That of course brings me to my next question, if their mom hated me . . . “Why am I his guardian and not you?”
Rowan shrugs, his expression hardening. “Who the fuck knows? When Dad died, I found out you were in charge of Keane. I didn’t want to bother you. So I just kept doing what they had been doing since they pretended he was dead.”
“Where was he?”
“All comfortable and pampered at the family home,” Rowan says, a bitter edge creeping into his tone. “He had nurses, doctors, and physical therapists around the clock. Of course, the fucker wakes up while I’m away and out of reach. That’s Keane for you, doing whatever the fuck he wants.”
Rowan’s gaze locks with mine, intense and unyielding. “So, now that you’re up to date, I’m taking him with me, and you can go back to your happy life.”
Like hell I’m letting Keane go that easily. “Where would you take him?” I counter, folding my arms across my chest.
“Who the fuck knows?” Rowan replies, tapping his watch with deliberate emphasis. “Somewhere they can actually take care of him. I have a life, you know?”
“And he needs a family,” I snap, my tone mimicking his condescending drawl. “You know? The kind that doesn’t treat him like a burden.”
His jaw tightens, his expression darkening. “So you’re keeping him?” He tilts his head toward the house, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “What about hockey boy? He doesn’t seem too thrilled about me being here, and I doubt he’s over the moon about playing nursemaid to your ex-fiancé.”
I take a steadying breath, pushing back my irritation, and motion toward the living room. “Rowan Stone, meet Haydn Wesford.”
Haydn steps forward, his posture rigid, his blue eyes cool as they size Rowan up. Rowan, for his part, looks equally unimpressed, his stance exuding the same defiance I’ve seen countless times before.
“Rowan,” I say, my voice firm, “this is Haydn, my?—”
“Boyfriend,” Rowan says. “I know.”
“More like her partner,” Haydn interjects smoothly, his tone even but carrying an unmistakable edge.
I want to remind him that he fucking paused us but right now is probably best if I deal with one thing at a time. Seriously, he can’t push me away and then go all caveman on me.
“Nice to meet you,” Rowan says, though the words are devoid of warmth.
“Likewise,” Haydn replies, his grip firm as their handshake lingers just a second too long, the air between them charged with tension.
“So you’re okay if my brother hangs out with her for the next . . . who the fuck knows how long it’ll take for him to recover—if he ever recovers,” Rowan says with so much pessimism that I want to kick him out of here. But I don’t.
Instead of letting Haydn respond, I pull up the medical assessment I received earlier today on my phone and hand it to him. “Here’s everything you need to know. His physical therapists and neurologists are optimistic. With time and support, they think he can make significant progress—both physically and mentally.” I press my lips together and add, “Full recovery, they mentioned.”
Rowan glides his finger along the screen, his expression unreadable. Finally, he exhales deeply, running a hand over his face. “I fucking hate him sometimes,” he mutters under his breath.
“No, you don’t,” I counter, my voice softening. “You love your little brother, and you’d do anything for him. Even move to Portland if it meant keeping an eye on him.”
His head snaps up, his brows pulling together in surprise. “Move to Portland? We’re not that close, Ophie.”
I shrug, trying to sound casual even as my pulse races. “It’s an idea. You being here could help him. He needs his family, Rowan. If we’re going to bring him back—not just physically but mentally—he’s going to need you.”
Rowan lets out a low, humorless laugh, his lips curving in something that isn’t quite a smile. “You’ve got a life, Foster. This . . .” He gestures vaguely toward the house, frustration rippling through his voice. “You shouldn’t put it on pause for him. He doesn’t fucking deserve it.”
The bitterness in his tone isn’t new. It’s the same edge I’ve heard before, the one that tells me Rowan hasn’t forgiven Keane for the mess he became. And I get it—I really do. Keane isn’t just recovering; he’s a recovering addict. During the time we were together, he relapsed twice. The first time, it felt like the world had fallen apart, but we worked through it. The second time, it was harder—harder on him, harder on me—but he got help again.
He was doing better. He’d been clean for a year before the accident, if I remember right. A whole year of fighting the cravings, the demons, the endless cycle of falling and picking himself back up. I know because I was there. I saw the work he put in.
“Maybe,” I admit, my voice quiet but firm as I meet Rowan’s gaze, refusing to back down. “But you know I’m right.”
For a moment, Rowan doesn’t say anything, his expression hardening as he processes my words. But there’s something else there too, buried beneath the frustration. A flicker of guilt, maybe. Or hesitation. It’s subtle, but I see it.
And I know, deep down, that Rowan loves his brother. No matter how angry he is, no matter how much he says Keane doesn’t deserve this, he knows it too. That’s why he hasn’t walked out yet. That’s why he’s still standing here, listening. Because despite everything, he cares.
Even if he won’t admit it.
