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I reach over and pretend to punch him in the arm. “Hey, I thought we agreed to forget all that? Clean slate, purchased with pastry.”
“Right, right, we did!” He puts his hand over the spot I just touched, but I couldn’t have hurt him. It was more of a knuckle press than a punch. “Do you think you’ll put this in one of your journals?”
I frown at him. “My journals?”
“You mentioned at the café that we’re not supposed to talk about, that you… uh… use journals to help navigate your life,” he explains haltingly. “I wondered if tonight would make it in. Boy, if I had a journal, tonight’s twists and turns would make alengthyentry.”
I weigh up my reply, feeling the familiar tension stretch between head and heart: an elastic band that won’t snap either way, pulling me in two directions. The evening so far has been illuminating in a scratching-the-surface sort of way, and I don’t want to be the one to varnish over the progress we’ve made. But, when it comes to Ben, the words get stuck in my throat like a jagged fragment of potato chip. And it scratches all the way down into my chest, raking at the barely healing wounds of my loss until they’re cut wide open again, the salt stinging.
And here I am, on a Friday evening, with wine and snacks, enjoying myself in the company of another man.The guilt is a whitewater torrent, crashing through me, and Rowan’s question hits the crack in the dam that holds back my grief. Tries to, at least.
“They’re notmyjournals, exactly,” I say, after a too-long pause. Rowan is uncomfortable; I can see him shifting in his seat.
He scoops a hand through his hair and puffs out a breath. “Shit. They’re Ben’s, aren’t they?”
I nod. “You didn’t know.”
“No, but I shouldn’t have assumed.” He chews his lower lip, diverting my attention to his mouth again. I’m tempted to wipe away the slight smear of oil that lingers there. “See, this is why I should’ve insisted on staying with Grace, so Lynds could come out tonight and you could’ve had your girly night, as planned. I keep… leapfrogging ahead, then wind up doing the walk of shame back to where I started.”
I cast him a sideways glance, deciding to cut him some slack. “The girls at the gallery thought that’s whatIwas doing, when you gave Jada my purse. They got their wires crossed, thought I’d stayed at your place and left my stuff behind in my rush to escape our saucy encounter.” Heat rushes to my cheeks, but my lips curve into a smile; the sharp edges of my guilt softened by a hasty gulp of wine. “If it makes you feel any better, they wereverydisappointed when they found out the truth.”
It's his turn to blush and wet his throat with wine. The sight of him, flustered and flapping, is a charming one. In fact, there’s very little about him thatisn’tcharming. He oozes it, but not in the sleazy style of the Business District suits. It comes naturally to him, and the undercurrent of goofiness makes it impossible to allow the tide of guilt to batter the shores of my conscience for long.
“Oh, well, I’m… uh… sorry to have tangled any wires,” he flounders, downing half of his glass and almost choking. “If I… um… accidentally alluded to anything, I apologize profusely. I can set the record straight with your employees, if you like? I’ll come to the gallery with a big banner and a loudspeaker and announce that, ‘under no circumstances did you, Summer DuCate, spend the night with me.’ That ought to leave them in no doubt, huh?”
I chuckle, and it fizzes in my chest. “I think that might make themmoresuspicious.”
“Good point.”
“It’d make a great journal entry, though,” I admit, steering the conversation away from an imaginary love life with him. After all, this is definitely not a date. This is just an improvisation because Grace got sick, and I couldn’t bear the thought of going back to my empty apartment where no one is waiting for me.
What would my life be if you were here, Ben?I’ve pictured it a thousand times.Wewere supposed to move to New Orleans.Wewere supposed to have plans.Wewere supposed to start something new here, beginning the rest of our lives together, closer to Grace and far enough away from Levi and the DuCates. But it’s all… upside down and back to front without him. I never wanted to navigate this alone.
“Where did you go?” Rowan asks softly. “You had a faraway look in your eyes.”
I laugh, but it lodges in my throat. “That’s what we call it when Grace does it. The ‘faraway’ look.” I shake my head, as if it can somehow plonk me back where I was ten minutes ago, where thoughts of Ben were being held at bay by the terrace bubble. “I was… thinking about him. Is that okay?”
“You don’t need permission, Summer.” Rowan smiles and scoots his chair closer to mine, taking hold of my hand. “Tell me about these journals… or don’t. Talk to me about him if you want. Whenever you’re ready.”
Whenever I’m ready? Whenever I’m ready for what?I didn’t think I’d be ready for this experience of drinking cold wine on a balmy evening with a man who makes my stomach flutter in ways that it shouldn’t, but here I am.
“He wrote a lot,” I begin hesitantly. “His thoughts, his feelings, and when I tell you that he wrote the way he painted—like poetry—it’s no exaggeration. Might sound a bit corny to some people, but it was beautiful and… heartbreaking to me, to read his words. Still is. I read those journals more than I’d like to admit.” I shrug my shoulders, the motion sloshing some wine. “Makes me feel like he’s still here, in some small way. They’re like letters, I suppose. Looking through the entries, I can trick my mind into thinking that he’s just gone away for a while. Bad news is, there haven’t been any new letters for two years, for obvious reasons, and the pages are getting a bit worn.”
Rowan gives my hand a squeeze. “I’m glad. I’m glad he left that behind for you. People say you should write what you feel, and—well, I can’t pretend that I understand the desire, but that’s ‘cause I have the attention span of a gnat when it comes to writing stuff down. Maybe, what you just said is making me see the value in… documenting. If I got on a plane and crashed tomorrow, I’d want the people I care for to know I cared, you know? Jesus, that was a lot of ‘knows’. The word has no meaning now.”
I smile, and I’m surprised that it’s not forced. His voice is therapeutic, and his awkwardness makes it impossible to feel anything but amused. It’s like magic, out here in the city where such things are in every vein, coursing through the beating heart of its history.
“I do know,” I reply, his palm rough against mine. And though he says he’s not a writer, there’s a bump on the middle finger of his right hand, where he’s been holding a pen for years. A stylus, probably, for his design work. “Do you want another bottle?” The daring in my voice manages to shock me.
He exhales, raising a funny eyebrow. “I thought you’d never ask. I was getting thirsty out here.”
“You’ve still got half a glass.”
“True, but the thing about wine is, the more you sip, the drier your mouth gets.” He rises from his chair, but I’m quicker.
“I’ll get this one.”
He narrows his warm eyes and purses the lips I can’t take my eyes off. “Hmm… I suppose I can let you pay for one but make it a cheap one. The cheapest they’ve got, so my pride doesn’t take too much of a wounding.”
