ANEWBEGINNING

LOVEGAMES:BOOK2

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IMPORTANTINFORMATION…

Thisbook,“ANewBeginning”istheSecondbookintheLoveGamesSeries.However,
thisbookandeveryotherbookintheseriescanbereadasastand-alone.Thus,itisnot
required to read the first book to understand the second (as so on). Each book can be
readbyitself.

t’s one o’clock in the morning and Stephen’s drinking his way through a bottle of
whiskey. The bartender doesn’t even bat an eye at him anymore—it’s some guy who

alwaysseemstobebehindthebar;Stephenthinkshemaybetheonlyfull-timeemployee
andpossiblyeventheowner,buthecan’tbesurebecausetherearealwaysyoungerkids
waitingtablesandhelpingout.Hedoesn’trememberanyoftheirnamesbecausemostof
them are just between jobs, working part-time while going to the community college or
savinguptoskiptown.Thetypicalwide-eyedinnocent.

Stephen is far from innocent. He may have begun his life here in the charming little

townofOriole,buthegotoutassoonashecould.Hehastraveledhiswayacrossseveral
states,andafewcounties,barechangeinhispocket.Hisstreetsmartsweretheonlything
goingforhimmosttimes.Hecamebackhomeafteronlyfouryearsofschool,awifeat
hissideandkidbetweenthem.Itwasn’tlongbeforethatfellapart,likemostthingsthat
requiredhisresponsibilityandpresence.He’sjustluckyhisdaughterisstillpartofhislife,
thatsheevenwantsto see him. He gets the feeling that’s rapidly falling away from him
too.

“MindifIjoinyou?”

Thespeakerisawoman.Alotlikehisex-wife,hethinksshehasthatsamebeautyand

boldnessexceptthiswomanprobablydoesn’thavekidsoradeadbeatex.Shelookslike
she’sspentherlifegettingbyonpeoplebuyingherdrinks.Notthathe’sjudging—hedoes
ittoo,whenhecan.

“Freebar,”Stephengrunts,eyesslidingawaytofocusonthetelevisionsetonthefar

wall,justabovethebottles.Thewomandoesn’tletup.

“Goinghard,aren’tyou?Isn’titlateforanoldmanlikeyou?”Hertoneiscoy.He’s

not playing the game, though. He’s far from being a complete human being, much less
entering any kind of relationship with another person. He’s definitely not looking for a
repeatofhispastmistakes.

“I can hold my liquor,” Stephen says drily, resisting the temptation to roll his eyes.

He’snotinhighschoolanymore,that’sfordamnsure.“Unlikesomeofyoukids.”

Thewomanlaughs,probablypleasedathisunintentionalcompliment.Shefluttersher

eyelashesinhisdirectionandheknowswellenoughfromexperiencethatshe’sgoingto
startcomingonstrong.He’snotexcited.Hestillhasatleastanhourandahalfuntillast

call, which the bartender always lets him stay a little bit after. Stephen usually ends up
wobblinghomeattwo-thirty,somehowsofardrunkthathe’salmostsoberagain.Hecan
never bring himself to shower before sleeping so his sheets are always unfriendly and
sweaty,collapsingunderhisweightlikeeverythingelsehe’severtriedtobecarefulwith.

“So,oldman…whatareyoudrinking?”

“Whiskey,”heeventuallysays,unabletocontrolthesneerthatformsonhislips.

“Hmm. I’m a woman of hard liquor myself,” she smiles, blonde hair pushed away

fromherneckasshetiltsherheadatanextremeangle.

He’s seen this play before. Knows how it goes. At this junction, the man offers the

womanadrink.Theyspendmaybetwentyminutesmoreatthebarbeforetheygotothe
woman’s place and have messy, short sex. The man leaves just before dawn, crawling
homeasthedisapprovingsunpeeksoverthehorizon.

Excepthe’snotthatkindofman.Hemaydrinktoomuchandhangoutindirtyplaces

but he’s not about to have casual sex. He’s too old for that, both emotionally and
physically.He’sbarelyabletoconvincehimselftogetoutofhisownbedandgotowork,
muchlesspeelhimselfoffsomestranger’sbedtogetbacktohisown.

“That’sgreat.”

The first flicker of irritation enters her expression. He would feel bad for her but

somethingtellshimshe’sstrongerthanmostpeoplehavearighttobe.Oriole,hethinks,
smalltownandbigwomen.AndonemessofamanbythenameofStephenWorth.

“Well.I’llleaveyouandyourbottlealone,”thewomansaysairily,wavinghimaway

asifhe’stheonepesteringher.Sheslidesfromherbarstoolwithuttergrace,seemingto
findnoreasontostayanylonger,andslinksoutthedoor.

Hestaysuntiltwoanddecidestobegood,foronce,andleavebeforetwo-thirty.The

bartenderdoesn’tbataneye,takingthewadofcashheshovesnexttohisemptyglass.

Hewalkshomealone,thecoolnightairbreezingagainsthisscruffyface.Heisn’tsure

whenhelastshaved,butgiventhatit’sSaturdaynight—or,rather,Sundaymorning—he
thinksit’sbeenatleastthreedays.He’sfarpastdrunk,halfofwhathedrankalreadygone
fromhissystemandtheotherhalfsittinginhisveinslikethickoil.Hedoesn’tevenhave
topresscrosswalkbuttonsashemakeshiswaybacktohistinytownhouse;there’snoone
out.Noonebuthim,ofcourse.Andtheotherno-gooddrunksinthetown.

His sheets smell lived-in, as usual, and he doesn’t bother to take his socks off. He

dropsontothebedwithhisdenimjacketstillon,blinkingtiredlyathishandwhereitlays
afewinchesaway.Thetinystartattoointheinnercornerofhisthumbandfingerstares
backathim.Hefallsasleepstaringatit,imaginingitwinksliketheonesinthenightsky
outside.

t’s Rowan’s day off. His first day off in years, and he only has off because his boss
closed the office for Friday, since they’re between projects. He can’t even work on

anything at home. There’s no reason to. The last video game his studio worked on is
finished,wrapped,complete.Thereisliterallynothinghecando.

Exceptsleep.

It’sfantastic.

He wakes up at eight and is surprised at how easy it is to hit snooze and fall back

asleep. Usually he’d pull himself from the warm sheets, ready to face the day and get
downtowork,buthejustturnsoveranddriftsbackintoapleasantlydreamlesssleep.Or
maybeitisn’tdreamless—healwayshasahardtimerememberingwhenhewakesup.

Ten o’clock rolls around and he opens his eyes, immediately wide awake and lazily

sated. He glances at his phone, the time bright on the screen. Go back to sleep, he tells
himself,andthevoicesoundssuspiciouslylikeLina.Relax.Youworktoomuch.It’syour
dayoff.

Hegrumblesbecauseofcoursehisinnervoicesoundslikehisfriend.Hisco-worker,

too. Lina’s always been around and she’s not afraid to face his “perpetually grumpy”
demeanortotellhimhe’sbeingridiculous.Oratleast,that’swhatshesays.Rowanthinks
hehasagoodworkethic.

“Ican’tgobacktosleep,”hetellstheceiling,staring.Hesighsbutstaysputanyway,

thinking at least he’s lying down. He starts to scroll through the portfolio app on his
phone, checking connections and comments and thinking about how to improve his
résumébytakingonfreelancework.Hedecidestoaskanothercoworkeraboutit—Austin,
maybe—andstartsanewmemoonhisphone.

Somehow,withinhalfanhour,hefallsasleepagain.He’srudelyawokenbyhisphone

buzzinginsistently.Hesquints,groaning,andthrowsahandouttoanswerit.Thistimehe
feelslikehe’sbeenrunoverbyasemi.

“Hello?”Heblinks,rubbingathiseyesashetriestogatherthethreadsofhisattention.

“Ro?”

Thevoiceisfamiliar.Hedoesn’thavetocheckthecallerIDtoknowit;hiscousin’s

voiceisengravedinhismind.Hecouldpickheroutofacrowdofathousand.

“Yeah.Jen?What—”

“Were you… asleep?” The way she asks makes it sound like she’s asking if he was

doingdrugs.Herollshiseyes,lettinghisbodyfallbackontothebedbecausehisarmis
gettingsorefromproppinghimup.

“Yeah.Humansdothat.Sleep.What—whyareyoucalling?NotthatIdon’tappreciate

it,”hetackson,scrunchinghisnose.It’sjustweird.

“Um…Dadhadan…accident.”

Thatwakeshimup.Hesitsbackupinbed,brieflydizzy,pressinghisbackagainstthe

headboard.Worrystartstogriphisinsides,coldfingerscoilingaroundhischest.Heforces
himselftoclearhismind,thinkingitcan’tbebadifshe’snotcrying.Hisuncle—Jennifer’s
father and the man who raised him—is one of the most important people in his life. He
talkstothemanasoftenashecan,evenifit’snotenough.Hecan’tbringhimselftothink
aboutsomethinghappeningtohim.

“Whathappened?”

“Oh, you know, typical Dad trying to do something stupid. He was working on the

houseandhefellfromaladder.Brokehislegprettybadly.”

Asmuchashehatestosetthebaratdying,hebreathesasighofrelief.Justabroken

leg.He’salmostangryforJenniferatmakingitsoundlikesomethingworsebutheknows
itwasjusthisimaginationrunningwild.

“Okay.Well,that’llteachhimtodorenovationswithoutahelper.Whatdidthedoctors

say?”

“One month minimum resting. He’s older, so they’re just concerned about bone

densityandre-injury,Ithink.Anyway,it’llkillhimtohavetositstill,buthedoesn’thave
achoice.”

“Yeah,well,it’llbegoodforhim,”Rowansmirks,repeatingthewordshe’sheardLina

saytohimsomanytimes,“Learninghowtolivewithoutbeinginchargeofeverything.”

There’sapauseontheotherendoftheline.Rowanswingshislegsoutofbed,rubbing

thebackofhisnecktoworkoutacrickashelooksinhiscloset.Hemaybesleepingin
andbeinglazy,buthe’snotaslob.

“Hm.Funnyyoushouldsaythat,”hiscousinmutters,barelyaudible.Suspicious.“By

theway,whywereyouinbed?Shouldn’tyoubeatthecompany?”

“Dayoff,”Rowansays,carryinghisthingsintothebathroom.“Anyway,whydoesit

matter?”

“Noreason.”

“Okay.Well…I’mprobablygoingtogetgroceriesandstufftoday.Dosomecleaning

up.Keepmeupdated,okay?”

“Oh, um, actually...” Jen starts, sounding mildly panicked, and he stares at his

reflectionwithnarrowedeyes.

I knew it, he thinks. She wants something. Not that he’s worried or mad about her

askingforthings,it’sjust,usually,whenshetakeslongerthanthreesentencestoask,it’s
somethinghegenerallydoesn’twanttogive.

“Whatdoyoureallywant,Jen?”

“I…needyourhelp.Ican’thiresomeoneelseimmediatelyforamonth;itwouldtake

waytoolongtotrainthem.YouknoweverythingDaddid.Hetaughtyoutoo,whenwe
werekids.”

It’sworsethanhecouldhaveimagined.Herwordsringinhisears.Goaway?Fora

month?He’salmostangry—no,heisangrythatshewouldsuggestit.They’refamilyand
helovesher,sure,butit’sanenormousrisktotake,especiallysincehealreadyhasajobin
hisindustry.Astable,well-payingjob.

Andshehelpsherfatherrunacaféandbakery.Hefeelslikeanelitistprickforeven

thinkingit,buttheyaren’tquitethesame.

“Whydon’tyouhavetheotherworkersfillinhisspots?Itcan’tbethatdifficult.”

“They’remostlycollegekids,”Jensays,“Andtherearetimesheworksshiftsthatno

oneelsecanfill.Just—listen.It’sonlyamonthandaweekorso;I’mnotaskingyouto
stayforever.Ijustreallycan’taffordtocutbusinesshoursorlosecustomers—we’vebeen
doingsomuchlatelyandIcan’tjuststop.”

He wants to say, yes, you can, but he feels a prick of guilt. It was all Jennifer had

talked about when they were kids—working in a bakery, becoming famous, making
cupcakesforLeonardoDiCaprio.Theyhadplannedittogether.They’dgrownupwithher
father,sidebyside,makingeclairsandprofiteroles.Ithadbeenaneverydaychallengeto
makethebestdessert,servingthemtoJennifer’smotherforfinaltastingtests.

They loved it. He had been so ready to join Jen, too, practicing his techniques and

makingrecipebooks.Thememoriesremindhimofhispromises.Whathesaidhe’ddo.
He sighs, leaning against his bathroom sink, shaking his head at his feet as if they’re
forcinghimtowalkawayfromhisjobandtowardshiscousin.

“I have way too much vacation time and we’re between projects. I’ll talk to Dean;

maybeIcangettimeaway.Itcan’tbeforlong,though,”hewarns,“Ineedtobebackfor
thenextbigproject.”

“Mais oui,” Jen says cheerily, French as impeccable as ever, “We’ll sort things out

onceyougethere.I’llcompyoufortheairfare—orgas—sokeepreceipts.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rowan grumbles, more fond than his crabby tone would suggest. He

promisestosendJenatextandinformationoncehefindsoutwhenhecanleave.

Hespendshisshowerthinking—orrather,worrying—abouthowhe’sgoingtotalkto

Dean.

Thethingis,Deanmaybehisboss,butthey’realsofriends.Relativelygoodfriends.

Theykneweachotherinhighschoolandhadasteadyfriendshipforyears;aftercollege,
Dean kept in touch and offered Rowan a job a year after starting his company. They
relearned things about one another and to Rowan, it always just felt like two buddies
gettingbacktogetherandtakingontheprofessionalworld.

Still,Dean’stechnicallyhisboss,andallofhisinternshipyearsduringcollegeandthe

year after graduation have made him very rigorously dedicated to business rules. He
knowsthat,typically,itwouldbebettertogiveDeansufficienttimeandoptionsforbeing
goneoveramonth.Hejustdoesn’thavethoseluxuries.

HeendsupcallingDean,decidingitcan’twaituntilthenextworkday,andhefidgets

theentiretimethephonerings.

“Hey.What’sup?Didyouforgettheofficewasclosedandtrytogetin?”

It’s not mean. He says it in a pleasantly joking tone. Rowan can almost see the man

reclining on a chair in his living room, facing the beach and eating frozen grapes. The
pictureofrelaxation.

“I,um,wantedtoaskyouaboutournextproject,”Rowansays,stutteringonhiswords

andimmediatelyregrettingwhathesays.Heberateshimselfforwimpingout.“Imean—”

“You’resupposedtoberelaxing,”Deansaysinanamusedtone,“butifithelps,we’re

justtakingonoverflowfrombigcompaniesforthenextcoupleofweeks.Nobigprojects
yet.Ifigureyouallearnedit,too,sincewehadtwoatonceforthelastfewweeks.”

“Oh. Okay. I just…I know I have some time off,” Rowan says, hesitant. He feels

strangelyguiltyforevenasking.Hisusualbusiness-professionaldemeanorisslipping.

“Of course. Don’t tell me you’re actually drawing from the well? Rowan, going on

vacation?Andtheskieslookedsoclear.”

The joke puts him at ease and he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Suddenly, going back home doesn’t seem so risky. He’s still going to be strict about
gettingback,though.

“Well,it’snotvacation.I’mgoingtohelpJenout.”

“Jen? Wow, it’s been ages. You gotta bring back some cupcakes,” Dean laughs. His

voiceisseriousthen,carefulasheasks,“Issomethingwrong?”

“No.Just…myunclebrokehislegandthere’snotenoughhelparoundthebakery.It’s

onlyforamonthatmost,maybeaweekover.IjustthoughtIshouldhelpherout.”

It says a lot about Dean that the man is concerned. It reminds Rowan that Dean, no

matterhowsuit-and-tie,isstillhisfriend.Evenbesidesthat,hecares.He’dprobablygive
anewbieamonth’sleaveiftheyhadafamilyemergency.

“Oh.Well,Ihopehehealswell.I’llkeepyouupdatedwithourweeklyschedule;don’t

rushgettingback.AndsayhitoJenforme,huh?”

“Iwill,”Rowansmiles,shakinghishead,“Andthankyou.”

Hisanxietydissipatesafterhehangsup.Nowthatheknowshecanspendtimeaway,

there’s nothing holding him back. He realizes he’s actually excited. It’s been ages since
he’sbeenbacktoOriole;heknowsthecityisbustlingandthriving,ifJen’saccountsare
true.Hecanremembereverydetailofthedowntownareawherethebakeryis—thetiny
streets, brick storefronts and street parking. He knows the sense of nostalgia there is
powerful. Even the family home—or homes, rather—are pleasant ghosts in his memory.
He’sonlybeenbacktoOrioleonce,afterhiscollegegraduationandbeforehelefttostart

a new life in a new state. He remembers the forest by the edge of the backyard and the
greenness.

Ittakeshimasecondtorealizethathe’sdaydreamingandhesnapshimselfoutofit,

setting to work with renewed energy. He already knows the trip details—eight hours by
car.He’snottooputoffbythedrive;besides,it’scheaperandhe’sgotsomegoodaudio
bookstocatchupon.HeshootsJenaquicktext,lettingherknowhe’llbedrivingdown
thenextmorning.Shesendsanobsceneamountofemojisandall-capsphrases,praising
himforhishelp.Hesmilesalittleatthetextbeforehestartspacking,neatlyfoldingeach
shirtintohissuitcase.Everyitemisathought:Iwonderifthetreeisstillinthebackyard,I
wonderiftheChristmaswreathsarestillonthelamppostsdowntown,Iwonderiftheair
stillsmellslikegreenandrain.Bythetimehe’sdone,healmostwantstojumpinhiscar
and hit the road. He tells himself to wait, though and calls Lina to let her know what’s
happening.

