Page 24 of Stolen Harmony
“Maybe that's why you're drawn to him,” Tom continued. “Maybe you recognize something of yourself in all that careful distance.”
“Maybe.”
“Or maybe you're both just tired of carrying your grief alone.” Tom clapped me on the shoulder, the gesture both friendly and final. “Either way, trust your instincts. They're better than Victor's, and they're definitely better than whatever fear's been running your life for the past two years.”
I stood with him, fishing a few bills from my wallet and leaving them on the table. The morning crowd had thinned, leaving behind the lingering smell of bacon grease and coffee grounds. Tom walked with me to the door, his presence steady and reassuring in the way that only came from decades of friendship.
“Thanks,” I said as we stepped onto the sidewalk. “For the coffee. For the advice.”
“For telling you what you already knew?”
“For reminding me I don't have to figure it all out alone.”
Tom nodded, squinting in the morning sun. “Call if you need anything. And I mean anything—even if it's just someone to talk sense into you when you start overthinking.”
We parted ways at the corner, Tom heading toward the marina and his boat, me turning toward the studio. The walk was short but gave me time to process what he'd said, to feel the weight of his support settling into something I could actually use.
Chapter 7
Roxie
Rowan
Consciousness came back in pieces, like broken glass reassembling itself in slow motion.
First, the taste in my mouth: cotton and copper and the ghost of whiskey that had seemed like such a good idea twelve hours ago. Then the light, pale and merciless, slicing through the blinds and hitting my face. My skull felt like it was being slowly compressed in a vise, each heartbeat sending fresh waves of pain radiating from behind my eyes.
I fumbled for the bottle of painkillers on the nightstand, fingers clumsy and uncooperative. Two pills fell into my palm, and I swallowed them dry before reaching for the glass of water that sat beside them. The water was lukewarm and tasted faintly metallic, but it washed away the worst of the chemical aftertaste coating my teeth.
For a moment, I just lay there, staring at the water-stained ceiling and trying to piece together how I'd gotten home. The last clear memory I had was Anna pouring whiskey. Everything after that was fragments: cold air on my face, the sound of voices that might have been real or imagined, the sensation ofbeing carried by someone whose cologne smelled like cedar and rain.
The sheets beneath me were wrinkled and damp with sweat, and I realized I was still wearing yesterday's clothes. My jeans were twisted uncomfortably around my legs, my t-shirt bunched up under my arms. Someone had taken off my shoes and jacket, but everything else clung to me, stale with sleep and the ghost of last night.
I should have felt grateful. Instead, I felt hollow, scraped raw by embarrassment and that sharp-edged shame that came from not remembering how you’d gotten home. Had I walked? Called a cab? Made an ass of myself in front of Anna’s customers? The not-knowing was worse than any hangover.
Sitting up, the room tilted and spun, and I braced myself against the mattress until it all settled back into place. The silence pressed in, heavy and absolute. In New York, there was always noise—sirens, construction, strangers arguing through the walls. Here, it was just my own breathing and the distant, relentless crash of waves against the rocks below.
The stillness felt dangerous, like standing at the edge of a cliff and realizing how easy it would be to step off. Too much space for old memories to rise up, for grief to sink its claws in and drag me under again.
I shoved the covers aside, peeled off my clothes, and made my way to the cramped bathroom. The tiles were icy against my feet, and for a moment I caught my own reflection in the mirror—hair wild, eyes red-rimmed, a bruise blooming along my jaw I didn’t remember getting. I looked like someone who’d survived a disaster, not someone who’d slept off a hangover in a safe bed.
I turned the water on as hot as I could stand, letting the shower pound the last of the sweat and sleep from my skin. The steam filled the room, blurring the edges of everything,and for a few minutes, I could pretend I was somewhere else, someone else—someone who hadn’t burned all his bridges and come home just to haunt his own past. I scrubbed myself until my skin stung, chasing the fog out of my head, trying to wash away the shame and regret clinging to me like a second skin.
When I stepped out, the air felt sharper, cleaner. I dressed quickly—fresh t-shirt, jeans, the same old jacket, but it felt a little less like armor, a little more like something that belonged to the living.
Downstairs, Fred was waiting, leaning in his usual spot by the apartment door, a cigarette perched between his fingers, smoke curling lazily into the morning air. He gave me a slow once-over, one eyebrow raised.
“Looks like the shower almost managed to revive you,” he said, a small smirk tugging at his mouth. “Figured you might be dead up there, or worse—writing poetry.”
“Worse,” I agreed. “I was considering breakfast.”
Fred snorted, then jerked his chin toward the side of the building. “Got an old Yamaha sitting out back. Belonged to my nephew before he decided cars were less likely to kill him. It’s been wasting away in the shed. Thought maybe you could put it to use before it rusts solid.”
I blinked at him. “You’re just—what—loaning me a bike?”
“Loaning?” He grinned, showing a flash of gold tooth. “Nothing in life’s free, kid. You scratch it, you fix it. You total it, you buy me beer until the day I die. That’s the deal.”
I huffed out something close to a laugh. “That's extortion.”
