Page 59 of Stolen Harmony
“How have you been, Elias?” she asked once I'd settled into the familiar chair across from her desk.
It was always the same opening, deceptively simple. How had I been? Existing. Surviving. Going through the motions of being alive without any of the substance that made it worthwhile.
“Good,” I said automatically, then caught myself. We'd been doing this dance for six months now. She deserved better than reflexive deflection. “Busy. Work's been picking up.”
“That's good to hear. How are the school visits going?”
I told her about the kids, about Katie's overzealous tuning and Tyler's career aspirations. About Emma's resemblance to old photos and the way children could make everything feel both simpler and more complicated at the same time.
She nodded, making occasional notes but mostly just listening.
“And Rowan?” she asked, the question casual but loaded with meaning.
The name landed heavier than I'd expected, settling in my stomach like a stone. I'd been dreading this moment all week, knowing she'd ask and knowing I didn't have a good answer.
“I don't know him,” I said after a moment that stretched too long. “When Elaine died, I was a stranger to him. Had been for years, really. And now, all this time later... I'm still a stranger.”
“But you want to know him.”
It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. “Yes.”
“Tell me about the last time you saw him.”
I found myself recounting the evening at Anna's bar, the way he'd looked in that leather jacket, commanding attention from the moment he walked through the door. The casual waySarah and David had welcomed him, the shop talk that had flowed so naturally until the alcohol loosened something in him.
“He performed,” I said, the memory still vivid enough to make my chest tight. “Got up on stage, played this raw, honest song about loss. Then he...” I paused, not sure how to explain what I'd witnessed without revealing how it had affected me. “He took his shirt off. In front of the whole bar. Just stood there, completely exposed, like he was daring everyone to look away.”
“And how did that make you feel?”
The question hung in the air between us, loaded with implications I wasn't ready to examine. Because the truth was, watching Rowan on that stage had awakened something in me that I didn't know how to name.
“Protective,” I said finally, which wasn't a lie but wasn't the whole truth either. “He was drunk, vulnerable. Everyone was staring.”
“What do you think he was really doing up there?”
The question hung in the air between us, dangerous and necessary. Dr. Fields had a gift for asking things that made you realize you'd been lying to yourself about fundamental truths.
“I think he's searching for something,” I said finally. “Connection, maybe. Understanding. He performed like he was trying to communicate something he couldn't put into words.”
“What do you think he was trying to communicate?”
“That he's in pain. That he's angry about losing her, about the distance that grew between them.” I paused, trying to articulate feelings that were still forming. “Maybe that he's tired of carrying all that baggage alone.”
The words came out quieter than I'd intended. Dr. Fields made a note, her expression carefully neutral.
“Do you feel responsible for him?” she asked.
I hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I loved his mother. Because she would have wanted me to look out for him. Because he's alone in the world and I'm the only person left who knew her the way he needed to know her.” I took a breath. “And because watching him on that stage... seeing him expose himself like that, literally and figuratively... it felt like watching someone drowning in public.”
“Those are good reasons,” she said gently. “But you can't carry both your grief and his. You'll drown.”
She was right. I'd been trying to save Rowan from his own self-destruction while barely keeping my own head above water. Trying to be the father figure he'd never had while struggling with feelings that were anything but paternal.
“So what do I do?”