Shesoundshappythathe’sgoinghome.Sheteaseshimfortakingtimeoff,justlike

Dean, and promises to be available by phone, just like Dean. She also tells him to be
carefulontheroadandwarnshimthatshe’llbeexpectingnumerouspictures.

Bythetimehegetsoffthephoneandfinishespreparing,it’seighto’clockandhe’sall

keyedup.Hedecidestoswimaroundtheapartmentcomplex’spoolforanhour,hoping
theexercisewillwearhimout,andthinksaboutOrioletheentiretime.

Oddlyenough,hethinks,thismightbethemostexcitingthingthat’shappenedtohim

inalongtime.

DRIVE

GOES

QUICKLY

. He listens to his music a little too loudly and drinks

somethingicedthat’smorechocolatethancoffee.Thetripfliesby,onlyonestopforgas
made,andheeventuallywigglesinhisseatwhenheseesthesignsforOriole.They’rejust
like he remembers them: painted a faded yellow, the telltale bird flitting through the
picture. Blue flowers spill artfully below the sign welcoming weary travelers, promising
BlueSkiesandLovelyTimes!Thisisaplacethatisstillsomehowtheepitomeofsmall-
town life while housing the population of a small city. There’s only one parade that
everyoneattendsandafamousdinerthateveryoneeatsatonceamonthbuttherearestill
threeStarbucksandanairport.

It’shome.

The house is just like he remembers it. Sturdy and remodeled from older bones, the

woodperfectlystained.It’sjustontheedgeoftown,onesmallstreetandacountryroad
awayfromthefirstblockofthecity.Thedrivewayisdirt-packedfromuseandthelandis
green and flat, almost velvety against the earth. The tree in the backyard is still there,
strings of lights hanging around its branches. There’s still a garden at the back,
overflowingwithflowersandherbs,andtheguesthousesitsjustafewfeetaway.It’sthe
sameplaceitwaswhenhewasgrowingupwithhisauntanduncle,thepeoplewhowere
parentstohimforalmosthisentirelife.

Jen is waiting for him on the porch. She’s practically jumping up and down like a

puppy, which makes him want to laugh—she’s barely younger than he is by a year. As

soonasheparksthecar,sherunsdownthewoodensteps,laughingdelightedly,practically
throwinghimbackassheembraceshim.

“Ro!Iknewyouwerecoming,butboy,isitgoodtoseeyou!”

“Youtoo,Jen,”helaughs,lettingherhaveherfillofhugging.

Hiscousinisafootshorterthanhim,herhairthesamefierycurlsashermother.She

hasherfather’seyes,though,awarmchocolatebrownthatseemstomeltinthelight.Jen
has always been the more energetic of the two of them, even as kids—she was the one
raring to brave the local river, the one skinning her knees on her bike, and the one
punchingbulliesontheplayground.Shegetsitfromhermom,Rowanthinks.Speakingof
which…

“Where’sMom?”

“Probably scolding Dad for moving around the house. She’s taking a little too much

pleasure from bossing him around. The other day, she locked his wheels so he couldn’t
movefromtheporchwhileshewasgardening.Itwashilarious.”

“I’ll bet,” Rowan snorts, extricating himself from Jen’s grip so he can grab his

suitcases.“Where—”

“Guesthouse,”shesaysquickly,“it’sallsetup,too.Haven’tuseditinages.We—and

bywe,ImeanI—setuphousesecurityafewmonthsago.Youhavethesamelockonthe
frontdoorbutwealsohaveanalarmsystem,justincase.”

“Great,” Rowan says, accepting the key from her as they walk towards the guest

house.

It’s newer than the house. He remembers his uncle building it at one point after his

wifehadpointedoutthatOriolewasprettymuchcentraltowheretherestofthefamily
lived.Wehavepeopleovereverycoupleofmonths,evenifit’sjustforaquickstop,she
said,wavingahandathim,mayaswellputsomethingupforregularuse.Theguesthouse
had been completed quickly—a two-story design that sat much like a townhouse at the
backoftheproperty.Ithadalivingarea,kitchen,diningroom,andbathroomdownstairs.
Upstairs, there was another two bathrooms and bedrooms. It was perfect for whenever
familycameover.Hethinksit’llfeelodd,stayingtherealone,buthe’sgladtohavesome
privacy.It’sbeenyearssincehe’slivedwithsomeoneelse.

“So,how’syourfancyjob?”Jenasksasheunlocksthedoor.

“It’snotfancy,”hesnorts,“it’sjustanimation.It’sgreat.Dean’sanawesomeboss.It’s

arelaxedatmosphere,especiallysinceweworkonvideogames.”

“Dean,huh?Irememberhim.Cute.”

“Guess so,” Rowan rolls his eyes in exaggerated annoyance, “but please don’t take

thatasagreenlight.”

“Ro,Iliveeighthoursaway.I’mnotgoingtoseduceyourboss.”

“Yeah,well,whenhasdistanceeverstoppedyou?”

Jenjustsmirks,dumpingoneofhisbagsbythekitchenentrance.Sheturns,tappinga

sheetofpapertapedtoonesideofthearch.

“Wi-fi password and security code. Don’t leave it lying around. I also put your

scheduleforworkontheback.It’sconsistent,thankGod,becauseIknowhowmuchyou
lovethat.”

“Sweet,sweetconsistency,”Rowanjokes,“Whatalady.”

“Yeah,yeah.Comesayhitotheparentsonceyou’resettled,okay?They’redyingto

seeyou.”

“I’llbethereinaminute,”hepromises,watchingJenleave.

Hehastotakeamomenttoleteverythingsetin.It’slikehe’sachildagain,thesmall

universeofOrioleenclosinghim.Itlooksthesame—everythingisgreenandwell-tended,
thecharacteristicsofaplacewherepeoplecareaboutthings.Itsmellsthesame,too;fresh
herbsfromthegarden,flowersbythewindowsills,theearthalwaysrichwiththepromise
ofalightrainshower.Thehousefeelsjustascomfortableasheremembersit.Itseemsto
cozydownaroundhimlikeawarmblanketonawinternight.

Hemissedit.

Even though he likes the city and its anonymity, he’s still missed the slow life of

Oriole. It’s not a lazy life, that’s certain—people still mow their lawns every week and
wave from their gardens on Sundays. It’s just that there’s something relaxed about the
place.It’sasifeverythingelseintheworldcan’ttouchthesmallcityanditspeople.

Whenhegoestothemainhouse,hefindsthatnothingseemstohavetouchedhisaunt

and uncle, either. He sees his aunt first, walking by the door and then stopping in her
trackstobackpedalandgreethim.

“There’s our boy! It’s been too long, little Red,” she beams, pulling him into a

familiarlystronghug.HisauntLeonahasalwaysbeenstrongerthansheletson,likemost
peopleinOriole.Evenherthinarmsarebuiltforpullingweeds.Andhoistinglittleboys
bytheircollars.

“Notsolittleanymore,”Rowanchuckles,returningthehug.

Heseeshisunclerollintotheentrywayamomentlater.Ithurtshimalittletoseethe

broad man in a wheelchair but he knows it’s not serious. Richard just winks at Rowan,
watching the reunion unfold. His dark hair is peppered with more streaks of gray, yet it
somehowmakeshimlookevenmorerefined.

“Okay,Lee.Whydon’twelettheboybreathe?”Richardfinallysuggests,shakinghis

headashiswifebacksawayandsendshimasteelyglare.

“Youshouldn’tbemoving.Ifyoufalloverthethreshold—”

“Thenyou’llcarrymeacrossandit’llbejustlikeourweddingday,”Richardresponds

cheerily.

Rowancan’thelphislaughter.Hefollowshisfamilybackintothelivingroomwhere

Jen is already waiting with lemon tarts and tea, smirking over her plate. Rowan already
knowswhatcomesnext.

“You’reoutofpractice,”Jensaysslyly,“I’llbetmylemontartsarebetterthanyours,

now.”

“Iwouldn’tcountonit,”Rowansaysmildly.“AndwhosaysI’moutofpractice?”

He spends the rest of the afternoon talking to his aunt and uncle, helping Jen with

dinnerwhiletheyalltalkabouttheirlives.It’sbeensolongthathefeelslikehe’splaying
animpossiblegameofcatch-up,tryingtokeepyear-longdramasstraightasLeonaroars
withlaughterovertheneighbor’sdaughterpiercinghertonguewithoutpermissionandthe
resultingpublicfightattheThanksgivingparade.

Bythetimehegoestobed,stomachfullofthebestpotatosaladandchickenhe’shad

in years, he almost forgets that he’s just visiting. Somehow, it feels like everything has
been waiting for him, in suspended animation. There’s a Rowan-shaped space in Oriole
andheslipsintoiteasily,feelingjustasathomeashe’severfelt.

Thiswillbegoodforme,hethinks,startingtodrifttosleepasthecicadashumoutside

hiswindow.It’llreallybeavacation,evenifI’mworkingatthebakery.Hedreamsthat
nightoflazyriversandatireswing,thewarmthofhismemoriespullinghimbackintothe
blissful days of his childhood. And when he wakes up the next morning, he remembers
everydetail.

tephenishungover.Thisisnotnew.

Whatisnewisthepoundingathisdoor.Atfirst,hethinksit’sjusthishead—butthen

he hears a familiar voice yelling through the wood. Eventually, the door opens and he
wonderswhetherornotit’sahomeinvasion.Atleastthey’llputmeoutofmymisery,he
thinks,resistingtheurgetolaugh.Hismirthevaporateswhenthefootstepsapproachhis
opendoorandpausethere.

It’sMelissa.

Shelooks…well.Muchlikeshedidwhenhemetheratschool.Darkbrownhairtied

up against her head and a take-no-shit set to her shoulders. She’s wearing an unfamiliar
leather jacket over her usual patterned dress, brownish wedge shoes set shoulder-width
apartlikeshe’ssquaringuptofight.

Whichsheprobablyis,hethinks.

“Seriously?” Her expression is disappointed, which he’s used to—but it’s also sad.

Thatpart,hecanneverquiteunderstand.It’snotlikehe’sworthit.

“Is there a reason you’re raising hell at my front door?” he croaks, not bothering to

pullhimselfoffthebed.Melissacrossesherarms,leathercreaking.Huh.It’srealleather.

“Whattimewasit,thistime?Threea.m.?Four?”

His hungover mind is immediately resentful. He feels a prickle of anger at her tone

despitehisbestintentionstolayoffanddrawback.They’renotmarriedanymoreandhe
isn’tfondofhercriticism.It’snotlikeshehastodealwithmeanymore.Thewayshestill
argueswithhim,it’sliketheyneverseparated.

“Itdoesn’tmatter.Doesn’tbotheryou,”hesays,resentful.Hepullshimselfupenough

todrinkfromtheglassbyhisbedsidetable,thewaterfilledwithlintandhowevermany
daysold.

Heknowswhattodayis.Thelastdayofhisdaughter’sone-weekbreakfromschool.

She’ssupposedtohavebrunchwithhimandMelissa.Asidewaysglanceattheclocktells
himit’sjustpastnoon,sothey’renotlatebyanymeans,buthewon’thavetimetoshower.
Again.Heforceshimselftorolloutofbed.

“She’s only going to see us this once, before she goes back until summer,” Melissa

remindshim,staringhimdownwithhardeyes.“Justonce.Can’tyoumanagetoshower

andnotbehungover?Foryourdaughter?”

“Hey.Ihavedonesomuchforher,”Stephensayshotly,jabbingafingeratMelissaas

he throws his drawers open to find a clean shirt. “When did I ever abandon her? I was
thereforherinhighschool.Isavedforhercollege.Ihelpedhergethercar—”

“Yes, extraordinary,” Melissa hisses, “You made sure she had all the material shit a

littlegirlcouldeverwant.Butwhenwereyouthere?Allthosetimesyouboughthernew
teddy bears and fancy sneakers don’t make up for you stumbling in drunk at one in the
morning when she was having a sleepover. Or getting drunk in the basement while she
wassupposedtobestudyingfortheSAT.”

“Ineveroncelaidafingeron—”

“That’snotthepoint!”Melissashouts,leaningincloserasheripshisjacketandshirt

offtoreplaceitwithafreshone.“Youmadeherfeellikeshewasaparent!Likeshewas
theonethathadtotakecareofyou!Sheshouldhavehadachildhoodwithoutworrying
about her father’s issues. Jesus, Stephen, I know it was hard coming back here but it
wasn’touronlychoice!”

“Itwas,”Stephensaysroughly,walkingintothebathroomtorunthewaterandwash

hisface.Melissastaysinplace,shakingherheadatthecarpetasifit’sdisappointedher
justasmuch.

Hecan’tdenywhatshe’ssaying,sure,buthe’snotabouttolethersayhedoesn’tlove

hislittlegirl.Hedoes.He’swishedallofhislifethathecouldhavebeenbetterforher,
somehow.Thathe’dneverfelttheneedtodrownhisfailuresinbottlesandnightsinthe
cornersofbars.

“Ithought,onceyougotawayfromthatshittyjobandourmarriage,thatyou’dclean

up,” Melissa says quietly. Evenly. This is the point that hurts him the most—she’s not
angryoremotionalnow;she’sjust…sad.Hehatesthathemakeseveryonesad.“Ithought
you’ddoitforher.Forus.Foryou.”

Hegripsthesidesofthesinkwithwarmhands.It’scoldagainsthispalms,bitingin

the late spring weather. He thinks it’s fitting that things still haven’t warmed up around
him.Theearthisstillinitseternalfreeze,justlikehislife.Hisfaceinthemirrorisdrawn
—there are wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, once from laughing and now from
squinting in the morning sun when his head is pounding from a night of drinking. His
blackhairisraggedandalittletoolong,stickingupinseveraldifferentdirections.Even
hiseyesarejustflatgreen,likestagnantpools.

Ilooklikeshit,hethinks,amusedanddisgusted.Nothinghaschanged.

The front door opens and shuts and they both turn. Stephen straightens, quickly

combingahandthroughhishairanddryinghisface.Footstepsascendthestairs.

“Dad?You—oh,”Jordisays,surprisedasshebumpsintohermother.

Hefeelsimmediatelyconflicted.Better,becauseit’shisdaughter,andworse,because

he recognizes the brief oh no her expression changes to. She covers it quickly with her
usualsmileandithitshimintheheartlikeabullet.

Melissa was right, he thinks, heart sinking. His little girl, with her short, bouncing

browncurlsandhoneyeyes,feelslikeshehastotakecareofherfather.She’ssuffering
becauseofhim.

“Hey,Yo-yo,”Stephensays,tryingtoscrapehisexpressionintosomethingresembling

happiness and peace. A tiny spark of hope flickers in Jordi’s eyes at the use of her
nickname.

“Hey,Dad,”shesays,handsslippingintothepocketsofherjacket.

Melissa rubs her hand across her forehead, trying not to say too much, and smiles

tiredlyattheirdaughter.

“I’llgogetusatable.I’llseeyoutwosoon,okay?”

“’Kay,mom,”Jordisays,watchingthewomango.

Stephen has to fight to keep his composure for a moment. He tries to ignore the

sinkingfeelingoffailureinhischest,smilingatJordiandopeninghisarms.Herealizes
only after she hugs him that he probably still smells like whiskey. The bar really
permeateshisskin.Jordidoesn’tcomment,though.

“Howyoudoin’,kid?”

“Notbad,Dad.Thissemesterisgoingwell.Whataboutyou?”

Hepullsafreshjacketfromthecloset,somethingJordigavehimthatprobablylooks

tooyoungforhimbuthewearsanyway.Hesmiles,slinginganarmaroundhershoulder
andguidingthemdownstairs.

“Justfine,honey.Gotworktomorrow,sotodayisadayofbrunchandrelaxation.”

“Work? That’s good,” Jordi smiles, “I can’t believe you’ve been there four years,

now.”

“Yup.Isn’tthatgreat?Nomoregruntworkforme.Don’tmissthatwarehousejobone

bit.”

“Itsucked.”Jordiwrinkleshernose,slidingintothepassengerseatofhercar.Hegets

inontheotherside,watchingherpreoccupyherselfwithadjustingtheradioandchecking
hermirrorsbeforetheypullawayfromthecurb.

He’s proud of his daughter. No matter what, she’s a capable young woman. Strong.

Caring,too—somuchsothathedoesn’tknowwhereshegotitfrom.Probablyhermother,
hethinks.Jordicaresaboutalot.Him,forone,evenifhedoesn’tdeserveit.Hermother.
All her friends at school, whom he mostly knows by face from the pictures Jordi sends
him.Sheevencaresaboutpeopleshedoesn’tknow,whichismorethanmostpeopledo—
he’sseenhergiveherownumbrellaawayintherain.

She’ssomuchgood,hethinks.Sometimeshewondersifshehasallthegoodthatwas

inhim,untilheremembersthathe’salwaysbeensortofamess.Besides,it’snotJordi’s
faulthecrawlshomeattwoa.m.likesomestray.

“Hey,Dad?”

“Yeah,honey?”

“Haveyou…Idon’tknow,thoughtaboutgettingadog?”

Heblinks.Adog? He can’t tell what’s going through her mind. They never had pets

whenshewasachild,soheassumesthat’swhatshe’sinsinuating.

