Page 12 of Dirty Fighter

Jason

Rowan’s gone full-blown “And another thing!”

She’s jabbing her finger into my chest to punctuate the points I’m trying to hold on to, that I owe it to her to hear after refusing to listen until relations devolved to where we were yelling in each other’s faces.

But I’m struggling to keep up after the bucket of icy water splashed all over my blazing, key-dangling outrage. She’s here for him. For us.

I need to apologize.

On the next chest poke, I get it together and catch her hand, holding it less than a second, just long enough for her eyes to meet mine.

“I didn’t realize.” It’s hardly justification. “Shit, I should have listened, let you explain.”

Arms crossed, she glares at me. “Ya think?”

“I’m sorry.” Digging into my pocket, I pull out the key. “Here, take it. I’ll move your things back into Dad’s room, or if you’d rather I not⁠—”

Her brows furrow, and she looks from me to the key in my hand. “I’ll do it.” She takes the key and heaves a breath she’s clearly trying to rein in. “Can you just… give me a minute.”

I nod and head out front, stopping before letting the screen door swing shut behind me. “I’ll be, umm, right here if you need anything.”

Anything other than me leaving the island, anyway.

But this is good. She can get settled in Dad’s room, and I can work on my apology. Not just “sorry,” because that’s bullshit. But a real apology.

I stand at the corner of the porch, far enough from the door that I don’t look like some creepy stalker with my face pressed against the screen, but close enough to hear if she needs anything. From here, I can see out through a break in the trees to the water beyond. Even with the clouds, it’ll be bright for hours this time of year.

There’s some muffled grumbling from within. A hiss and then, “Motherfucker.”

“You okay?” I call, heading in.

Rowan meets me at the door, jangling the key by her head just like I did. “It doesn’t work.”

“What?” It’s the right key. There’s only one.

“The key. Does not. Work.” She shakes it again, looking like she’s about to go nuclear. “So either you’re playing some messed-up game with me or⁠—”

“I’m not. Here, give it to me, and I’ll get it open.”

Death glare. “Think I don’t know how a lock works, Jason?”

Man, I used to love when she’d say my name back in high school. It almost never happened. But on those rare occasions, it didn’t even matter what she said.

“Jason, are we out of yogurt?”

“Your shirt’s on inside out, Jason.”

“Jason, I think you just drove over your backpack.”

I loved it.

I should not be affected by it now.

“Not what I was suggesting.” I hold my hand out. “Let me try.”

She slaps it into my palm as I pass and follows me back. Leaning against the wall behind me, she watches as I slide the key into the lock I turned during my snit earlier.

It moves, but not all the way. “It’s old. A little sticky is all.”