Page 20 of Dirty Fighter

Ron.

I don’t know much about the guy. Hell, I didn’t even know his name. I just remember a few years back hearing my dad talking about Rowan meeting someone. I got what I needed to hear at the time, which was that he was a decent enough guy. Nice to Rowan. No red flags.

I fill a couple of bowls and start toasting the nuts in a skillet.

There were updates about the happy couple over the years.

They were talking about getting a place together once she graduated.

They found a nice apartment in Portland.

Marsha thought he was going to propose over the holidays.

She said yes.

But that had to have been more than eighteen months ago. And over all that time, the one thing I didn’t hear was that they’d set a date.

I pour the nuts on top of the bowls while Rowan refills our coffees.

“Want to eat out front?” she asks, some hesitation in her voice.

“Those stairs are my favorite breakfast spot in the whole country.”

We migrate to the porch, sitting at opposite sides of the stairs, our shoulders against the support columns.

It’s still early. The dew on the overgrown grass is glistening in the morning sun, and there’s a symphony of wind, rustling trees, gulls, and waves rushing the shore.

I watch as Rowan takes a bite and then nods appreciatively. Pointing her spoon at her bowl, she smiles at me. “Good. Thank you.”

I shoot a furtive glance at her hand.

“You mentioned Ron in there.” I clear my throat. “I guess with everything, I didn’t realize until just now that you aren’t wearing your ring.”

Her brows lift and she straightens, slowly finishing her bite.

I’ve never been good at reading this woman, though back when she was just the prettiest girl I’d ever seen, I’d have sworn that I was.

Obviously, I know better now, so I don’t make any assumptions about the placid expression or delay in response. I just wait as she chews, swallows. Takes a breath and lets it go before looking down at where she’s flared that bare finger out from her bowl.

“Right. I took it off.”

“Like, you thought you’d be moving a bunch of stuff and didn’t want it to get damaged? Or like, right before a high-velocity slap shot return to the guy who gave it to you?”

Doesn’t matter to me either way. I’m definitely not imagining the ping as it hits a button on his shirt.

The smallest curve lifts her lips, tempting me with the challenge to get more, to make her laugh.

Dude, stop.

Another beat passes, and she sighs. “Like when we ended our engagement, I returned it.” Simple. Matter-of-fact. “No big showdown, no dramatic flinging of the ring. Just two people who thought they might be right together realizing that, actually, no. They weren’t.”

Jesus. “Rowan, I’m sorry.”

I want to say more. I want to ask what happened, if she’s okay. I want to know what she’s about to tell me when she sets her bowl aside and turns those big brown eyes my way, but my phone starts to vibrate on the planks between us.

Lenard’s contact page is filling the screen.

“Your lawyer?” she asks, coming to her feet, her hands finding each other in that worried way.