“Canyouhavedogsatschool?”

“I said you,” she emphasizes, although there’s a smile on her mouth. “You know…

they’regoodforyourhealth.Theycanmakepeople,um…happier.Giveyousomethingto
do.Regularly.”

Oh.Therealizationhitshimlikeatonofbricks.She’snottryingtogetsomethingfor

herself. She’s trying to make him get better. It breaks his heart a little. He’d almost be
happierifshewereoutrightaskingforadog.Thenhe’dfeellikehecoulddosomething.
This,though…

“That’snice,kiddo.ButIworkeveryday.Wouldn’tbenicetoleaveapoordoghome

all alone,” he says gently, focusing on a spot on the window while trying not to break
down.

It’s partly true. He is gone every day, working. He’s never really home unless he’s

sleepingorpullinghimselfbackfromanightofbarhopping.Theotherthingis,though,
he’s not confident in his ability to care for a living thing. He’s just lucky that Oriole is
somesortofparadiseonearthwherethefoliagetakescareofitself;asidefrommowing
histinybitoflawneveryotherweekend,there’snofoliagehecankillthroughneglect.

A dog, though, would require attention. Like the attention his ex-wife keeps telling

him he didn’t put into their relationship and family. God, I made myself sad again, he
thinks,shakinghisheadatthewindow.

“Okay.Ijust…don’twantyoutogetlonely,Dad.Ithinkyouneedtobearoundpeople

morethanyouknow.”

Youneedtohavesomethingtocareabout,shedoesn’tsay.Theydrivetherestofthe

way in comfortable silence—at least on Jordi’s part. He wallows the entire trip and
throughbreakfast,thinkingabouthowhisdaughterthinkshe’sattheendofhisropeatthe
ripeoldageofthirty-something.Healmostlaughswhenherealizeshedoesn’tremember
howoldheis.Itseemslikeageshavegonebysincehewasakidatschool,jugglingan
infantandawifeandadegreeatthesametime.

HesendsJordioffwithMelissa,watchinghisdaughterdriveoffintothesun,backto

college.Melissadoesn’tsaymuch,castinghimasidelongglancethatfeelsmorecursory
thananything.

“Takecare of yourself,”she says, andit’s not so mucha plea asa direction. Do this

andyouwillfeelbetter.

Excepthe’snotreallysurehowtotakecareofhimself,asidefrommakingmoneyto

pay his bills. He doesn’t have a family anymore and every day, Jordi gets closer to
becomingafull-fledgedadultandtakingoffforgood.Shewon’thaveareasontoneedto
comebackandvisithimandMelissawon’thaveareasontokeepcheckinguponhim.

Hegetshomeandopensabottle,hisonlysavingthoughtthefactthathehasworkthe

nextday—which,technically,shouldstophimfromdrinking.Buthe’saloneathomeand
there’s nothing for him to divert his attention to, so he drinks and sits on his couch,
wondering how long he can keep existing like this, just continuing to plod on as if he’s
somesortofrobot.

Jordi was right, he thinks, three-quarters of the way through the bottle, I need

somethingtolove.Somethingthatwon’tbreakundermyweight.Butheknows,withbitter
regret,thatthere’snothingandnoonelikethatintheworld.

“G

etup!”Apause.Silence.Sweet,blessedsilence.Rowanrollsoverinbed,thinkingit

wasalljustsomeunhappynightmare,andthenithappensagain.“…Ro.RowanMarlowe
Connor.Getup.”

Hegroans,barelyliftinghiseyelids,andseesJenstandingbythesideofhisbedwith

her hands on her hips. She’s already dressed and more put-together than he could ever
claimtobe.Aglanceattheclocktellshimit’ssix-thirtyinthemorning,which…isreally
only half an hour before his usual waking up time. But I’ve been off-schedule for three
daysnow.

“I’mup,”Rowanmutters,rubbingathiseyeswithatiredhand.Jensighsthroughher

nose.

“We’releavingatseven.Getdressedandreadyandmeetmebythecar.Wecanhave

coffeeatthestore,”sheadds,talkingoverhershoulderassheleaveshiminpeace.

Heisverytemptedtogobacktosleep.Hedoesn’t,though,becausehehasanideaof

whatJenwilldoifhedoes.Plus,he’ssupposedtobehelping.Ifhedoesn’tkeeptrackof
hisscheduleduringthismoonlightingstint,he’llgetbacktohisrealjobandbeunableto
work properly. With that in mind, he pulls himself out of bed, starting the shower while
brushing his teeth and getting clothes ready. Jen left instructions for him under the
schedule she’d printed—wear whatever you want, just avoid short sleeves and probably
wearjeans,they’remorecomfortable.Hedoesn’thavemuchinthewayofcasualclothes
soheresolvestogoshoppinglater,oncehefiguresoutwhatheneeds.

Jeniswaitinginthecar.Hewalksoutside,blinkinginthemorninglight,andseeshis

unclesittingontheporchofthehouse.Themanwaves,smiling,andRowanwavesback.I
can’timaginewhatit’sliketobeleftbehindlikethat,hethinks.Evenifhisunclewillgo
backtoworkafterawhile,he’sstillstuckfornow.Ican’tevenhandlehavingnoworkfor
morethanaweekend.

“He’llbefine,”Jensaysquietlyassheturnsawayfromthehouse,drivingdownthe

tinycountryroadandtowardstown.“Heknowsit’llbetheretocomebackto.He’sjust
notusedtosittingaround.”

“Igetthat,”Rowanmurmurs.

The bakery is downtown, situated between two other tiny storefronts dedicated to a

deli and an antique shop. The first things he notices are the new awning and the new

letteringonthedoorandwindows.TheSweetSpotisemblazonedinwhitescriptagainsta
mintgreencircle.Itlookscleanandcrisp.Modernbutwithadecidedlyretrotwist.

“Yougothimtoreplacethatstuff?”Rowanasks,impressed.

“Yeah.Weneedednewthings.Iappreciatedthevintageones,soItriedtokeepthem

similar—Ijustwantedtomakesurewewerevisible.”

“Andwe’reacafénow,too?”

“We’ve pretty much always been a café,” Jen laughs, turning into the tiny back

parkinglot.“It’sjustthatnow,wehavepropertablesandacoffeemenu.You’llgetusedto
it—people don’t usually stop in huge numbers for the café part. Most of our business is
stillcateringandbulkorders.”

Jen gives him an extra key to the back door. When he steps through, a wave of

nostalgiahitshimlikeabrickwall.Thesmellofvanillaandconfectionerssugarseemsto
layovereverything.Theflooristexturedtileintheback,easytoclean,andthefrontis
old-fashionedwood.There’sarowofcasesfrontingtheregisters,cakesandcookiesanda
dozenotheritemsondisplay.Thebackisstillseparatedfromtheregisteraislebylouvered
doors,thewoodenslatsobscuringthebehind-the-sceneswork.

“Okay. Opening procedures,” Jen starts, walking towards the far end of the register

area.Hefollowsquickly.“Numberone:coffee.”

He snorts but pulls two mugs from the cabinet by the machine, examining them.

They’restripedmintyblueandwhite.Perfectforacaféandbakery.Jenshowshimhowto
work the coffee machine—which is really simple—and points out the cabinets below it,
which are stocked with chocolate chips and whipped cream and caramel sauce. There’s
evenasmallfreezerboxforice,whichshesaysispopularinthewarmermonths.

Itdoesn’ttakelongforhimtogetintotheswingofthings.He’sreallyalwaysknown

how to do this—he grew up around his uncle and aunt, both of whom had worked the
bakeryfromthebeginning.HerantothebakeryafterschoolwithJen,eachboastingabout
whowouldmakethebettercakethatday.Theybothabsorbedeverythingaroundthem—
how his aunt would use the register, how his uncle would time different pastries so that
nothing would burn and refreshing the cases was like clockwork. If Rowan is honest,
beinghereislikeslippingintoanoldsuit.Everythingissecondnature.

“We open at eight,” Jen reminds him at seven-forty, “and we usually only have four

people at any given time. Mornings, it’s three—one for the register, one for the back,
anothertofloat.Ataroundlunch,wegetthefourthperson,sowealwayshavetwoatthe
registers.”

“Yousaidmostoftheworkersarecollegekids,right?”

“Prettymuchallofthem,yes.They’regoodkids,too.You’llbeworkingmorningto

afternoonthreedaysandafternoontoclosethreedays.You’rebasicallytakingmyshift,
really—IpickedupDad’s.”

Rowan hums an affirmative. The place is ready by now—tables and chairs situated,

registers unlocked, the first round of pastries in the oven. All that’s left is their third
person,herealizes.

“Hey,who’s—”

“Domeafavorandtaketheemptydeliveryboxestotheback,”shesays,half-listening

assherunsdownalistofsupplies.“I’llhavetogetthoserecycledtonight.”

“Sure.”

Hefindstheboxeseasilyenough—they’reallneatlystackedbythebackdoor,brands

and weight information printed on the sides. He tries to balance the haul with one arm,
reachingwiththeothertoopenthedoor.

As soon as the door swings open, there’s a grunt and a man practically falls into

Rowan.Rowanmakesaveryunmanlyyelp,backingawayandtryingtohelptheguyat
thesametime.Hehitshislowerbackontheworktablebehindhim,andhissesinpain.
TheboxesfalltothefloorlikeJengablocks.Rowanblinks,readytoapologize,andlooks
atthestranger.

He seems to be just a few years older than Rowan. He has the gruff appearance of

someonewhodoesn’tbothershavingmuchandhisdarkhairisindesperateneedofsome
sort of styling or cut. He’s broad-shouldered, wearing a black t-shirt that looks like it
might be just a bit too small over his muscles, the edges of a tattoo peeking out of one
sleeve.

“Uh,I’msosorry,sir,areyou—”

“Sir?”theman’sgreeneyesappraisehimwarily,somehintofsardonicamusementin

theirdepths.Hesighs,andbeginstopickupboxesfromthefloor.“Takeitdownanotch,
kid.”

HemustthinkI’moneofthecollegekids,Rowanthinks,pushinghimselfbackupto

hisfeet.Hegatherstheboxesagain,tryingtobepatient.

“I’mnotoneofthecollegestudents,”heexplains,“I’m—”

“Doesn’t matter to me,” the man interrupts, eyes grazing the room, “Where’s the

lady?”

Somethingaboutthewaythemansaysit—brief,drawled,withnohintofcareinhis

tone—makesRowan’shacklesrise.Thelady?Hisinitialcuriosityisrapidlyboilingdown
toannoyance.Whoisthisguy,anyway?Hestartstoguidethemanbyonearm—whichis
shockingly dense, for not being bodybuilder-sized—and the stranger blinks, too caught
off-guardtoreact.

“I’mnotsurewhyyouwereloiteringatthebackdoor,butwe’renotopenyet,”Rowan

sayscurtly,depositinghisboxesandthemanbythesidewalkatthebackdoor.“You—”

Themanleansin,mouthastraightlineofdispleasure,andthenRowansmellsit.

Is he…drunk? No, he thinks, not possible. The man is completely clear-eyed and

upright. Not drunk, then. Hungover. He wonders if the stranger is just another factory
workeroratruckerfromsomewhereoutoftown,tryingtomaketrouble.NotthatRowan
cares where he works; it doesn’t make much of a difference—it’s just that this guy is
probablybadnewsandRowanneedstoknowjusthowbaditis.

“Stephen,” Jen says, suddenly behind Rowan. Thank God. Rowan’s about to say

something—maybepromisetocallthepoliceorscaretheguyoff;hedoesn’tknow—and
thenthemansmirks,shoulderingpastRowan.

“Morning,lovely.”

What?

“You’re late. We already finished prepping. You know what that means,” Jen says

patiently,reachinguptofixhisunrulyhairasmuchaspossible.Rowanisstillreeling.

“Right, I got it. Pull duty. Don’t worry,” Stephen says, clapping her on the shoulder

beforehestartstogoinside.Hishandsreachforanaprononthehooksbythebackdoor.

Rowangapes,turningtowardsJen.

“Don’ttellme—”

“He works here,” Jen says. “He’s our third for today. Stephen, this is my cousin,

Rowan.”

“Jen,he’s—”

Sheshootshimalookandhesomehowloseshiswilltospeak,thewordsdyinginhis

throat.He’shungover.Unprofessionallyso.Hestillsmellsfaintlyofsomethinghard,like
whiskey.It’sprobablyseepingthroughhispores,forallRowanknows.Jengoesbackto
thefrontandRowanfollowscloselyonherheels,castingonelastlookatStephen.

Thebastardwinksathim.

“Jen,”hesays,oncetheygettothefront,“I’mnotsurewhatyouknow,butthatguyis

hungover.Like,reallybad.”

“Iknow,”shesays,raisinganeyebrow.“I’veseenhungoverbefore.”

“What—youmeanwithhim?Thisisaregularoccurrence?”

“He’shavingahardtime,”Jensaysquietly,movingtocrossthecountersandturnthe

opensignaround.“Henevercomesindrunk.Just…”

“Hungover.Whydoyoukeephimaround?Ifhe’slikethat?”

“He’sneveranissuewithcustomers.Hell,mostofthemomsintownlikecomingin

justtoflirtwithhim.”

“Flirt?”

“Yes,Ro.That’ssomethingnormalpeopledoaroundpeoplethey’reattractedto,”Jen

saysdrily.“Anyway,he’soneofourown.WhatkindofpersonwouldIbeifIturnedhim
out?”

“A sane one,” Rowan mutters, yanking the strings on his apron tighter. Jen stifles a

smile,shakingherhead.

“Listen,Ro.Iknowyou’reallabouthighstandards,butStephenneedshelp.IfIcan

offerhimaregularjob—ifDadcouldofferhimaregularjob—whynot?Allheneedsisa
littledirection.”

Rowan doesn’t believe her but he can tell he isn’t going to get anywhere with the

argument. He just sighs and stands behind the counter, staring at the tiny barstool-like
chairbytheregister.Jenhadinstalledthemafterreadingafewthingsaboutlegpainand
fatigue,apparently.They’reboltedtothefloorforsafetyandthey’rejustfarenoughfrom
theregistertogivepeopleroom.That’sthekindofpersonsheis,hethinks.Soinvestedin
otherpeople.

It’snotlikehedoesn’tcareaboutotherpeople.Hecan.Hedoes.Whenfriendsarein

need, he’s the first one to help out. But he knows when someone is worth his time and
when someone isn’t. Rowan isn’t a psychiatrist or a social worker; he’s not going to
befriend somebody to help fix them. That’s up to them, he thinks. Just like Stephen,
whoeverheis,shouldbeworkingthroughhisissuesinrehab—nothisfamily’sbakery.

Thefirstcustomerofthedayisaharriedyoungwoman.Shelookstwenty-something,

with a pixie cut and a trench coat that’s ruffled at the bottom. Jen perks up, casting an
excitedglanceatRowan.Hesimplywaits,makingsurehe’srelaxedandnottoosmiley,
andgreetsherattheregister.

“Hi.HowmayIhelpyou?”

“Uh…adozendonuts,please.Plain.”

“Ofcourse.Doyouwantabagforthem?”

“Justtheboxisfine.”

It’s quick work to get the dozen into the box and he folds it closed easily, sliding it

overthecounter.Thegirlisalreadyreadytopay,passinghercardover.Somewhereinthe
middle of him running it, she seems to snap out of her occupied mind and notice
something.

“Hey,where’sStephentoday?”sheaskswithatinyfrown.

You’vegottobekiddingme.

Jensmiles,walkingoverfromherspot.

“Hey,Lucy.Stephen’sintheback.ThisisRowan,mycousin—he’shelpingoutuntil

Dadgetsbetter.”

“Oh,that’sright,”Lucyrealizes,acceptinghercardbackfromamuteRowan.“Ihope

hegetsbettersoon.TellStephen—”

And then, as if on cue—probably on cue, Rowan thinks bitterly—the man appears

from the back. He beams, the motion transforming his face, and Rowan just stares.
Smiling,themanappearslesslikeafelonandmorelike…justsomeguy.

“Lucygirl!How’stheinternship?”

Thechangeintheyoungwomanisimmediate.Shegrins,allsemblanceofdistraction

evaporating.Suddenly,allofherfocusisdirectedtowardsthemanbeforeher.

“Hell,Stephen.They’vegotmeoncoffeedutythewholetime.”

“Those bastards. What a waste of your potential. Hey, don’t worry, kid. Just keep

workingonthatbookofyoursandyou’llbebossin’‘emaroundsoonenough.Okay?”

ThiselicitsalaughfromLucy,andafewmomentslater,sheleaveswithahugesmile

onherface.

Rowanstaresattheman.He’snotquitesurehowtoreconcilewhathejustsawwith

thefactthatthisStephenisclearlyamess.WhenLucyleaves,though,Stephenseemsto
drawbackintohimself.Hischeerevaporates,replacedbyalevelexpression.It’slikehis
outburst of joy was just an act. How does Jen not see it? He’s just playing everyone
aroundhim.

Rowan can’t entirely enjoy his day. Stephen is always there, hanging around, and

whenacashierkidgetsinatnoon,it’sevenworse.Therearemorepeopleduringlunch,
pre-ordering birthday cakes and treats for office parties. A few people order dessert for
theirfamiliesandeverythingpassesoverthecounter,bagsandboxesandreceiptsforbulk
orders.RowaneventuallymanagestoforgetaboutStephen,forthemostpart,buthe’sstill
hyper-awareanytimethemanappearstorestockthecases.

