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“It’s okay.” I cover her hand with mine and smile back at her. “I’m honored that you like it.”
When I rise, the unfiltered pride on Rowan’s face sends my heart into a frenzy. “You all right?” he asks, opening his arm for me.
I gaze at the sea of innocence surrounding us—all these smiling faces despite their seemingly hopeless circumstances—and I’m struck by a powerful revelation.
These kids have had their lives indefinitely altered yet, much like Paige, they’re choosing happiness in spite of it. It’s heart wrenching and beautiful, and makes concealing my marks feel trivial when I’m the one inhibiting myself from living my life to the fullest.
He tucks me into his side, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and I peer up at him happily. “Yeah. I’m good.”
I find it odd that I’m not introduced to any of his colleagues or even his brothers when I thought for sure they’d be here. But Rowan only speaks with a handful of doctors, nurses, and X-ray techs who remember him from when he visited before.
Unlike back in Magnolia Creek, no one’s awed or suspicious of the powerful man he is, and the longer I watch him interact candidly with the staff and families around the room, the more it makes sense.
Rowan doesn’t want anyone to know that he’s been doing this, just like I don’t want anyone knowing about my passion for playing the piano. These are our sacred things, and it’s not lost on me that we’ve trusted each other with them.
After introducing us, he briefly speaks with Arianna in front of the mural. She was ecstatic to see him amongst the other donors when we first arrived, and she’s just as happy now as she wraps her arms around him with a delighted squeal.
“I put your name right over here,” she says, stepping to where a cluster of handprints in different sizes and colors follow the painted ‘Road to Hope.’
Tiny gold plaques are scattered about, with various donors and contributions made by other entities stamped on them, but Rowan stops abruptly in front of a cluster of handprints.
One small pink handprint is nestled among a sea of others.
Paige T. — 2001-2009 is written below her palm and adjacent, I find a plaque that reads, Rowan Kendrick — 2 million dollars.
I’m astonished by his generosity as he lifts a finger to trace Paige’s handprint.
“Do you see that tree there?” Arianna asks, pointing to the one made from more hands and names. “Every one of those kids is in remission as of December of last year. Your donations have helped us give all of them a chance to thrive, to dream, and to believe in tomorrow.” She gives his arm a loving squeeze. “Thank you for being here, Rowan. I know it wasn’t easy.”
He stuffs his hands into his pockets, barely managing a nod. “You’re welcome.”
We’re left in front of the mural, silently reading the names—some healed, some not—and suddenly, I’m overwhelmed with memories of my mother.
Every test. The poking and prodding. Watching her vomit her guts up, lose all her hair, and lose the light everyone loved about her.
“It’s not fair,” I say after a while.
“No. It’s not.”
After grabbing a tube of green paint and a brush from one of the small tables, I gesture for his hand. “Let’s get you up there with her.”
I squirt a glob of paint in the center of his palm and gently smear it across his long fingers. When I’m finished, he raises his hand and presses it to the wall right above his name.
“What do you think?”
Rowan studies the spot for a beat. “It’s missing something.”
After popping the top of an orange paint bottle, he takes my hand and places a quarter-sized drop in the center. He grabs a brush and spreads the color across my skin the same way I had.
“What are you doing?”
“Making my future wife my co-contributor.” I’m grinning like an idiot when he places my handprint on the wall beside his. “Now it’s perfect.”
I gaze up at him, and all at once, I’m seeing a different man. One who loves his family deeply, and isn’t afraid to make sacrifices to keep them thriving. A man who values his word—his truth—and honors it, even if that means marrying a stranger to lessen his family’s burdens.
I’m choking on the words that are trying to force their way out of my throat, but ultimately settle on a soft, grateful, “Thank you.”
Rowan twines our painted fingers together and tugs me into the safety of his body.
