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She needed sleep. But first, she had to face Harry.
On the return flight from Montreal, Rowan realized—at thirty years old—she had never learned how to argue with a person she loved. At the faintest glimmer of conflict, Sybil and Noah had each had their own brand of gaslighting, pushing her into backing down, or believing she’d misconstrued or overreacted. So instead, Rowan learned to retreat. She had no idea how to stand up for herself while also giving Harry an equitable chance to share his side.
I love you,she’d typed in their text message on the first day she’d been gone, but she never sent it. It remained in pixelated limbo, even now. Perhaps she’d secretly hoped she’d nudge it inher pocket or her bag, sending it without having to obsess about the implications.
Coward.
Really, though—anything she wanted to say to him felt too big and too important to exchange via text message or even a phone call. So, she avoided it entirely.
She’d gotten so good at retreat, she could even hide from herself.
The first day in Austin, the thrill of being back in an academic environment had been enough to keep her focused. The familiar scents of formalin and institutional floor polish and textbook ink, and the enthusiastic handshakes and smiles of the faculty. But by that first evening, she missed pillows that smelled faintly of woodsmoke, and the comforting hum of Harry’s refrigerator. Simply sharing space with someone who trulyknewher. That night, she declined an invitation for drinks with a few of the younger faculty, and instead spent five straight hours in her big hotel bed watching shows onFood Networkbefore falling into a restless sleep.
She couldn’t stop thinking about Nicola. A woman she’d never seen. A wife-shaped phantom. Rowan imagined Harry coming home to her in the evenings. His hand, palming the back of her head as he kissed her. What did she look like? Nicola would have known the songs he sang in the shower, and his preferred cereal-to-milk ratio for his late-night bowl of Lucky Charms. Celebrated birthdays with him. Nursed him through colds, missed him when they were apart. Nicola knew exactly how Harry’s eyes darkened when he—
Stop it.
She couldn’t stop.
God, he’d still beenmarriedwhen she’d started falling for him.
What was it that hurt, though? The fact he’d loved someone before, or that he’d never told her?
Did either of those things even matter now? Harry wasnotNoah Tully.
Rowan shrugged the bag off her back and rolled stiffly sideways on the bed. The air still smelled faintly of rosemary and mint from her ventures into soapmaking. The bird’s nest fern on her nightstand needed watering. Outside, she could hear the sheepmeh-ing to each other in the field between the greenhouse and the equipment garage, and the insistent whirr of a leaf blower in the distance.
She washome.
For so long, she’d been so focused on what came next, she missed that she’d already been living it. Her carefully built fortress had enough imperfections in the walls that Harry Brady had found footholds to climb inside.
Rowan leapt from the bed.
Down the hill, Harry’s truck sat parked at the carriage house. It was time to confess. To clarify. To claim all he offered, and be claimed by him. She would bang on his door in the bright afternoon sun, secrecy be damned.
Let them see.
THE DOOR OPENEDquickly, but it wasn’t Harry who answered.
It was Temperance.
“Hey, come in.” She pulled Rowan inside. Their steps echoed in the empty space.
Empty.
The couch was gone, as was the television they’d never much watched. Two decorative throw pillows sat in the center of the floor.
Rowan listened for the familiar whistling noise of the shower through the open door of the bedroom. Nothing. The slidingglass door to the deck showed only limp and withered flowers in the pots she’d planted for Harry. They probably hadn’t been watered since she’d left for her interviews. A lone coffee mug sat on the wooden table beside Harry’s deck chair. He’d have ground the beans the night before and set the percolator to begin brewing just before dawn, so fresh coffee would be waiting when he woke. From the deck, he’d watch the world wake up around him, the eastern kingbirds and barn swallows darting and diving for their morning meals, and the cloud tide lingering along the vineyards and lawns. Then he would come back to bed after brushing his teeth, his mouth tasting faintly of mint, and rouse her better than any cup of coffee ever would.
“Harry’s truck is out front,” Rowan said, weakly.
Temperance puttered around the kitchen like a worker bee. “Yeah, I need to get it back to the rental place in Philly sometime tomorrow.”
“Rental place,” Rowan echoed, sliding bonelessly onto one of the stools at the bar.
Dry goods were stacked along the bar’s granite top: cereals, beans, pasta, chicken stock, canned tomatoes. A gallon of milk was upended in the sink.
“He’s gone,” Rowan said.