Every time Stephen appears, without fail, someone talks to him. Usually there are

severalpeopleclamoringforhisattention—momsgushingoverhishaircut,whichRowan
findsabsurd,consideringitlookslikeheneedsone.Teenageboysexcitedlyshowingoff
theirtattoostohim,oldercouplesaskingabouthishouseandwhetherheneededrepairs
after a recent storm. It’s like everyone in the town knows Stephen and talks to him
regularly. Rowan wonders if any of them really know him—if they’ve ever been close
enoughtosmellthebaddecisionsontheman.

It’s not until later that afternoon that Rowan realizes that his shift has been over for

halfanhour.HerealizesthatStephenisstillaroundtoo.Whichmeanshe’sprobablyfull-
time.

“Hey,Jen.IjustrealizedI’vekindofgoneover—sorry.Ican—”

“Don’t worry about it.” She waves him off. “You can go home. We’ll figure it out

later.”

Hepauses,considering.

“Youknow,Icouldstay.Fortoday.Imean,youprobablyneedabreakandIhavetoo

muchenergyasitis.Whydon’tyouheadback?Youcanswingbylaterifyoureallyfeel
likeyouneedtorunmethroughclosingprocedures.”

She hesitates. He can tell she’s tired—he can only imagine, taking care of her father

andthestoreatthesametime.She’sprobablybeenrundownlongbeforehegothereto
helpout.Hefeelsalittleguiltyfornotkeepingupwithhermore.

“Comeon.Iwon’tburnitdown,”Rowanjokeslightly.

“Okay,” she finally says, shaking her head as if she can’t believe herself, “Stephen

knowstheclosingprocedures.Ifyouhaveanyquestions,askhim.”Sheseesthesourlook
on Rowan’s face. “I know you don’t like him, but he’s worked here for four years. He
mightaswellbeamanager.Okay?Justgivehimabreak.”

As much as he doesn’t want to, he knows Jen needs the afternoon off. He agrees,

sendingheroffwithawaveandgettingrightbacktowork.Unfortunately,thetwocollege
kids have taken the registers, which means his only choice is to work in the back. With

Stephen.

Hetriesnottolooktooputoffbytheprospect,makingabeelinefortheemptypans.

HeknowswhattomakenextandhecantellStephenisbusyinthesupplycloset,pulling
boxesfromthebackoftherowstothefront.Itonlytakesasecondtolosehimselfinthe
bakingprocess,acoldmetalbowlonthetableandafewsuppliesscatteredaroundhim.
Vanilla, cinnamon, flour…he eventually forgets he’s even in the bakery. It’s almost like
being at home, making some dessert for himself on a weekend. All that’s missing is his
music,playingfromaspeakerinthecornerbythekitchen.Hestartshumming,wondering
ifJenwouldlethimplaymusicintheback.

“Look at you, all cheery like a little bird,” a voice says from behind him, low and

gravelly. It sends a delicious shiver up his spine immediately. It takes him a second to
realizewhoitisandsnapoutofhispleasedhaze.

“You’re done organizing?” Rowan asks, trying to redirect attention. Stephen looks

amused,raisinganeyebrowathimashemovesaroundthetable.

“Doesn’ttakelongtopullstuff,kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” Rowan says evenly, trying not to sound like he’s angry. Or a kid.

Stephenjustsmirks.Rowan’sgoodmoodisdissipatingquickly.Hedecidestoignorethe
othermanasmuchaspossible.

“So,you’reJen’scousin,then?”

Rowangruntsbywayofanswer.Heknowsheprobablyseemspettybuthecan’tbring

himself to be nice to him. He’s just a drunk who manipulates people. All of his charm
disappearsoncehewalksintotheback.He’snotsurewhatStephenisplayingatbuthe’s
notabouttogoalongwithit.Especiallynotifhe’sbeenhangingaroundforfouryears.I
can’tbelievetheylethimstaythatlong.

“You just gonna keep beating those eggs into a froth, or are you going to make

cupcakes?”

Rowanfeelsaflushstarttotakeoverhisface.Hedoesn’trespondtoStephen,ignoring

the man to go about his work. He’s embarrassed that he could get so distracted. Just
pretendheisn’tthere.

The rest of the day goes by quickly. Eventually, the two kids at the front leave and

Rowangetsabriefrespiteatthefront.Bythetimeeighto’clockrollsaround,heturnsthe
sign to closed and starts to wipe down tables. He doesn’t have to think much about
closing,whichhelikes—it’sallcleaningupandreadyingforthenextday.Hecansweep
andmopwithoutinterruption,findingcomfortintheroutine.

“Wow.Thatwasfast,”Stephensays,leaningagainstthecounter,armscrossedoverhis

chest.Rowanalmostjumps.

“It’snothard,”herespondscurtly.Notifyoumakeyourselfuseful.Hewalkspastthe

man to check the back, expecting a mess, and he stops in his tracks when he sees
everything. The tables are wiped down, no trace of streaking on their metallic surfaces.
Thefloorisspotlessandthepansarewashed,afewdryingandotherssetonracksforthe
nextmorning.Rowanisspeechless,lookingaroundtheroom.

“Nope.Nothardatall,”Stephenmurmurs,smirkingashepassesRowanandhangshis

apronup.

RowanshootsJenatext—I’mdone—andwaitsforStephentowalkoutbeforelocking

thebackdoor.Theothermanscrutinizeshim,curious.

“You’rewaiting?”

“Yeah.Jen’smyride.”

Stephennods,pondering.Heseemstobeconsideringsomething.

“IusuallygotoArlin’sdownthestreet.Youwannacomealong?”

What?Thebar?Rowanfumblesforwords,feelingsuddenlyguilty.He’snotsurewhy

—hedoesn’toweanythingtotheman.

“Um—I’mnotabigfanofcrowds.”

“Well.Wecouldjustgotomyplace,then.”

Rowan blinks, shocked. Is he—did he just—he grasps for some sort of answer.

Anything. A way to get out of whatever the hell this is. It occurs to him that he doesn’t
even know if the man is single. For all he knows, Stephen is taking advantage of his
cluelessness.Stephenrollshiseyes.

“Okay,I’maskingyouovertomyplacef—”

“No,” Rowan says emphatically, his disbelief bleeding into the word. “No, I’m not

—no.”

Jen’s car pulls up and he’s immensely thankful, turning away to get in. Stephen

doesn’tsayanythingorfollow,hisonlymovetowavebackatJenwhenshewavestohim.
RowanstaresatthefigureasJenpullsawayfromthebuilding.

“So,howwaswork?”Jenasks,smiling.

Youhavenoidea,Rowanthinks,stillhearingStephen’spropositionplayingonloopin

hismind.Noidea.

uesday is only his second day working at the shop but he already feels like it’s
routine.Hewakesupatsix-thirtysharp,rollingoutofbedtoshowerandgetready

fortheday.Theguesthousefeelsmorecomfortablenowthathehashisclotheshangingin
thecloset,pajamasstuffedinadresser.Hedoesn’thavemuchwithhimbutthereareafew
littlethingstomakeitfeelmorelikehome…hislaptoponthenightstand,atabletinthe
kitchen,afewpintsoficecreaminthefridgeandfruitonthecounter.Hisauntanduncle
insistongettinghimanythinghemightneed—Youdon’thavetoeatwithuseverynight,
honey,hisauntsaid,especiallyifyouhavefriendsover.

He’d been tempted to say what friends? He decided against it, knowing what their

reactionwouldbe.It’snotlikehewasasocialbutterflywhenhewasinschool—hehad
maybetwofriendsinhisentirehighschoolcareer.Hewasn’tlonely,though.Hejustliked
toconcentratehisattentiononspecificthings.Hedidn’tneedseveralcirclesoffriendsand
bestfriendsandacquaintances,unlikeJen.Hiscousinwastheonethateveryoneliked;she
hadthreeSams,fourEricas,atleasttwoRoberts,ahandfulofChrises—anyonesheever
metinevitablyendedupbeingherfriend.

Asanadult,Rowan’sonlytruefriendsareprobablyLinaandLeo—andbyextension,

Leo’s boyfriend, Austin. He works with the three of them the most, usually tackling
projectsatthecompanyinasmallgroup.Austindoesn’tintrudeonRowantoomuch,Lina
knowswhentodrawhimoutofhismind,andLeoisalwaysgoodforajokethatshouldn’t
befunnybutis.Herarelyseesanyofthemoutsideofwork,though.He’snotsureifit’sby
choiceornot;hegoesalongonbarnights,happyenoughtosimplybearoundthem—they
lethimbetheobserverheis,listeningbutnotneedingtojointheconversation.Hedoesn’t
usuallyfeeltheneedtohelpmovethingsalong;hisroleispassive.There’snoreasonfor
himtogetinvolvedinanything.

“You’reawfullyquiet.Stillasleep?”Jenasks,rollinghercurlsintoamessybunwhen

theyhitaredlight.

“I’mfine,”Rowanreplies,notwillingtotalkaboutit.There’snothingwrongwithme,

hethinks.OrhowImakefriends.

“Okay.Well,wehavethreedifferentcateringeventstoday,soI’mgoingtoberunning

around for most of the morning. You’ll be at the shop with a cashier; Stephen will be
workinginthebackwithyou.”

Heresiststheurgetogroanattheman’sname.Isheworkingeveryday?Hewonders

ifJenwilllethimcheckthefullschedule.Somethingtellshimshewon’t.She’ssmartthat
way.It’sprobablywhysheonlygavehimhisschedule,withoutanyoftheotherworkers
onit.DidsheknowI’dhateStephen?Hethinkssheprobablydid,consideringthemanis
hispolaropposite.

Stephen shows up barely earlier than the last time; he’s there fifteen minutes before

opening, still smelling like he bathed in alcohol. He seems to do his work well, which
Rowangrudginglyadmitstohimself.Themanmaybealcoholicanddevil-may-carebut
heatleastknowshowtomopthefloorsproperly.Ifonlyhedidn’tsmellsobad.

“Hey,Ro—didyoucleanoutthecoffeemachinelastnight?”Jencallsfromthewalk-

in,whereshe’spullingpremadepastriesforhercateringevents.

Hisheartsinks.Hehadn’teventhoughtaboutthestupidmachine—bothbecauseit’s

new and because he just…hadn’t. It’s in the front, though, so he knows it was his
responsibility.HeopenshismouthtoapologizeandthenStephenpipesupfromhisplace
overamixingbowl.

“It’sclean!”

Rowanshootsthemanaglare.

“Idon’tneedyoucoveringforme,”hemutters,grabbingatrayforcookies.Stephen

justsmirks,leaningoverthecounter.Themovemakeshisarmsseemevenbigger.

“I’mnot.Itisclean.Itneededtobedone,soIcleanedit.”

Shit.Rowan turns away, pretending to look for something, feeling a hot flush spread

over his cheeks. When did he even get the chance? He can’t remember seeing Stephen
clean it or even hearing the other man emerge from the back during Rowan’s cleaning
routineinthefront.Hefeelslikeanidiot.

Jenemergesfromthewalk-in,armsloadedwithboxes,andshesighsasshesetsthem

downonthemetaltableforamoment.

“Okay.Threegigs—anofficeparty,abirthday,andsomesortofcollegeclubmeeting.

I’ll be out until one o’clock, so you’ll be facing the lunch rush alone. Think you can
handleit?”

Shedoesn’taddresseitherofthemspecificallybutRowanknowswhoshe’stalkingto.

He’sthenewbiehere.

“Don’tworry.YouknowI’vebeentrainingforthissincewewerekids,”hereminds

her,unabletohelpthelittlejabatStephen.I’mactinglikeamiddleschooler,hethinks.As
ifhe’splayingagameoftryingtoone-uptheotherman.

“Youhavefun.”Stephensmiles,alreadyrollingoutcookiedough.“Iknowwherethe

fireextinguisheris.”

Jenlaughsandsaysgoodbye—Stephenholdsthedoorforherasshegoestoloadher

carandRowanisbothfrustratedandenvious.

Soon,it’slikeeverythinghethoughthewasamazingatdoinghasbeenthrownoutthe

window. Stephen finishes prepping his batch of cookies within five minutes; it takes
Rowansix.Stephenhasthecashregistersunlockedforthecashierthatgetsin;Rowanhad

completelyforgottenaboutthem.Allofhisconfidenceisbeingputtothetestandhefeels
likeStephenislovingit.

Rowaneventuallyrelocatestothefront,sincethere’smoreofaneedforhimthereand

lessofStephen.Hefindshimselfrelaxingjustthetiniestbit,abletodohisworkwithout
worrying about the other man being around to show him up. He sees a familiar face at
aroundteninthemorning—thegirlwiththepixiecutthathadbeensodistractedtheother
day.

“Hi.Um—Leslie,right?”

“Lucy,kid,”Stephenlaughs,somehowrightatRowan’selbow,nudginghim.Thepush

—which is probably not meant to be threatening—is backed by so much muscle that
Rowanfeelslikehe’sgoingtobruise.

Hisimmediatereaction isanger.He almostshovesStephen backinstinctuallybefore

herealizeswhathe’sdoing.

“Lucy.WhatcanIdoforyou?”Hisvoiceisstrained.He’sbarelycontaininghimself

fromexplodingatStephen.Whatisitaboutthisguy?Hejustpissesmeoff.

“Um…j-justasmallboxofmacaroons,please.Regularassorted.”Shelooksuncertain

andworried.

Great.NowI’malienatingthecustomers.Heputsonhisbestcustomerservicesmile,

filling the order as Stephen leans against the counter and chats with Lucy. He almost
overfillsthebox,he’ssodistracted.AllhecanwonderishowthehellStephenmanagesto
besoquietandsneakywhenhe’ssuchabigman.Andhowtheguyknowsexactlywhatto
doaroundtheshop,despitealwaysseemingtobetalkinginsteadofworking.Andhow—

“Youokayoverthere,Ro?”Stephencalls.

He’snotallowedtousethatnickname,Rowanthinks,thehaironthebackofhisneck

prickling. He doesn’t like the sound of it coming out of his mouth, even if it sounds
friendlyandcasual.Heknowstheintentbehindit.He’stryingtomakeRowanlookbad.

“Hereyouare,”Rowansays,forcinganothersmileandslidingtheboxtowardsLucy,

andStephenthankfullyleaveswhileRowanringsherup.

The day goes that way. Any time Rowan seems to make a slip, Stephen is there,

correctinghimwithasmileandstealingthecustomer’sattentionaway.It’sinfuriating.It’s
like he doesn’t think Rowan can handle himself. By eleven-thirty, with lunch traffic
nearing, Rowan is practically boiling. All the little mistakes are piling on top of one
another,stackinguplikeamountain.HefeelslikehecanbarelybreathewithoutStephen
polluting his space. He escapes the front when another cashier arrives, unfortunately
drawnintothebackbynecessity.

HeaskedJenaboutthatonthewayinthatmorning,whetherallofthecashierscould

workintheback,too.She’djusttoldhim,Cashiersarecashiers.Andthey’recollegekids.
Most of them barely have time to make ramen, let alone learn how to whip up custard
tarts. He accepted her point and the fact that he will, without fail, be forced to work
aroundStephenanytimethemanshareshisschedule.Whichseemslikeitwillbeevery
dayoftheweekforthenextmonthorso.Rowanfeelshisshoulderstenseatthethought.

“Whatareyoudoing?”

“Makingeclairs,”Rowansaysslowly,asifit’sobvious.Itistohim.Stephenfrownsa

little,handspausedoveramixedbowl.

“That’snot—”

“We’regoingtorunout,”Rowansaysbrusquely,measuringflour,“andthelunchrush

iscoming.”

“People don’t buy them for lunch,” Stephen snorts. “They usually buy the donuts, if

they’recollegekids,ortheybuycroissantsforsandwiches—”

“Listen,I’mnotgoingtoargueabout—”

“But you’re wrong,” Stephen says, glaring for the first time since they’ve met.

Somehow,thetinyshowofaggressionjustrilesRowanevenfurther.It’slikesomesortof
chemical signal for him to dial up the conflict. He isn’t even thinking about his words
whenhetalks,now.

“I’mnotwrong.I’mmakingsense.We’rerunningoutandI’mmakingmore.”

“Ifyoudothat,you’lltakeupspaceforthewrongthingandthenwe’lljustbetelling

peoplewedon’thavewhatthey’retryingtoorder.”

“What—how do you even know that? Do you have actual numbers or are you just

sayingI’mwrongtostartshit?”

“Startshit?”Stephensays,incredulous.Heleansoverthetable,jawtight.Hiseyesare

dark.“Whothehellhasbeenactinglikeachild,here?You’vebeenanassholefromday
one—”

“I’vebeenanasshole?Ididn’tshowuptoworkhungover.”

Hecanalmostheartheinsulthititsmark.Stephenshiftsback,white-knuckledhands

gripping the table. Rowan feels a rush of triumph flooding his veins. He almost doesn’t
careabouthowtheargumentstarted—it’sstupidanyway—becauseallheknowsisthathe
gothispointacross.He’slaidoutthefacts.He’sagoodfornothingdrunk,Rowanthinks,
taking up space in my family’s shop and wasting his pay at the bar. There are so many
otherpeoplewhodeservethismorethanhim.

He knows, suddenly, why he’s been so angry. Aside from the way Stephen always

seems to appear when he’s failing, it’s the fact that this is his family’s business. Their
livelihood.Heknowstheydoaswellastheycan,alwaysgivingbacktothecommunity
whenever possible. They even try to hire college kids exclusively for cashier positions,
knowingtheshopisn’tfarfromthecampusandwantingtohelpoutasmuchaspossible.
Sothefactthataforty-something-year-oldmanistakingupthejob,earningmoneyjustto
spend drinking and making a mess of himself, makes Rowan angrier than anything else
possiblycould.

