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After Edie died, the notion of family had become a fantasy. Something unattainable, as unlikely as becoming an astronaut, or starring on Broadway. Family was a thing so alien to her, Rowan didn’t even fully understand what it meant to be part of one. Being dropped into the full Brady family experience felt like she was an actor on a movie set, where nobody had given her lines, or told her what to wear, or where to stand.
The breaking point had been watching Harry and Temperance’s hushed chat from across the fire. By the way they’d both cut their eyes at her, Rowan had obviously been the topic. Harry had appeared so desolate, and T.J. seemed tense. It was too much.
Yesterday, she’d pounded on the door of the carriage house just after dusk. She’d relented after three attempts, too nervous someone would see her. Months ago, she’d told herself—and Harry—that she didn’t want the professional complications of his family knowing about them. But now, the stakes were even infinitely higher. More personal. She couldn’t bear Gia and Will’s inevitable disappointment in her for luring Harry into this—whateverthiswas—with no promise of a future. Harry deserved so much more than she was capable of giving him, and Rowan was sure the Bradys would agree.
Her own mother hadn’t been capable of loving her. How could they?
Still, she was here now, and she was worried about him. Again, she stood on the little porch of the carriage house, concern tinged with irritation. She’d knocked four times. Clearly, he was avoiding her.
After the fifth knock, Harry swung the door open forcefully enough to blow his hair back. When the waves fell into his eyes, he flicked them back with a bored upward thrust of his chin. His smoky blue eyes looked like they’d been sketched in dull pencil, rather than their usual rich watercolor.
A shadow of whiskers prickled along his jaws and his neck, and he was shirtless, wearing a pair of wrinkled blue scrubs. Long toes peeped out under the baggy hem.
His lips looked pale and dry. He ran his tongue over his teeth before he spoke.
“Hey,” he said.
Frankie always teased her about her inability to read people,but Rowanwasan expert at detecting withdrawal and annoyance. But she wasn’t going to let him scare her away.
“Hey,” she echoed. She had to clench the muscles in her thighs to keep from stepping forward to put her arms around him. “Can I come in?”
He grunted. “I’m busy right now.”
She leaned forward to look into the house. “Busy with what?”
“Does it matter?”
“You told me once that you were never too busy for me.”
“Well. Things change.”
Rowan straightened and crossed her arms. “You’re blowing me off.”
“I needed some space. Some time.”
“What are you, Doctor Who?”
He blinked. “If that’s a joke, I don’t get it.”
She tightened her arms. “Are you trying to teach me a lesson? Make me understand what it feels like to be you?”
“I’ve been trying to do that for months, Rowan.” His tone was dry, but his eyes were turbulent, all thunderhead darkness and energy.
“If you’re going to be a dick—”
“Your double standard is bullshit, you know.” He leaned out the doorway. “How many times have you run off without a word? It’s okay when you do it, but not when I do?”
Rowan’s first impulse was to lash out, towin. But he was right. She’d done it to him all the time, and the torment in his face told her that he’d finally done the same because it was his last viable option. Her arms went slack and dropped to her sides. She kept her voice gentle.
“The times I’ve run away, it’s been to regroup. To find the courage to come back.” Rowan hesitated. “To stay.”
His expression was flat as he peered at her.
“Why did you run, Harry? From California? From me? When you run, do you mean to stay gone?”
When he still didn’t answer, she turned to leave.
He snagged her wrist. His eyes skimmed her body, then her face. “Wait.”
