowan was a grown man who'd made his own choices, and if those choices included drinking himself into oblivion at Anna's bar, that was between him and his liver.
But the thought of him sprawled unconscious on Anna's floor, vulnerable and alone, made something twist in my gut.
“Isn't there someone else you could call?” The words came out before I could stop them, defensive and sharp. “A friend, or...”
“Eli.” Anna's voice went gentle, the way it did when she was trying to talk sense into someone who was being deliberately obtuse. “He doesn't have anyone else here other than you.”
Guilt flooded my chest, hot and immediate. Our conversation the night before had been a disaster, all raw wounds and accusations that couldn't be taken back. I'd seen the pain in his eyes when he'd stormed out, but I'd told myself it wasn't my fault, that he was the one who'd come looking for a fight.
Maybe I'd been wrong.
“I'll be there,” I said finally, the words feeling like surrender.
I pulled on my coat and stepped into the cold night, the air sharp enough to make my lungs ache. The wind carried salt from the harbor, that familiar bite that reminded me I was living on the edge of something vast and unforgiving. My jaw stayed tight the whole walk, hands shoved deep in my pockets, trying to prepare myself for whatever I was about to find.
The bell above the door chimed as I stepped inside the bar, and the smell hit me immediately: beer and old wood and the faint citrus cleaner that never quite covered decades of spilled drinks and broken promises.
Anna looked up from behind the bar, her expression a mixture of relief and concern.
“He's in the back,” she said, nodding toward the corner where a figure was slumped over a small table. “Been like that for about twenty minutes now.”
I made my way through the scattered tables and chairs, past conversations I didn't want to overhear and laughter that felt too loud in my ears. Rowan was hunched forward, head down, arms folded on the table like he was trying to disappear into himself. His dark hair fell across his face, and I could see the slow, irregular rise and fall of his shoulders.
He looked smaller than he had in my living room, more fragile. His jacket was unzipped, revealing a t-shirt that was rumpled and damp with sweat. There was an empty glass beside his elbow and another one that had been knocked over, spreading a dark stain across the scarred wood.
“Jesus, Rowan.” I slid into the chair across from him, keeping my voice low. “What did you do to yourself?”
He didn't respond, didn't even lift his head. When I reached across the table to touch his shoulder, he felt warm and loose, his body completely surrendered to whatever chemical peace he'd found at the bottom of those glasses.
“He started asking about her around drink number three,” Anna said, appearing beside the table with a damp towel and a glass of water.
The image of Rowan sitting alone at this table, desperately hungry for scraps of information about the mother he'd lost,made my chest feel hollow. How many nights had he spent like this, drowning in questions that would never be answered, trying to piece together a relationship that had been broken long before she died?
“Help me get him up,” I said, sliding an arm under Rowan's shoulders. He was heavier than he looked, dead weight that spoke of complete unconsciousness. His head lolled against my shoulder, and I caught the sharp scent of whiskey mixed with something that was purely him: soap and skin and the faint sweetness of sleep.
Anna supported his other side, and together we managed to get him upright. His head fell back, mouth slightly open, completely unaware of what was happening around him. In the warm light of the bar, I could see the exhaustion carved into his face, the hollow places that spoke of too many nights exactly like this one.
“You sure you can handle him?” Anna asked, genuine concern in her voice. “He's pretty far gone.”
“I'll manage.” I shifted my grip, taking more of his weight. “Thanks for calling me.”
“Just take care of him, okay?”
The drive to Rowan's apartment was an exercise in controlled chaos. He slumped against the passenger door, mumbling incoherently—fragments of words that might have been names or songs or just the sound of pain trying to find a voice. I kept one hand on the wheel and one eye on him, making sure he didn't slide completely sideways or try to open the door at a red light.
The bookstore was dark when we pulled up, and I had to half-carry him from the truck to the narrow staircase leading tohis apartment. Each step was a negotiation between his dead weight and my determination not to let him fall.
I fumbled for his keys in his jacket pocket, trying not to think about how intimate the gesture felt, how strange it was to be going through another man's belongings while he was unconscious and trusting. The keys were warm from his body heat, and my hands shook slightly as I unlocked the door.
The apartment was exactly what I'd expected: small, cramped, the kind of temporary space that nobody bothered to make into a home. A Murphy bed folded down from the wall, unmade sheets tangled like he'd been having trouble sleeping. Clothes were scattered across the single chair, and I could see a guitar case leaning against the far wall like an accusation.
I managed to get him to the bed without dropping him, though it was touch and go for a moment when his knees buckled and nearly took us both down. He collapsed onto the mattress with a soft exhale, immediately curling into himself like a child seeking comfort in sleep.
The overhead light was harsh and unforgiving, throwing shadows that made his face look gaunt and pale. I turned it off and switched on the small lamp beside the bed, creating a softer circle of warmth that felt less like an interrogation room.
I should have left then. Should have made sure he was breathing, left a glass of water on the nightstand, and walked away. Let him wake up alone with his hangover and his regrets, the way he'd probably done dozens of times before. But something kept me rooted beside the bed, studying his sleeping face and trying to understand what I was feeling.
He looked so much like Elaine when he was still like this. The same dark lashes resting against his cheeks, the same stubborn set to his mouth even in unconsciousness. But there were differences too, harder lines around his eyes thatspoke of pain she'd never had to carry, a thinness to his face that suggested he'd been forgetting to eat as well as sleep.