“That’s it,” Stephen says shortly, grabbing Rowan’s bowl. The move takes him by

surprise and he doesn’t even immediately react, instead blinking as the item disappears
beforehiseyes.Hestandsagapeforamomentbeforelungingforit.

“Whatareyou—”

“Ifyou’renotgoingtostop,I’llhavetomakeyou,”Stephensays,turningtowardsthe

sink.

“That’sawaste!”Rowanyellsathim,furious.He’srunningacrossthetiledfloor,an

armoutstretchedtosnatchitback.

Stephenturnstolookathim,unimpressed,andthenRowanslips.Hishandslamsonto

thetable,barelycatchinghisweight.Stephenstops,lookingasifhe’sreadytohelphim
up,butRowancan’tstopthinkingaboutthestupidbowl.Hehasnoright.Hetriestograb
itfromhispositionbuthisfingersslipandthebowlclangsagainstthefloor,ringinginthe
small space. It bounces and rolls in a tight circle, flour and sugar diffusing over the
kitchen. Stephen stares down at Rowan, shocked, the powder clinging to both of them.
They’rebothbreathinghard.

Stephen’s eyes narrow, aggravation still clear on his features, and one of his wide

handshoistsRowanupbyhisupperarm.ThemanisleaningcloseandRowancansmell
whiskey,vanillaandspicecoveringhimwithasweetsheen.Hecanseethebarelinesat
the corners of Stephen’s eyes, branching out like rivers. He wonders if the man used to
laughmoreorifhe’salwaysbeenadrunk.

“Youcouldhave—”

“Letgo.Idon’tneedyourhelp,”Rowanhisses,pullingbackhisarm.Stephen’smouth

flattens into a line, displeased—but there’s something else in his expression. Rowan can
barelyidentifyithiddenbeneathlayersofaggravationanddislike—worry?

Beforeeitherofthemcansayanythingelse,there’sasharpnoiseandtheirgazesboth

shoot towards the back door. Jen is standing there, her purse thrown onto a hook,
disappointmentclearonherface.Shit.

“Whatthehellhappenedhere?”

Rowan can’t speak. He suddenly feels like a kid caught doing something wrong. It

bringsbackimagesofhisauntwhenhetriedtoputspidersinJen’sbedwhentheywere
ten—Youknowshe’sterrified,Rowan.Whywouldyoudothat?

Andjustlikewhenhewasten,he’sturnedaroundanddonesomethingheknowshe

shouldn’thave.Madeamessoftheplacehethoughthelovedsomuch,justforthesakeof
anargumentwithsomemanhecan’tstand.Andforwhat?Jenisbackafteramorningof
rushingaroundtownandshe’sgreetedbythesightofhercousinandemployeesquaring
off.

“Justanaccident,”Stephensayssmoothly,lettinggoofRowan’sarmasifeverything

is fine. Casual. He moves to the sink, starting the water and grabbing a mop from the
corner.“Myfault,really.Iwasmovingtoofast.”

He even makes excuses better than me. Jen is still staring at Rowan, though, clearly

unconvinced. He thinks he can see some sort of old exhaustion in her expression, like
she’dknownthiswouldhappen.Hehatesthathe’sactedpredictably,lettingherdownby
beingtoo…him.Heknowsbetterthantoletpersonalissuesgetinthewayofwork.Orat
least,hethoughtheknewbetter.

“It was really my mistake,” Rowan says grudgingly, “I might need to go over a few

thingswithyououtsideofwork.”

“Yeah,oryoucouldtalktoStephen,”shesays,andheknewshewouldsayit,“since

he’sbeenworkinghereforawhile.Heknowswhathe’stalkingabout.”

“Yeah.Ofcourse.”

Stephen is studiously ignoring them. Either out of respect or disinterest, the man is

close-mouthed,cleaningupthemesstheymade.Jensighsthroughhernose,armscrossed
overherchest.

“Ineedyoubothtorealizesomething,”shesayscalmly,waitingforStephentopause.

Oncehedoes,shelooksbetweenthebothofthem.“There’sarestaurantinspectioninfive
weeks.Atthesametime,wealsohaveamajorweddingtocater.”

What?

“Whywouldyoudoboth—”

“Okay.Doyouneedextrahands?”

Stephen cuts Rowan off with his question. God damn it. He feels frustrated all over

again.Hecantellthisisreallytherootoftheirissues—Rowanquestions,Stephenoffers
help,nomatterhowbadthesituationis.Rowanknowshewouldn’thaveagreedtohelpif
hiscousinhadbeenupfrontaboutthemessatthebakery.Rowanhasalwaysbeenproudof
hispolicytoletpeoplecleanuptheirownself-inducedmesses.Stephenseemstonotcare.
It’slikehe’sperfectlyfinegettingtangledupinanymessybusiness.It’sstupid.

“WhatIneedisforbothofyoutobeworkingtogetherbythetimethoseeventscome

around.That’sallIneed.Rowan,you’vebeenmakingtheserecipessincewewerefive.
Stephen,youknowbetterthananyonewhatourcustomersandworkdaysarelike.Ifyou
justworkedtogether,youcouldactuallybemoreeffective.”

She’s telling the truth. Rowan knows, logically, that everything she’s saying is right.

They do technically have the information needed to make things run smoothly, if they
worktogether.It’sjusttheworkingtogetherpartthat’shard.They’resodifferentitmakes
collaborationdifficult.

Butmaybehehastodoit.Ifhe’sgoingtoworkhere,helpinghisfamily,maybehejust

hastosuckitup.It’snotlikeI’msupposedtobefriendswiththeguy,hethinks.Ijusthave
toworkwithhim.

“Okay,”Rowanpromises,“Iunderstand.”

Hereallydoes.It’sjustputtingitintopracticethat’sgoingtobethehardpart.

heweekfliesby.It’salreadySundayandRowanisemotionallyexhausted,allofhis
mentalenergyspentontryingnottofightStepheneverystepofeveryday.They’ve

managedtoworkitout—barely—eachofthemtakinguphalfatable,silentlygoingabout
their business. By now, Rowan knows the baking schedule and Stephen doesn’t have to
tellhimhe’swrongasmuch.It’salmostacomfortablepartnership.Almost.

Rowan wakes up early Sunday morning, the now-engrained schedule prompting him

outofbedwhetherhelikesitornot.Aftercheckinghismessages—onefromLina,talking
aboutLeoandAustinbeingdisgustinglycute—hegoestoshower,takinghistime.When
he makes his way to the house, Jen is already visible in the kitchen window, red hair a
tangleofcurls.

“You’reupearly.”

“Notbychoice,”shemutters.She’sstillinsweatpantsandatanktop.“MomandDad

spendSundaysout.UsuallygototheFarmer’sMarketandtalktofriends.”

“Oh.Guesswehavetheplacetoourselves,then.”

“We’re practicing a few desserts today,” Jen says, seemingly ignoring his comment.

Hetakesitinstride,noddingashestartspreparingtomakefruitsalad.

“Really?Why?Stilltryingtocopymymassivesuccess?”

“Shutup.We’restartinginanhour—youmaywanttochange.”

Change? It’s a strange thing to say. Still, Jen is half-asleep, so he assumes it makes

sense to her. He finishes making his breakfast and sets up on the kitchen table, cross-
legged, a tablet propped in front of him. Dean has sent him a schedule with little notes
written on the side. They make Rowan smile; they’re all dumb things like Lina isn’t
workingonthisifIcanhelpitandIthinkAustinistakingLeotoaconcert,thatshouldbe
funny.Itmakeshimfeellikehe’sstillthere,evenifonlyinspirit.It’sniceofDeantodo,
he knows, because the man is probably busy fielding a million requests from potential
projectpartners.

“You’re still in pajamas?” Jen asks, interrupting his train of thought. He blinks,

glancingathiswatch.

“No?Idon’tmindgettingflouronmycottonpants,Jen,they’renothardtowash—”

Acarhornhonksoutside,interruptingthem.Ithoughttheyweren’tgettingbackuntil

later?HecatchesJenlookingstartledandthensheholdsahandup,quick.

“I’llgo—startgettingthethingsoutforlemonbars,okay?”

“Yeah,yeah,”Rowancallsafterher,shakinghishead.Why’sshesotense? He starts

pulling things out of the pantry, preoccupied, and then he happens to glance out the
kitchen window. There’s a truck parked outside—small and red, considerably old but in
goodshape.It’snothisauntoruncle’s,asfarasheknows.Hefrowns,leaningfurtherto
tryandseewhereJenis.Whoisthat?Thefrontdooropenssuddenlythen,Jengoingon
abouttemperaturesandlemonjuice,andhisheartdropsintohisshoes.

“They’vedonesomegardeningsincelasttime,huh?”StephenasksJenashefollows

her,pullinghisjacketoffashegoes.Rowancanfeelhisrelaxedattitudeshrivelinglikea
grapeinthesun.Damnit,Jen.

Stephenhangshisdenimjacketonahookinthelivingroombeforehewalksintothe

kitchen, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He looks the same as he always has, mildly
batteredandscruffy.Theman’seyeslandonRowanandhepauses,apparentlycaughtoff-
guard.ItgivesRowanthesmallestbitofcomforttoknowthatatleasttheydidn’tplanthis
together. It’s just a tiny bit of comfort, though—not nearly enough for him to really
forgivehiscousinforherschemingortoforgiveStephenforbeinghisinfuriatingself.

Heknowswhatshe’sdoing.She’sdoneitsincetheywerebothsmall—settinghimup

in these kinds of situations, usually to do things he hates. She always tried to help him,
volunteering them both for a bake sale in middle school and signing them both up for a
pep club in high school. It was always her way of trying to get him to do things he
normally wouldn’t. She pushed him to try, always reminding him you won’t always be
around people who love you. You gotta know how to survive without me, Ro. In some
ways, of course, she’d been right—he learned how to make himself interact with others
just in time for college and when he moved, it wasn’t the gaping wound it could have
been.Hestillfelthomesickforawhilebuteventually,rememberingtosocializeandtryto
makefriends,hefoundfriendsandcoworkersthathelpedhimstaysane.

Nowthathe’sanadult,though,hecan’thelpbutfeelalittleresentfulthatshe’sstill

tryingtohelphimout,thatshefeelslikeshehasto.

“We’re making lemon bars,” Jen says, casting a glance between the two men in the

room.“Ro?”

Hehasachoice.Hecouldjustwalkaway;it’snotnecessaryforhimtobethereifJen

isgoingtoteachStephenanyway.But…I’mtheoneincontrolhere.Forthefirsttime,he
could actually know more than Stephen. This is his chance, he thinks, to show that he
knowsmore.Thechildinhimurgeshimtodoit—hewantstoshowthathe’sthebestat
whathedoes—buthisadultmindrecognizesit’sadumbdecision.Hecouldberelaxingin
abubblebathinstead.

Butworkislifeforhim.Ifhe’snotgoodatwhathedoes,whybotherrelaxing?

“Youevermadelemonbarsbefore?”Rowanasks,startingtounwrapastickofbutter.

“Neverhadthepleasure,”Stephenconcedes,lookingalittlelessonedge.Jenalmost

audiblysighsinrelief.ShecastsRowanabrieflook,botheyebrowsraised,asiftosayit’s

notthatbad,isit?

Once they get started, it really isn’t. Either because he’s a guest in someone else’s

houseorbecauseheknowswheretheystand,Stephendoesn’tsaymuchduringthelesson.
He follows Rowan’s instruction without question, careful to stay out of the other man’s
space.

Itshouldfeelgoodbutitdoesn’t.Somehow,thesilenceisugly.Itsitsintheairlike

poisonandRowanalmostcan’tstandit.Hecan’tfigureoutwhattheproblemis—it’snot
likeStephenisbeingrudeordismissive.Infact,heismorerespectfulthanhe’sbeensince
theyfirstmet.Rowanwondersifthat’swhyhefeelsstrange—it’slikeaone-eightyturn
that’sthrownhimoff-balance.Thepersonhe’sgrownaccustomedtobeingaround,ifonly
for a short span of time, is no longer someone he knows. He hates that he feels so
awkward around Stephen like this. It’s like there’s two of me, he realizes, feeling a little
guilty.There’snoonetomakemetalk.Ortojokewithme.

Bythetimetheypopthelemonbarsin,Rowandecideshecan’tstickaroundwithout

atleastchangingoutofhispajamas.

“I’llberightback,okay?”

Jennods,alreadyhelpingStephencleanup,talkingaboutwhatthey’llmakenext.

Rowantakeshistimegettingbacktotheguesthouse.Partofhimwantstostaythere

—afterall,there’snoreasonforhimtostickaroundwhenthey’retechnicallydone—but
somethingtugshimback.He’snotsurewhat—it’snotlikeheowesStephenanything.Or
Jen,forthatmatter.

He changes quickly, debating at the door to the guest house for almost five minutes,

andthenthrowsthedooropentogoback,shakinghishead.Asmuchashedoesn’twant
to admit it, he doesn’t want to spend the day stuck in his own head. He can’t. There’s
nothing for him to do and he has to do something, even if that something is socializing
withamanhedoesn’tquitelike.

Hegetstothebackdoorandpauses,noticingsomethingontheground.Itlookslikea

keyring.Hestoopstopickitupandbarelyhearsasuddenvoicefrominside.

“Ican’t!”

“Why not?” Jen asks, muffled through the door. Rowan pauses, hesitating, unsure of

whethertointerruptornot.Whatevershe’stalkingaboutwithStephensoundsserious.

“Melissa barely sees me at all, Jen. Her visits consist of talking about her

disappointmentinmeandactingsorryformebeinghungoverordrunk.”

Melissa?Rowanleansagainstthedoor,wondering.Heguessesit’sanex.It’sstrange

to think of Stephen with a…girlfriend. Or wife. He can barely take care of himself, it
seems.Atleastherecognizesit,though.

“Listen,Iknowyou’redivorcedbutMel’snotgonnastopcaringaboutyou.Youwere

togetherforyears,Stephen.AndJordi—”

“It’sonlyamatteroftimebeforeJordistartslisteningtohermom,”Stephensays,his

laugh sharp and humorless. “And she’d be smart to. Kid’s in college. She has a life to

live.”

“You’re her father, Stephen. And I may not know much, but I know you’ve always

triedtodorightbyher.Sheknowsthat.”

I should go in, Rowan thinks. He wants to stay outside but feels guilty for

eavesdropping. And he’s feeling something else, something unexpected. Sympathy? He
almost doesn’t want to think about the fact that Stephen may have been normal once.
Happilymarried.Withachild.IfJensaysthemancaresabouthisdaughter,heprobably
does—and Stephen seems to be harboring a lot of doubt and pain about the entire
situation.Maybethat’swhyhedrinks.

Rowan makes noise as he enters the house, hoping it’s enough to give them both

notice.Whenhewalksin,he’srelievedtoseethatbothStephenandJenlookascasualas
theypossiblycould,giventhecircumstances.Hefeelslikehewon’tlookasguiltybeing
normalaroundthem,sincethey’rebothcalm.

“What’s next?” Rowan asks Jen, trying not to make it seem monumental. He still

knowsit’ssignificant,thoughthefactthathecamebackatallwhenhehadthechanceto
leave.Jenscrutinizeshim,toyingwithabottleofvanillaextract.Hehopesshecan’ttell
thatheheardtheirconversation.

“Justsomemacaroons.Iusuallydothebatches,butStephenneedstomakesurehecan

getthemright.”

“Okay.”

Hestartstheprocess,hopingStephencantellthathe’sopentotalking,butthemanis

close-mouthed. Is it because of whatever is going on with his his ex-wife and kid? Is it
because he doesn’t trust me? The questions fly through his head and things rapidly
deteriorate.Hefeelslikehe’sstuckinapitofendlesssilenceandawkwardnessandhejust
wantstoleave.Thankfully,Jenintervenes.

“What was it you said Jordi was majoring in?” Jen asks Stephen, the question

innocent.

“Art—um,painting,Ithink.Kid’schangedhermindatleasttwicealready.Sheloves

everythingtoomuchtopick.”Hesmilesbriefly,fondnesssofteninghisfeatures.

Rowannods,thinking.Shemustbegoingtocollegefaraway,ifit’sforart.Herealizes

Jenisstaringathimandhestarts,realizinghismistake.

“Um—Jordiis…?”

“Mydaughter,”Stephensays,measuringoutsugar,“Goodkid.She’stwentynow.Still

akidbut…she’slearningthings.Growingup.Evendidhertaxeslastyear.”

“That’smorethanJendidatthatage,”Rowanvolunteersjokingly,tryingtoextendas

muchofatruceaspossible.He’snotthekindofguywhowouldbeadickaboutsomeone
else’s kid, especially when he doesn’t know them. It certainly seems like Stephen cares
abouther,anyway.He’sobviouslylesstensewhenhe’stalkingabouther.

“Hey, at least I was going out on the weekends,” Jen snorts. “You were holed up in

your dorm all freshman year. I remember when you went back to your room after that

chemistrytestandimmediatelypassedoutonthecouchlikeadeadman.”

“Oh,please.AtleastIdidn’tshowuptomycommunicationsfinalwiththreehoursof

sleepandrumbreath.”

Hefreezesassoonashesaysit.Shit.RowanimmediatelyglancesatStephen,unsure.

