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Harrison pressed a hot, hard kiss to the tender skin of her inner wrist, then left her there with her mind as scattered as dandelion cotton.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Harry
Harry and Temperance rode to the mountains in the back of Nate and Maren’s big beige SUV. As soon as the caravan of vehicles pulled from the drive, he texted Arden. He kept his phone subtly tilted away from Temperance.
Within a minute, he had a reply back from his sister confirming the existence of the photo Rowan mentioned. Within another three minutes, he’d installed Instagram, created an account of his own, and found Arden’s profile.
The pictures from November were buried several pages deep. Harry had to scroll through photos of latte art, smiling selfies, people he didn’t know, and a disproportionate number of Arden’s pet tortoise, Otis. Arden loved that damned tortoise like most people loved their dogs.
Harry’s phone’s connection was spotty on the rural route, so when he finally found the series of images from the festival, they loaded agonizingly slowly. Each one in the sequence had a little spinning cursor in the middle of the screen before they fully displayed. He squeezed the phone so hard, the plastic case creaked in his hand.
When the mystery image finally appeared on the little screen, Harry felt gut-punched by a fist the size of a medicine ball. He remembered the way Rowan’s hair had smelled in that autumnsunshine, and how the frayed rip in the thigh of her jeans revealed freckles beneath. The pale yellow sweater she’d worn had been almost as soft as the skin under it.
As they’d danced that night, he’d made a weighty gamble, challenging her to admit she felt the same things he did. Now, seeing Arden’s photo, heknewhe’d been right, even then. Rowan’s expression was a mirror image of his. Wide-open longing, undisguised and undeniable.
“What are you looking at over there?” Temperance asked. Sunlight and shadow played across her face.
“Sudoku.”
“Sudoku doesn’t make you sigh like a lovesick teenager. You’re over there pining like an evergreen.” She leaned all the way over and stuck her face in his phone screen before he could switch it off, then sat up straight with a self-satisfied grumble. “Thought so.”
Harry tipped his head back against the headrest. “I know you told me to be—guarded, with her.”
“When did I say that?”
“Back in the fall.”
A crease appeared on her forehead. “I don’t think those were the words I used.”
“I heard what youmeant,T-Bird.”
She sighed. “All Imeantwas that you’re two very different people, and I saw the potential for some—volatility. You were in a bad place when you came here last September, honey.”
“I know.”
“And Rowan is—a lot.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Harry chuckled.
“I love her, and I know her,” Temperance said. “In a lot of ways, she’s—stronger than you. Harder. Which is why I felt comfortable telling you to tread lightly. At first.”
Harry pulled the photo up again. Stared. Sighed.
“You haven’t been treading lightly, have you, Harry?”
“Back up a minute.” He switched off the phone and sat up straighter. “You said ‘at first.’ What’s that mean?”
Temperance hesitated. “She’s been different. Gentler. Like some of her edges have been smoothed over.”
“I like her edges.”
“Well, you say that now. You might feel differently when one of those edges has you bleeding out on the floor.”
Bleeding out.
Harry waited for the drumbeat of anxiety to begin in his chest, the lockdown of his windpipe, the deadened fingers. The only thing that manifested was a mild gust of nausea.
