Page 80 of The Knotheads Next Door
Heat creeps up my neck, but I maintain my composure. "I don't know what you think you saw, but—"
"Save it," she interrupts, her expression softening slightly. "Look, I'm not here to embarrass you. Well, not entirely. I'm here because I care about Rowan, and for some unfathomable reason, she cares about you three idiots."
"We care about her too," I say, the admission easier than I expected.
"I know you do. That's the problem." Lala leans forward, suddenly serious. "She's not fine, Wells. And neither are you. None of you are. You're all dancing around something that's obviously happening, pretending it's temporary, pretending it's simple, when we both know it's neither."
Her words hit uncomfortably close to home. I look down at the scarf still clutched in my hand, the evidence of my own emotional compromisation.
"It's complicated," I finally say, the understatement of the century.
"Most worthwhile things are." She stands, smoothing her skirt. "But here's what's not complicated: Rowan needs all of you right now. Not just Theo. Not just whoever's turn it is to check on her. All of you. Together."
The image her words conjure—the four of us together, supporting Rowan, supporting each other—is both terrifying and achingly appealing. I've never allowed myself to need anyone that way, to be needed in return. It's always been safer to maintain distance, to keep relationships defined and contained.
But nothing about Rowan is contained. She's messy and stubborn and emotional in ways that should repel me but instead draw me inexorably closer.
"I have responsibilities here," I say, but the protest sounds weak even to my own ears.
Lala gives me a look that suggests I'm being particularly dense. "You have responsibilities there too. Ones that matter a hell of a lot more than making sure the governor's ego gets properly stroked." She heads for the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. "Stop being an idiot, Wells. Go home."
The door closes behind her with a decisive click, leaving me alone with thoughts I've been avoiding for weeks.
I've spent my entire adult life ensuring I never became my father—a man whose life was destroyed by attachment, who lost himself so completely to an omega that when she left, there was nothing of him left. I swore I would never be that vulnerable, that emotionally dependent on anyone.
And yet.
And yet I find myself standing, gathering my keys, slipping Rowan's scarf back into my pocket. I send a quick email to Tillie explaining that I have a family emergency, knowing she'll understand, knowing she's probably been expecting this all day.
Family. Is that what we are? What we could be? The thought should terrify me, but instead it fills me with a strange, fragile hope I scarcely recognize.
I make it halfway to my car before rationality reasserts itself. What am I doing? Running home in the middle of the workday because of Lala's meddling? Because of feelings I can't even name properly?
Rowan has Theo. She made her choice clear when she asked for him—just him—last night. She doesn't need me complicating things further with my presence, my confusion, my unwanted feelings.
And I have a job to do. Responsibilities. A life carefully constructed around order and control that I'm not prepared toabandon for... what? A woman I've known for a couple months? A possibility that might vanish as quickly as it appeared?
I force myself to turn around, to walk back toward Town Hall with steps that feel heavier with each moment. It's the rational choice. The responsible choice.
So why does something in my chest feel so wrong?
Chapter 25
Rowan
It’s probably not a smart idea that I'm here. In fact if it weren't for the fact that I’m -- Iwas-- latent I probably wouldn’t be.
The Harvest Festival swirls around me in a dizzying kaleidoscope of colors, sounds, and scents. Too many scents—food stalls selling fried everything, fall flowers and stalks of corn adorning every available surface, and people. So many people, with their individual pheromones creating a cacophony that my newly sensitive nose can barely process.
I should be home, curled in my nest of blankets, riding out the last waves of my heat in private. But after two days of vulnerability—of needing help, of accepting comfort from Theo's gentle hands and reassuring scent—I couldn't stand another minute of weakness.
So I forced myself out of bed this morning, took the coldest shower possible, applied triple the recommended dose of blockers, and convinced myself I was fine. Functional enough, at least, to make an appearance at the festival Crystal had been talking about for weeks.
"You look like death warmed over," she'd observed bluntly when I arrived at our booth, surrounded by elaborate floral arrangements. "Go home."
"I'm fine," I'd insisted, the lie so practiced by now it almost sounded convincing. "Just a little under the weather."
She hadn't believed me, but she also hadn't pushed. That's what I appreciate about Crystal—she respects boundaries, doesn't pry, lets people handle things their own way.