DidIcrossaline?Isthereevenalinetocross?Theothermanjustsmilesattheirteasing,
shakinghisheadashemixesthebowlonthetable.

“Ihaven’tevengonetoJordi’sschool,”Stephensnorts,“butfromwhatshesays,it’sa

nightmare.”

“You’veneverbeen?”Rowanasks,tryingnottosoundtooconfrontational.Hecan’t

helptheprickleofjudgmentrisinginhischest.

“Notenoughtime.”

Notenoughtime?Healmostcan’tbelievetheanswer.It’stheshittiestthinghe’sever

heard. If she’s his daughter, he should make time. There’s a familiar burn rising in his
heart.Hebitesitbackbutthebitternessisthere,remindinghim.Allthetimeshewasakid
at school, all the parent-teacher conferences with embarrassed teachers and his ever-
patientauntanduncle.

Hisfatherhaddied.Hismotherhadleft,eitherdepressedorangryorsimplyunableto

care for her son. She sent back money at sporadic intervals, vaguely alluding to her
situationoraddinginstockquotesaboutsurvivingadversity.Theymeantnothingtohim;
hewastooyoungtocarepastthefactthatshewasgone.Hisauntandunclebecamehis
parentsandJenwashissister.Hegrewupknowinghowtobeself-sufficient.Therewas
alwaystheknowledgethathedidn’thavewhathisfriendshad—notruerelationshipwith
his mother. She was still alive. Somewhere. It was just that she hadn’t cared enough to
stickaround.

HearingStephentalkabouthisdaughterwhilestillshowingupdrunktowork,talking

abouthavingnotimetofixhisrelationshipwithher,justmakeshimangryalloveragain.
It’slikehepretendstocareforthepity.Isthiswhatmymotherisdoing,somewhereinthe
world?Hehatesthathe’sthinkingaboutheragain—thathe’sbeendraggedbackintohis
childhoodissuesbysomemanhebarelyknows.

“Maybeyoushouldmaketime,”Rowansayswithforcedlightness.HeignoresJen’s

sharplook,insteadcontinuing.“Youknow.Takedaysoffwork.Actuallyvisither.She’d
probablyloveit.”

Stephen is quiet. Jen nudges Rowan away from the man to stand in front of the pan

they’vereadied,hermovealittlemoreforcefulthannecessary.ShestartshelpingStephen,
spacingthedessertsevenly.

“Didn’tyousayshevisitedtheotherweek?Springbreak?”Jenasks,tryingtoredirect

theconversation.

“Yeah.Wehadbreakfast.Withhermother.”

“Oh?You’remarried?”Itslipsoutwithoutwarning.Rowanwantstobacktrackoutthe

doorandtotheguesthouse.Great.Idon’tneedtohearwhat’scomingnext.Ijustmade

thingsworse.

“No. Divorced,” Stephen says tensely. Jen turns to fully glare at Rowan, her gaze

clearlysaying,Whatareyouthinking,shutup.Thesentimentisclear.

“Well, I’ll bet Jordi was glad to get away from the campus,” Jen says evenly,

obviouslytryingtocomeupwithsomethingmorepositivetotalkabout.“Um,youknow,
Iwasthinkingaboutofferingsandwiches.Wemakecroissants.Chickensaladorhamand
cheeseorsomething.Whatdoyouthink?”

“I…I don’t think we have time to make sandwiches every day. And you’d have to

figure out a supplier for everything outside of the bread, which could get confusing to
keep track of,” Stephen manages, obviously still gloomy but allowing himself to be
distractedbyherquestion.

“You’re probably right,” she says quickly, “It was just a thought. You know, you’ve

always mentioned that certain times of day call for different batches—maybe we should
drawupaspreadsheet,justincaseweevergrowandgetmorehelp.”

“Iguess.”

Themoodisofficiallysoured.NothingJensaysseemstopullStephenoutofhisfunk.

Eventually, the macaroons are done and Jen insists on sending the man home with a
portionofthepastriesmadethatday.ShewalkshimtohistruckandRowanstaysinthe
kitchen,pretendingtocleanup.Hecanhearthefrontdoorcloseandheholdshisbreath,
knowingwhatcomesnext.

“Ro.”

“Notnow,Jen.”

She pauses, leaning against the entryway to the kitchen. She doesn’t speak again,

watchinghimrinseabowl,untilhegivesin,sighing.Heturnstoherandraiseshisbrows
toletherknowhe’slistening.

“Youknow,he’snotabadguy.Iknowhebringsupbadmemories—”

“Yeah,noshit,”Rowansayssharply,immediatelyregrettinghistone.It’snotherfault.

“Ididn’texpecthimtobehere.Ididn’texpecttotalkaboutthat,either.”

“I get it,” Jen says carefully, “I really should have told you. I just know you’re

stubbornandifI’dtoldyou,youprobablywouldhavedisappeared.Ijustwantedtoshow
youhe’snotasbadasyouthinkheis.Ididn’t…expectforthistohappen,either.”

It’snotquiteanapology.Hedoesn’tneedone,though.They’recloseenoughthathe

understandswhyshedidn’tsayanythingandheknowstheunwelcomememoriesarejust
that—intrudersinanotherwiseaverageconversation.

“Don’t worry,” Rowan says, sighing as he leans against the sink. “It wasn’t your

fault.”

“IthinkMomandDadareback,”Jenrealizes,turningtowardsthedoor.Thesoundof

atruckrollingagainstgravelechoesinthedistance.

“I’mnotmakingdinner,”Rowanjokes,smiling.Jensmilesback.

Itdoesn’tchangewhathappened,butitmakesitjustalittlebitbetter.

estaresattheplasticcontainersonhiskitchentable,eyesburningwiththeeffortof
keepingthemopen.AllhecanhearareRowan’squestionsfloatingaroundhismind,

theunimpressedandangryexpressionontheman’sfacesearedintohismemory.

Hewouldbelyingifhehadn’tbeeninterestedtoseewhatthenewguywasallabout.

Jenhadalwaysbeenunderstanding;hejustexpected,somehow,thathercousin—he’slike
abrother—wouldbethesame.Hecouldn’thavebeenmorewrong.Fromtheverystart,
Rowan was the complete opposite. The man was cool and collected, always seeming to
thinkmoreofhimselfthantheotherpeoplearoundhim.Rowanwasn’tnecessarilystuck
up;hecertainlygotalongwithcustomerswellenough.Itjustseemedlikeanytimehehad
to interact with Stephen, he acted cold and distant. Like Stephen had personally done
somethingthatoffendedhim.

GoingtoJen’swasthefinalstraw.Despitehisconfusion—andhell,evenannoyance—

atRowan’sbadattitudetowardshim,Stephenwassoldieringthroughupuntilthatpoint.
Eventhelittlefightatthebakeryhadn’tbeenserious;he’dhonestlyjustbeenfrustratedat
theman’sstubbornnessandhowhealmosthurthimself.Themomenttheyweretogether
outsideofwork,though,thingsjustseemedtogotoshit.DespiteJentryingtohelpthem
warmuptoeachother—ormaybejusttryingtogetRowantostopbeingajerk—theystill
ended up in dangerous territory. Stephen talked about Melissa and Jordi, the two sore
spotsinhislife,andRowansomehowbecameangeredbyit.Stephenstilldoesn’tknow
whatsettheothermanoff;allheknowsisthejudgmenthefelt,thelooks,thedispleased
questions—theyallbroughteverythingcrashingbackdownonhim,remindinghimhewas
nothingmorethanafailureineveryoneelse’seyes.

Stephen ends up leaving the pastries on his counter, snatching his keys back off the

tableandshrugginghisjacketoverhisshoulders.There’scashinhispocketandanopen
bardownthestreet,sohegoes.Heknowswhathe’llfind—thesamefaces,thesamedirty
corner, the same dim lighting and unhappy smell of late night customers shrouded in
cigarettesmoke.It’sthepithecrawledintoyearsagoandit’sthepithereturnsto.

Aregularnodsathimwhenhegetsin.Thebartenderalreadyknowshisorder,pausing

afterflippingoveraglasstogiveStephenthechancetoobject.Hedoesn’t.Theglassis
filled before him, honey—brown and bitter. He stares at the liquid for a moment before
tipping the glass, throwing the burn down the back of his throat. The smoke in the bar
startstoclingtohisskin,pricklingathiseyes,buthecan’tbringhimselftocare.

“Drinkingpartner?”

He’salmosttootiredtolookatthespeaker.Asithappens,it’samanStephendoesn’t

recognize. Probably a passerby, traveling through Oriole on the way to a big city.
Someonestayingthenightatamotelbeforegoingbacktotheairport.He’snotunpleasant
looking—in fact, he’s a bit too pleasant looking. Gray suit and tie, youthful face and
golden blond hair. The look of someone who achieved success in his twenties and has
beenglidingbyastheyearspass.

“It’safreebar,”Stephenreplies,stillinpossessionofenoughfacultiestoberelatively

polite.He’snotopposedtosittingnexttosomeone.Talking,even.Howeverangryorsad
he is, he can never turn away human contact—especially when it’s with someone who
knowsnothingabouthisissues.

The man smiles and orders something, sliding his blazer off to throw it over one

leg.“I’mChris.”

Stephendoesnotlaugh.Hedrownshismisplacedmirthinwhiskey.Chris?Nexthe’s

goingtotellmeheworksin—

“I’masmallbusinessowner.Marketing,webdevelopment..”

He does laugh then, somehow managing not to choke on his drink. The man looks

pleased,asifthey’rebothentertainedbythesamething,butStephendoubtsit.Thisman
iswhatIwouldlooklikeifIwereamodelmanandhusband,Stephenthinks,shakinghis
head.

“Thatmustbenice.”

“Itis.We,uh—wetakealotoffamousclients.Thecompany’sgettingbigenoughthat

Icanactuallystarttakingtimeoff,youknow?”Chrissmiles,knockingbacksomeofhis
beer.

Stephen doesn’t answer. What would he say? I haven’t had a vacation since high

school. He worked through college, then after to support Melissa and Jordi, and now he
stillworkstohelppaywhatscholarshipscan’tandkeepthetinytownhouseheoccupies.
There’snotevenenoughmoneyforhimtobuyrealgroceriessomeweeks.

“And where are you from, Chris the small business owner?” Stephen asks, feeling a

farawaybuzzstarttoemerge.Heboltsdownthelastofhisdrink,raisingafingerasthe
bartenderwalkshisway.

“Seattle,”Chrissays,turningtofaceStephenmorefully,“It’sanicelittleplace.Great

views.Whataboutyou?”

“Here,” Stephen says, gesturing vaguely around him as if he’s talking about the air.

“You’rejustpassingthroughorsomething?”

“Yeah.Hadbusiness,”Chrissays,tappinghisbottlesoftly.“Backtoworktomorrow,

unfortunately.Yousaidyoulivehere—wheredoyouwork?”

Healmostsays,Why would you assume I work? but he knows it would be rude and

unnecessary.Chrisdoesn’tmeananyharm.Yet.

“Bakerydowntown.It’saprettypopularlocalplace.”

“Wow—oh,” Chris laughs, this time smiling inwardly as if Stephen said something

else.

“What?”he’stootiredtobedefensive.Hejustasks,bland.

“I, uh. Didn’t expect that. I mean, no offense, you just…look like you’d spend time

choppingwood,notbakingcakes,”Chrischuckles.

LikeIhaven’theardthatbefore.

“Iworkout.”

“Yeah,Ididn’tmissthat,”Chrislaughs.

Theconversationisslowlydevolving.Stephenturnsbacktohisdrink,tryingtoignore

thesournessonhistongue.Hefeelslikethisisjustabadreplayofeveryfailedattempt
fromastrangertoflirt.It’snotlikehe’sdeadsetonbeingalonefortherestofhislife;in
fact, there’s nothing he’d like better than to have a relationship. A chance to do things
right. It’s just that everything in his life seems to be wrong and all of the meetups and
chatshe’severhadhavefollowedthatsametheme.

“So,you,um…havefamilyaroundhere?”

Rookiequestion,Chris,Stephenthinks,millingaswigofwhiskeyaroundhismouth.

“Notreally,”Stephenanswers.“Kid’soffatcollege.”

Maybe he’s asking for it, not mentioning Melissa. He just isn’t in the mood; it feels

goodtoleavethatpartofhissordidhistoryinthedark.Thisstrangerdoesn’tneedtoknow
anything,especiallythefactthathe’sadivorcee.

“Oh.Justyou,huh?Thatmustgetboring.”

“Sure.Ikeepbusy.Work.”

He knows his answers are getting shorter and shorter, fueled by some sort of heavy

gloom that weighs on his shoulders. He can’t believe Chris hasn’t caught onto it yet.
Usuallyatthispoint,peoplegiveup.Hewondersforatiny,hopefulsecond,ifthistime
willbedifferent.

Chris’shandinchestowardhimstealthilyalongthebar,makingsomenonsensemove

that’sprobablymeanttobeaninnocentexcuse.

“Well,youknow,I’mjusthereforthenight…”

TherestofChris’swordsdieinStephen’sear.There’saringontheman’sfinger.A

ring.

Stephen shuts down almost immediately. He doesn’t know the context, sure, but it’s

most definitely a sign of some sort of committed relationship. The way it shines in the
lightismoretruthfulthananythingelseStephenhasdealtwithtoday.It’sreal,expensive
metal.

Atfirst,Stephenisangry.Wouldhehavejustpretended?Doeshedothisoften?Didhe

actuallycareaboutmyanswerstohisquestions?Thecrushingsorrowinterruptshisinner
monologuetooquicklyafterthat,remindinghimthathe’sbeingstupid.You’renotworth

someone’sfullattention.Oreventheirloyalty.Whatdidyouexpect?Thatsomeguywould
actually come up to you, wanting something real? The voice chews away at him from
withinandhe’sleftsittingatthebar,glasswarminginhishand.

“Youhavefun,”Stephensaysevenly,downingthelastbitsofhiswhiskey,theworld

muffledaroundhim,“andasafetrip.”

He’sstillwalkingeasilywhenheheadsintoanotherbartwominutesaway,nursinghis

bruised ego and bad mood on a different chair with a different glass. It’s still whiskey,
though,becausenowhe’sdeterminedtogetplastered.Threehoursandtwootherplaces
later,hisheartnolongerachesandheachieveshisgoal.

DOESN

’

SLEEP

.Hegetskickedfromthelastbaratalmostthreeinthemorningandhe

somehowendsupwithacaseofbeer,keyingathisdoortogetitopen.Heblowsthrough
too much before he stops, staring at the walls of his room before getting up to shower.
He’dnevershowuptoworkdirtyandunkempt,nomatterhowbadhisstateofmindis.
Heeventhinkstoshoveacinnamonroll—leftoverfromSaturday’sbatch—intohismouth
beforeheleaves.Hedoesn’twanttodrive,sureit’sabadidea,andbesidesit’sonlysix-
thirtyinthemorning.Hestartstowalk.It’lltakehimawhiletogettowork,butheshould
bethererightwhenJenandRowanshowup.

It’sonhiswaythatherealizeswhyhe’sbeeninsuchashittymood.Ofcourseit’sa

stupidappthatremindshim.Thenotificationpingscheerily,barelystartlinghimoutofhis
black fog, and he stares at the words. Melissa’s birthday. He feels an insurmountable
miasmaofemotions:joy,resentment,guilt,self-hatred.Healmostcan’tbelieveheforgot.
Partofhimwondersifhejustpretendedhe’dforgot,hisdrunkmindpushingthethought
awayuntilitwashiddenbehindsomuchofhislate-nightdrinking.

He texts her. A simple happy birthday, no emojis or alternate motives implied. He

waits,walkingfortenminutes,checkinghisphonereflexively.Heknowshowdumbitis
to be waiting for a reply but he can’t help it. Melissa’s birthday, like so many little
milestonesinhislife,islikeclockwork.Alwaysthere.Reliable.Nomatterhowshefeels
abouthimatanygiventime,thebirthdayisjustafact.Hekeepscheckinghisphoneashe
walks,waiting.

Hegetstothebakerybeforeseven,wonderingifheshouldgoinandgetstarted.He’s

abouttoopenthedoorwhenhehearsacarpullup—heturnstoseeJenwave,stillclearly
halfasleep,andthenRowangetsoutandthecarpullsaway.

What?

“You’reearly,”Rowannotes,aneyebrowarched.He’spullingakeyfromhispocket.

“Jen’sgoingtogobackforafewhours;she’sfeelinglikeshe’sgotacoldtoday…”

ThemantrailsoffandStephenblinks,notsurewhat’schanged.Hetakesthesilenceas

a chance to scrutinize Rowan. He’s slightly shorter than Stephen, a little leaner, his hair
chocolatebrownandjustalittlewavy.Healwayslooksalittletooneatforhisclothes—as
ifhe’smeanttobewearingasuitandtie.FromthelittlethatJenhasmentioned,itwould
make sense. The thing that really makes Stephen curious, though, is the man’s eyes.
They’re the same honey color as his cousin’s but there’s something more gold in their

depths.They look liquid.It makes Stephenwant to lean injust a little,to pick apart the
colorsandflecks—

“Are you drunk?” Rowan hisses, suddenly throwing the door open and yanking

Stepheninside.Themotionisdisconcerting.

“Whydi—”

“Ican’tbelieveyou’redrunk,”Rowanmutters,practicallyslamminghiskeysontothe

small back table before he rips his jacket off, yanking an apron from its hook. Stephen
raiseshiseyebrows,cementedinplace.Theothermanislikeaforceofnature.“No,you
knowwhat—Icanbelieve—”

“I’mnotdrunk,”Stephensaysquietlyeventhoughheknowsit’shalftrue.“I…didn’t

gettosleepitoff;Ihadalatenight—”

“Yeah, great, a late night. So I’m basically on my own today. Or most days, really.

God.”

“Hey. I never come to work fucked up,” Stephen says, aware of the irony. He starts

pulling an apron on, frustrated and tired, eyes stinging. Shit. Not now. He checks his
phone,notevensurewhathe’sexpecting.

“What?Doyouhavesomethingmoreimportanttodo?Byallmeans,”Rowansnaps,

noticingthemove,“it’snotlikeyou’dbemuchhelphere,anyway.Otherthanflirtingwith
everyonewhowalksinthedoor.Likethat’sactuallyuseful.”

“Stop,” Stephen says, not really able to put much force behind the word. He doesn’t

care. Nothing really touches him right now; not in his half-buzzed state. The alcohol is
wearingoffquickly,itsnumbingeffectrapidlydissipating.

“Stop what? Jesus. You know, I’ve told Jen about this. That you’re just one misstep

awayfromscrewingupeverything.Thisisourfamily—our—”

“Stop,”Stephenrepeats,barelyhearinganythinganymore.He’snotsureifhe’stalking

toRowanorhimself.Whateverthecase,hispleasdon’twork.

Somethinghottoucheshisfaceandheflinches.

“Areyou—”Rowanstarts,shockclearinhisvoice.

I’mfuckingcrying,Stephenrealizes,angryatthebetrayalbyhisstupidbody.Rowan

isfrozeninmotion,hisarmswaveringaboveabagofflour.Helooksbothappalledand
guilty.Atleastheshutup,Stephenthinksdistantly.Hehastheabsurddesiretolaugh.It
bubblesupinhisthroatandcomesoutinachokedsob,theresultmakinghimhorrified.

“Shit,”Rowansays,somehowvoicingbothoftheirfeelings,andthenheyanksachair

fromthecornerandpushesStephenintoit,almosthesitanttotouchtheman.“What—why
areyou—”

“It’s Melissa’s birthday,” Stephen says. It’s not what he planned on saying but it

somehowspillsfromhismouth,unwantedandblunt.That’snotit,though,hewantstosay.
It’smore.“Itextedher,andshedidn’tevenrespond.IfeellikeI’veruined…”Hestops,
worriedthathe’llstartcryingagain.

RowanlooksathimuneasilyandsomethinginhiseyestellsStephenthemanalready

knows his story. Rowan moves away, grabbing a coffee mug from the dish rack before
filling it with coffee. He grabs a croissant from the display case, shoving the items into
Stephen’shands.

“Eat.”

StephenstaresbackupatRowan,confusedandwithdrawn.

“Okay, fine. Let’s do this drunk,” Rowan sighs, scrubbing his hand over his face.

“Stephen.Whendidyoutexther?”

Stephenpullsouthisphoneandchecks.“About6:45thismorning.”

“AndwheredoesMelissalive?”

“Too far away for me to visit,” Stephen says, not sure what the man means. “I

don’t—”

“Okay.So,what?Aplanetrip?All-daydriving?”

“Driving,usually.”

Rowanlooksintense,likeheistryingtomakeapoint.“Right.Soshe’sprobablynot

eveninourtimezone,huh?”

Stephenpauses,fishingforwords,staringdownatthecoffeeinhishand.Isshe?

“I…”

“Soyousentheratextatthebutt-crackofdawnhere,”Rowancontinues,“andyou—

what? Think she hates you all of a sudden? She probably isn’t even awake yet. I’m
assumingthatyou’restilldrunkandnotthinkingclearly.”

“I’m not that drunk,” Stephen mumbles, even as he feels the dread in his chest

dissolvingasmallamount.Hebitesintothecroissant,suddenlyfamished.“You’retrying
totellmemyex-wifedoesn’thateme?”

“Imean,ifJensaysshedoesn’t,”Rowanpointsout,crossinghisarms.“Listen…I’m

sureyouhaveissuesbutthat’snoreasontogooutandpoisonyourselfeverynight.”

“It’snoteverynight.AndIdon’t—”

“Youdo,”Rowansaysfirmly,unwavering,“andyouknowwhatthatmeans.Youever

wanttoseeyourdaughtergetmarried?”

“OfcourseIdo—”

“Thenmaybethinkaboutstayingalive.Youknow,forhersake.Becauseit’snotlike

shegetsmuchofadadnow,whenhe’sdrunkandsorryhalfthetime,sohowdoyouthink
she’llfeelwhenyoudieatfiftybecauseyourlivergaveup?”

Ithitshimhard.Healmostcurlsoverwiththesuddenshameandpainhefeels.Ikeep

doingthistoher.Toallofthem,hethinks,thetearsthreateningtocomeback.Hepushes
themback,though,tryingtobuttonitaway.

“Hey—no.Stop.Cry.”

“What?”

“I can tell what you’re doing. Stop holding back. You feel shitty, yeah, because you

feellikeyou’renotdoingenough.Andyouaren’t,butthat’snotbad,okay?”

“How is that not bad? You’re not making any sense—” Stephen says hotly,

embarrassed,frustrated,andtired.

“Youcanbenotokay,”Rowansaysfirmly,emphasizingeachword,“Butyouneedto

accept that. You need to take responsibility for not being fine and you need to get help.
Change.Ifyoudon’tsayIfeellikeshit,howthehellareyougoingtostartchangingthat?
Howareotherpeoplesupposedtohelpyou?”

“I don’t expect anyone’s help,” Stephen says shortly, downing the rest of the coffee

andfinishingthecroissant.Hestartsgettingtowork,surethathe’sstableenoughtoface
theday.

Rowan stays by the chair for a minute, seeming frustrated but somehow patient in a

wayhe’sneverbeenbefore.

“Fine.Butpeoplearegoingtowanttohelpyou.Whentheydo,maybetryacceptingit.

It’ll do you good and you won’t seem like a dick,” Rowan says lightly, turning his
attentiontothefirstbatchoftheday.

It’soffhandandunworriedbutitstillgetstoStephenlikeatinyflame.Itwarmshim

somehow,inawaythecoffeehadn’t.Why?Hecan’tbringhimselftothinkaboutitjust
yet,sohejustgetsbacktowork,resolvingtothinkaboutitlater.

omaybehedoesn’thateStephenasmuchashethoughthedid.

“Really? Last I heard, you hated his guts,” Lina says. He can hear her amusement

throughthephoneline.Itmakeshimfrownreflexively.

“I mean…he was kind of…he just rubbed me the wrong way. He seemed like a

walkingdisaster—whichhestillis;Iknowthathasn’tchanged—it’sjust…”

“Justwhat?Youfinallyrealizednooneisasperfectasyouare?”sheasks.Ifitwere

anyone else, he’d think they were being defensive. The way Lina says it, though, he
knowsshedoesn’tmeantobeangryorrude.She’sjustpointingoutthetruth.

Which,asmuchashehatestoadmit,isreallywhatheneedstohear.

“I just…he has an ex-wife. And a kid in college, who apparently is going to art

school.”

“Ah.Theartschoolgotyou,didn’tit?”

“That’s not the point,” Rowan says, even though he’s already smiling. “I mean…he

hadalifeonce,probably.Happiness.It’sjust…somethinggotscrewedupalongtheway
andnowhespendseverynightdrinking.Heshowedupdrunktoday.Like,actuallydrunk.
Asifhe’dstartedattenandhadn’tstoppeduntilrightbeforehewalkeduptothestore.”

“Jesus.Howishestillalive?”

“Iknow,right?That’swhatItoldhim.Imean,Ihadtoremindhimhehasakidwho

probably wants him around for awhile,” Rowan mutters, as he towels off his hair. His
roomisdim,litonlybyalampheleftonwhilehewenttoshower.

“Didyoureallytellhimthat?”

“Yeah.Why?”Rowanasks,caughtoffguardbyhersurprise.

“Imean,gettingyoutointeractwithpeopleislikepullingteeth.Ican’tbelieveyounot

onlyinteractedwithsomeonebutalso,like…triedtohelpthem.”

“I’m not that antisocial,” Rowan argues, dropping onto his bed heavily. Even as he

saysithefrownsattheceiling,thinking.

She’s partially right. He makes a point to stay to himself, other than once-a-month

drinkswithcoworkers.Nothinghasevertrulyinterestedhimenoughaboutstrangers;he’s

certainlyneverwantedtotrytohelpsomeoneinthewayhe’dreachedouttoStephen.Not
that he thinks about it. What the hell was I doing, pretending I knew what his daughter
thought? That it was even my responsibility to help drag him out of the hole he was
sinkinginto?

HeblamesitpartiallyonJen.NomatterhowstandoffishRowanwasasakid,orhow

toughtheybothwereraisedbyhisaunt,Jenwasalwaysasoftieatheart.Sheevencried
for Rowan, one afternoon at recess when some kid pushed him off the slide and he
dislocated his shoulder. Rowan was carried off to the nurse’s office and Jen appeared
barely two minutes later, knuckles scratched from punching the other kid in the face.
Whenshecried,itwasn’tbecauseofthebloodonherhands;itwasbecause,asshesaid,
theyweremeantoyoufornoreason.Youneverdidanything.

He has to wonder if he’s that bully, now. If maybe jumping to conclusions about

Stephen was more of a jerk move than he originally thought. After all, Stephen is
incredibly helpful around the store. He knows his way around the kitchen and provides
greatcustomerservice—Rowan’ssureStephenhasmadesomeofthecustomersregulars,
too.There’snodoubtingthatStephenloveswhathedoesatthebakery.He’sneverlethis
personalissuesseepintohiswork—atleastnotbeforeRowanfoundhimatthebackdoor.

Aftertellinghimhewasn’tdoingenoughforhisdaughter,Rowanrealizes.

“IthinkImighthavescrewedup.”

“Whatdidyoudo?”Linaaskspatiently.

“Ithink…Iprobablysaidsomethingdumb,withoutrealizinghowmuchitwouldaffect

him,andhewentoffandgotdrunkthatnightandneverhappenedtoget…un-drunk.”

“Sober,”Linaremindshim,sighing,“Andyoucan’ttakeresponsibilityforeveryone,

Rowan.Thoughit’sgoodthatyourealizeyoumighthavebeenajerk.Listen—whatever
you’rethinking,it’snotyourjobtofixthisman.”

“Iknow.Believeme,Iknow.Ijust…thinkmaybehe’susedtohidingthefactthathe

needsfixing.Ithinkhe’susedtootherpeoplebackingawayfromhispain.Maybehejust
needssomeonetokickhimintheass.”

“Please,fortheloveofGod,donotassaultyourcoworker.”

“YouknowwhatImean.”

“Yeah. I do,” Lina says, “and I know you’re too stubborn to argue with, so I’ll just

leave you with this: whatever you do, know that you’re letting someone in. Trust works
both ways. If you want him to trust you, or even like you, you’re going to have to trust
himandlikehim,too.It’llbeterrifyingandhardbutyou’regoingtohavetodoit,ifyou
wanttohelp.”

“Iknow,”Rowanmurmurs,turningtolookoutthewindow.Thestarsarejustvisible

and he fumbles for the lamp, flicking it off so he can see the sky better. “It’s risky and
dumbandIhavenoreasonto.Ijust…thinkmaybeIcoulddosomegood,ifonlyalittle.
Besides,I’mnotevenstaying.”

“Justbecareful,”Linarepeats,alittlequieter,“anddon’tlietohim.Okay?”

“Yeah.Haveagoodnight,”Rowansays,stiflingayawn.

“Youtoo,Rowan.Anddon’tforgettobringuscupcakeswhenyoucomeback.”

Hegoestobedafterhangingup,hisonlythoughtsaboutwhathe’sgoingtodowhen

heseesStephenatworkthenextday.Whetherheshouldtrytopushthesubjectanymore.
Somewhere between drifting and completely relinquishing himself to dreamland, he
decidesit’sworthit.Bythetimehewakesup,hecan’trememberwhy.

OWAN

inthemiddleofthrowingtogetherabatchofeclairs,barelykeepingontopof

the lunch rush. Someone came in and ordered almost the entire case and they have a
regularthatcomesinatoneo’clockeveryweekdaywithoutfailtoorderahalfdozen.All
hecandoisfranticallythrowthingsintoabowl,tryingtokeepeverythingstraightwhile
tryingtokeepupwiththeotherpastriesdemandinghisattention.

Shit,Iforgotthevanillaextract.Hepracticallysprintstothepantry,gladthekitchenis

smallandtherearen’tamillionpastrychefsrunningaround.Hereachesforthebottleon
thehighshelf,armstretchedabovehishead,andjustashedoes,somethingonthetoptips
over. He flinches, preparing for whatever it is to hit him, and then he suddenly feels a
pressagainsthisbackandasmalloof.

Whenhegetsthenervetopeelhiseyesopen,heseesoneofStephen’sarmsstretched

overhishead,maneuveringsomethingbackontotheshelf.

“Oh.”

“Careful. Next time it might take your head,” Stephen says, tone serious, but he’s

grinning. Rowan can’t even answer. He’s stuttering—mentally—from the feeling of the
chestagainsthisbackandthestrongarmathisshoulder.Itshouldn’taffecthimasmuch
asitdoes,except…itdoes.

“Youwantmetotraythis?”Stephencalls,suddenlyinthekitchen.IttakesRowana

moment to snap out of his flushed stupor, jolting from where he’s frozen at the shelves.
Getittogether.

“No,Iforgotsomething,”Rowansaysquickly,determinedlyavoidingStephen’seyes

sothathecanconcentrateonhispastries.He’sstillalittlebitshakenbytheencounter.

It’s not like he doesn’t know Stephen is attractive. That much is obvious. It’s just…

therewasneveranyattractiontherebefore.Right?Therewascertainlyneveranydesireto
pursue the man, especially given what Rowan knows about the man’s romantic history.
Plus, he’d been married to a woman. Although that doesn’t always mean anything,
especially given the fact that it didn’t work out. He has to snap himself out his sudden
spiral,remindinghimselfthatit’srushhourandthere’snotimetodaydream.

Bythetimethelunchrushisout,they’rebothsweatyandhassled,tryingtopickup

someofthemesswhilewindingdownfortheday.It’stechnicallytheendofRowan’sshift
but he stays anyway, knowing Stephen will need help getting the place straightened out
whilekeepingtrackofwhat’sintheoven.

“Ro?Yousureyouwannastickaround?”Jenasks,peeringintotheback.She’salready

untyingherapron.RowanfightstheurgetoglanceatStephen,preoccupyinghimselfwith
wipingdownthetable.

“It’s no problem. It’s not like I have work at home, anyway. Plus, most of the flour

messwasme.”

“Really?” Jen raises an eyebrow. He tries to ignore her stare. So, maybe I’m a neat

freak.Iwasdistracted.“Okay.Well,don’tworktoohard.”

“Yeah. Go home and take a nap.” Rowan smirks, waving her away as she sticks her

tongueout.

The evening is quiet, so Rowan is left feeling a little in the way. His hands start

shakingatfiveo’clockandhepausestostareatthem.I’mnotthatnervous,amI?Itonly
occurstohimafteraminutethatallhe’seatenforthedayhasbeencoffeeandapastrythat
morning.

“Doyou—Imean,it’salreadyfive,but…um.I’mgoingtogetfood,”Rowancorrects,

frustratedwithhisinabilitytobeclear,“Doyouwantanything?”

Herealizesafterthefactthathe’snotevenlookingatStephensoheturnstotheman,

swallowing his anxiety to look him in the face. He’s pleasantly surprised when Stephen
smiles—genuinely, without any trace of sly humor. No smirk. “Sure. Where are you
going?”

“Probablyjustnextdoor.”

“Oh. Well, just tell them my regular. They’ll know,” Stephen says, reaching to pull

somethingoutofhisbackpocket,butRowanwavesthemanaway.

“It’sjustlunch.Kindof.I’llberightback,”hesays,throwinghisaprononahook.

Walking,howeverbriefly,giveshimachancetoclearhishead.Hetriestopassoffhis

strange encounter with Stephen—I’m just hungry and tired, he tells himself, but then a
little voice at the back of his mind tells him, You weren’t then. It also, unfortunately,
remindshimthatStephenisapparentlymadefromverysolidmuscle.Strong.Firm.Bythe
time he gets to the deli register, he’s halfway miserable and also growing more nervous
aboutwhat’sgoingtohappenwhenhereturnstothebakery.

“Hi.What’llitbe?”Thecashierisayoungman,probablystillinhighschool,theside

ofhisnosedecoratedwithatinysilverstud.Heseemscheery.

“Um—clubsandwichforme,please,notomato.And…Stephensaidyou’dknowhis

usual?”

The boy grins, adding the order, and tries to sneakily give Rowan a once-over. He’s

notverysuccessful.

“Well.TellStephenwe’dstillliketoseehim,evenifhedoeshavesomeonetopickup

hislunchforhimnow,”theboysays,barelyabletobitedownhissmile.

Oh God. Rowan stutters, trying to figure out how to say we just work together, but

somehow his tongue won’t move. He ends up standing at the counter while the cashier
leavestograbtheorder,alreadyapparentlyhalf-prepared,andthenthebagisinhishand
andhe’sweaklybiddingthecashierfarewell.

“Thatwasfast,”StephensayswhenRowanreturns.Thecommentbreakshimoutof

hisshockedstupor.

“Ithinktheyalreadyhadyoursready,”Rowansaysdrily.“Howoftendoyougetlunch

there?”

“Almost every day,” Stephen laughs, reaching into the bag to pull out a sandwich.

“I’mnotgoodatpreparingformyself.It’sjustsoeasy,too.Hopoveronbreakandgeta
BLT.Yum.”

“Guessso,”Rowansays,unwrappingandthenbitingintohissandwich.It’sfantastic.

Justlikeheremembers.

The rest of the day passes quickly, less traffic and more prep occupying their time.

Rowanmightbeanextrahandbutitseemstheycouldalwaysuseone;hemanagestoget
thepantryitemsrearranged,pullingstockfromthebackofthedeepshelvesandupdating
thelist.It’llbeonelessthingforJentodoattheendoftheweek,whichwillbeapleasant
surprise,hethinks.Beforeherealizesit,thecashiersarelockinguptheirregisters,saying
goodbyebeforetheywalktotheircars.

“Huh. Time flies,” Rowan mutters to himself, sliding the clipboard in his hand back

intothedrawerunderthemanager’sregister.

“Thatitdoes.”

He almost has a heart attack when Stephen’s voice issues from beside him. He

managesnottojump,though,calmlycollectinghisracingheartwhileheturnstotheother
man.

“I’llhelpyoucloseup.It’llgofaster,”Rowanoffers,reachingforabroom.Hemakes

sure to double-check everything as he goes, moving from the front of the store to the
doubledoorsbythekitchen.Hepropsthemopenashesweeps,stuckinthought.

“Youknow,IhopeIdidn’tmakeyoufeelbadwhenIpointedoutyourmistakesearlier

last week,” Stephen volunteers, wiping down a tray. His voice echoes in the empty
kitchen.

“Itwasn’tyourfault,”Rowanfinallysays.Itwasmeandmyneedtobebetter.Now

thathecanrecognizeit,heknowsitwassilly.Notthathelikeshavingtoadmithoweasily
he’sswayedbyotherpeople’sperceptionsofhim.

“Itkindofwas,”Stephensays,smilingasheraisesaneyebrow.“Thisisyourfamily.

Yourhistory.ItwasrudeofmetojustcorrectyoulikeIknewbetter.”

“Well,youdid,”Rowansnorts,“I’vebeenawayfromhomeforyears.Ihaven’teven

beenworkinginasimilarindustry.”

They’re quiet for a few minutes and then Rowan can feel it—a small closeness,

blossoming between them. Like the reluctant friendliness is starting to reach out more,
rootsburyingthemselvesinbothmen.

“Whatdoyoudo?Backhome?”

“I work for a video game company,” Rowan supplies, smiling, “as an animator,

mostly,butdoingotherthings,too.It’snice.Mybossisanoldfriend.”

“Thatmustbenice.Whyvideogames?”

Why?Hehasn’thadtoanswerthequestioninalongtime.Hetriestorememberwhat

itwasheusedtosay—somespielfocusedoncharactertraitsandworkethic,hethinks—
butsuddenlyit’sgone.There’snothing.Heblinksatthefloor.WhydoIdoit?

“I…itwasdifferent,”Rowanfinallysays,notsurewhatelsetosay.Partofhimpanics

alittle—HowcanInotrememberwhyIchosetodowhatI’mdoing?ThethingIclaimto
besodedicatedto?WhatIspendmyentireweekdoing?Hechangestrackquickly.“What
aboutyou?”

“I was working at the factory before. Tedious work, being one man in a production

line. I hated it. Felt like it was killing my heart and soul. After—well, after a while, I
figuredIneededtostop.Imadeachange.ThisseemedlikethefurthestextremeIcould
reach,”Stephensmiles,gesturingatthebuildingaroundhim.

“Isn’tthattrue,”Rowanlaughs.“Imean,you’regoodatit.Attalkingtopeople,too.”

“Really?”

The way he says it makes Rowan pause. He frowns, turning away from the front

counter,andseesStephensmilingtohimself.Ohno,that’scute,Rowanthinks,feelinga
flushclimbuphisneckandtowardshisface.

“Yeah.Ofcourse.Imean,you’regreatattalkingtothecustomers.Theyloveyou.You

don’tseeit?”

“I,uh,figuredtheyjusttalkedbecausetheyhadto.Iworkhere.”

The thought makes Rowan laugh. Really laugh. He’s not sure why—it’s not

particularly funny. It’s just that somehow, Stephen thinking he’s holding customers
hostageissoincongruous.It’slikehecan’tseewhathe’sdoing—whichisprobablyright,
Rowanrealizes,sincethemandrinksmostofhisnightsaway.Rowan’sstartingtogetthe
impressionthatStephendoesn’tthinkmuchofhimself.

“Wow.Youknow,youdon’tlookasintimidatingwhenyousmileandlaugh,”Stephen

pointsout.Now,it’sRowan’sturntosplutter.

“Intimidating?”

“Yeah.You’realwaysalittlesour,youknowthat?”

“Sour?”

Stephenlaughs,movingcloser,guidinghismopashestepsuptothedoorwayinfront

ofRowan.They’resuddenlyveryclose.

“Well,you’rekindofalways…unhappy-looking.It’sgoodtoknowyoucanbehappy.

I’llhavetotryandmakeyoulaughmore.”

Hissmileiskindofcrooked,Rowanthinks,watchingthewayonecornerofStephen’s

mouthisatinybithigherthantheother.Suddenly,allhecanthinkofisthatonlyLinahas
ever been so blunt to his face, and the way Stephen does it is so vastly different and
somehow, better. He’s telling Rowan the truth, without any clear worry about how it’s
goingtoaffecthim.Rowanwantstosaysomethingcleverinresponse,butallhecanthink

about is how he can smell whiskey and powdered sugar and he’s suddenly very much
compelledtotaste.

WhenRowanmovescloser,hedoessoslowly,hopingthatStephenwillhavetimeto

decide whether he wants to back away. He doesn’t have time to be surprised when the
other man moves into the kiss, allowing him closer, because then it happens. He can’t
quiteconcentrateonanythingotherthanthefeelofawarmmouthagainsthis.It’snothing
more than a brush, brief and soft. He can feel Stephen’s perpetual stubble, just a little
scratchy,andhewondersiftheman’stemperaturerunshighbecausehisskinfeelslikeit
burns. For a blessed moment, they move apart and just look at each other, green and
browneyes,whateverjusthappenedstilllingeringthere.

Andthentheypanic.

It’s almost funny how sad it is that they both turn on their heels, Stephen furiously

mopping while Rowan sweeps mindlessly. Like nothing and everything just happened.
Whichitdid.WhatdidIjustdo?Whatdidwejustdo?Rowancanbarelyfocusongetting
thefloorclean;afteranotherminuteofmovement,hegivesup,throwingthefrontendin
order as fast as possible. The tension between them has mounted a hundred percent and
Rowandoesn’tknowwhattosayordo.He’snotevensurewhytheyjustkissed.

HeadlightsflashagainstthebackdoorandRowanalmostsighsinrelief,avoidingeye

contact as he makes his way to the back door. Stephen is staring at the table, probably
pretendingtolookataspot,andRowanopenshismouthtospeak.

“Um—canyou—”

“I’lllockup,”themansaysquickly,stillstaringatthetable,“Thanksforstaying.”

Rowan makes some noise of affirmation—embarrassing, to say the least—and

practically sprints out the back door. He’s throwing his seatbelt on when he catches Jen
staringathim,confusedandmildlyalarmed.

“Youokay?”

AmI?Hefeelsatinybithystericalandalotconfused.Hejustshakeshisheadsilently,

tryingtocomeupwithawaytoplayitoff.

“Justhungry.Thanksforgettingheresofast.”

“Yeah.Noproblem,”shereplies,turningthewheeltopullawayfromtheparkinglot.

Rowanspendstheentiretriphomethinkingaboutthatone,briefmoment.Nomatter

what he does, he can’t bring himself to understand why he just decided to kiss Stephen.
There’snothing.Nothingbuttheshockandconfusionofhavingdoneitinthefirstplace.
Heonlyhasonethoughtbeforeheliesinbed,staringattheceilingasifitwillgivehim
theanswer.

I’mnotgoingtoenjoyworktomorrow,amI?

tephan spends most of his night thinking about it. The accident, he would call it,
except it wasn’t really an accident. They were both entirely sober and functioning

whenithappened.Sowhydidithappen?

Itwasn’tliketherewassomesortofextendedflirtingthatleduptoit.Besideswhich,

Stephenhasrebuffedhisfairnumberofadvancesinthepastweek—hell,thepastday.He
isnotinterestedinarelationship,casualorlong-term.Oratleast,that’swhathethought.
Not that he has really thought about it much lately. His routine of work, drink, and
attemptstosleepisallhe’sknownforthepastfiveyears.Itwasallhecaredabout,atleast
untilRowanshowedupintownandturnedeverythingonitshead.

He was starting to hate Rowan back after the man’s inadvertent push and the way

Stephen had gone out and gotten too drunk. Stephen felt like he had been pushed to the
edge, all of Rowan’s questions stinging like arrows when he was already insecure about
thestateofhisrelationshipwithMelissaandJordi.Everythingwasspiralingdownward—
losinghiscomfortablejob,thesecurityitgavehim,andthetimehespenttryingtokeep
himselfonstableground.

AndthenRowantriedtooffersomesortofhelp.Stoppushingback.Peoplearegoing

towanttohelpyou.Itwasn’tanythinghehadn’theardbefore,whenMelissafirsttriedto
intervene, but somehow, this was different. As if Rowan actually cared, which made no
sense,giventhefactthatthemanhadseemedsoresentfulofStephenupuntilthatpoint.

Maybeit’sjustbecauseit’sbeensolongsinceanyone,outsideoffamilyandthefriend

hehasinJen,hasshownarealconcernforhim,anunbiasedinterestinthefactthathe’s
clearlynotdoingwell.Rowan’sremindersweren’tgentleandtheyweren’tunnecessarily
harsh;theywerejusttrue.Somehow,thatseemedtoreachhim.

He’sstillnotsurewheretheystand.Thingshadthawedbetweenthemenoughfortheir

shiftstobecomeevenalittlefriendlybutthenthekisshappened—suddenandunexpected.
Not that he can’t tell that Rowan is attractive; that much is obvious at first glance. He’s
even willing to entertain the thought that, if he weren’t such a mess, he’d probably be
interestedinwhatlittlethereistoofferbetweenthem.Afterall,Rowanisleavinginless
thanamonth.

But the fact still remains that he’s supposed to be focusing on himself and making

money for Jordi, however unhappy he is at the moment. His drinks at the bar are his
methodsofnumbing,notflingswithstrangershebarelyknows.Yetsomethingtellshim

thatifithappensagain,hemightnothavesuchaneasytimerunningaway.

SHOWS

uptoworkwithfarfewerdrinksthanhe’shadinhissystemforalongtime.

Years,even.Heonlyhadoneortwothepreviousnightandhisheadisthankinghimforit,
the world sharper by the tiniest degree. It’s almost like he feels energized, which is
ridiculous,becauseheshouldbefeelingsomesortoflow-gradewithdrawal.Instead,he’s
leftwithapleasantfeelingofbeinglesszombie-likethanusual.

“Morning.Didyoushave?”Jenteaseswhenheshowsupatthebackdoor,jugglinga

thermosandseveralotheritemsinherarms.Stephenjustsnorts,relievingherarmssothat
shecanunlockthedoor.

“Ialwaysshave.It’snotmyfaultitgrowsacentimeterpersecond.”

“Oh, yes, you man,” Jen says, dramatically throwing the door open, “And your

majesticmanbeard!”

StephenfindshimselfwonderingifRowanisdramaticlikeherorifmaybehe’snot,

havingtolivewithJenformostofhislife.Hestopsthetrainofthought,realizingit’sa
littletooclosetohomeafterwhathappenedthelasttimehehadashiftwithRowan.

Theysetaboutopeningproceduresuntilthephonerings.JensendsStephenabemused

glance,frowningasshepicksupthephone.

“Whyisshefrowning?”

StephenalmostjumpswhenRowanmurmursbyhisear.Hecanfeelthehairsonthe

backofhisneckprickling,ashiverrunninguphisspine.Stop.

“I mean, the entire town knows when we open,” Stephen says, trying to play off his

nervousnesswithasmile.“It’sweirdtogetacallthisearly.”

“Maybeit’ssomeonefromoutoftown?”

Thequestionisposedsimplyandfromanyoneelse,Stephenmighthaveaccepteditas

justthat—aquestion.ExceptRowansaysitwitharaisedeyebrow,histonesoeventhat
it’salmostrobotic.He’sbeingalittleshit,Stephenrealizes,thethoughtmakinghimwant
tolaugh.Rowan,thesuitfromabigcity,isacheekylittlefucker.ItmakesStephengiddy
with excitement—he feels like he knows something secret now. Something no one else
reallyknows,orwill,giventheshorttimeRowanhas.

“They’d have to look up the store and then they’d see the hours,” Stephen says

seriously, staring hard at Rowan. There’s a moment where Rowan just stares at him and
StephenthinksI’vegonetoofar,hereallyhatesmeagainnow,butthenRowansmirksand
chuckles,turningawaytofinishsettingupforthefirstbatchofcroissants.

He feels like a stupid teenager again, giddy with excitement from making a crush

laugh.It’sembarrassinghowaccomplishedhefeels,gettingRowantoloosenupthetiniest
bit.Heresolvestomakeapointofit,hopinghecangetthemantorelaxduringtheirshifts
together.Itwouldbenicetobeabletotalk,hethinks,evenifonlyforashorttime.Maybe
wecouldevengotothebartogether,hethinks,theideaseeminglessdisastrousthanithad
the first time he’d suggested it. Now that he knows Rowan better, he thinks it would be

goodtogethimoutsideofaworksetting.Hehasnocluewhatthemanlikesoutsideof
work;maybeitwouldhelpthemboth.Maybe.

“…I’mgoingtoneedyourhelp,”Jenannounces,rushingbackintothekitchen,biting

her lip. Rowan glances at Stephen, a long-suffering expression of defeat settling on his
features.

“Withwhat?”Stephenasks,bracinghimself.

“TheCharlestonfamilywantscupcakes.Today.”

Stephengroans,leaninghisfullweightagainstthetable,andRowanlooksbetweenthe

two of them. The man’s mouth flattens into a line as he prepares himself and then, to
Stephen’sshock,hedoesn’taskJen.HeasksStephen.

“WhoaretheCharlestons?”

“Well-to-dofamilyfromthebiggestchurchintown.Theyhaveadaughter,Ellis,who

is eight and could either be a nightmare or a godsend when she grows up. They’re also
prettynotoriousfortheirhouseparties,whichareapparentlyinvitation-onlyandplanned
twoweeksinadvance.”

“That…sounds…interesting,”Rowanfinallyfinishes.Thewrinkleinhisnosesayshe

doesn’treallyapprove.Stephensmiles.

“Yeah.They’renice,sure,butalittleoblivioustotheoutsideworld.”

“Well, they’re hosting a soiree and they need cupcakes,” Jen sighs, tucking a pen

behindherear,“Apparently,DonaldthoughtSusanorderedthemandshethoughthedid,
sothereyougo.”

“Okay.So,howmany?”Rowanasks,tippinghisthermostotakeasipofcoffee.

“Threedozen.Vanillahoney,raspberrycreamcheese,andcocoa.”

Rowan chokes when Jen says three dozen. Stephen shakes his head, patting the man

on the back sympathetically. Maybe he lets his hand linger a little too long but that’s
nobody’sbusinessbuthisown.

“Okay,howdowedothis?”Rowansays,shovinghiscupasideashestartstorubhis

eyesinpreemptiveexhaustion.It’snotsomuchaquestionasastatement,Stephennotices,
becauseitlookslikethemanisrunningmentalmath.

“Keepupwiththenormalflow,”Jensays,directingtheorderatStephen,“andRo,I

wantthosecupcakesintopshape.Youknowthedrill.I’lldeliverthehaulataroundsix
o’clock,whichmeansI’llprobablyberopedinuntilclosing.”

“We’lllowertheflagsforyou,”Stephenjokes,alreadybackingintothepantrytograb

whatheneedsfortheday.Hegetsthefeelingit’sgoingtobeastressfulone.

Byeleveno’clock,Rowanisinthemiddleofmakingtheseconddozenwhilethefirst

coolsandStephenisjugglingthreedifferentpastriesatonce.Theshopisbustlingatthe
front end; Jen is on her toes, easily managing the flow of customers with the help of
another cashier. It feels like they’re just on the precipice of not having enough help;
everythingistenseandnewtraysgoouttothefrontjustastheoldonesarefinished.

“Is that Mrs. James at the front?” Rowan asks, whirling from the pantry with a new

bag of sugar. He sets it at Stephen’s elbow, quickly moving to check his cooling tray of
cupcakes.

“I’msure,”Stephensays,shakinghishead.“Shewon’tletJenheartheendofitifI

don’tsayhitoher.”

“Really?Why?”

“She,uh…likesattention,”Stephenwincesathiswording,tryingtofigureouthowto

clarify,butRowanjustsnorts.

“Oh,Igotthatpart.Whydoyouentertainher?Oranyone,really?”

“Why?I…guessIliketheattention,too,”Stephenmanages,feelingalittlesheepish.

It’s nice that people act like they need him, he thinks, even if it’s only for superficial
conversation during pastry runs. He likes feeling like people look forward to talking to
him.Sad,heknows,andnotagoodenoughsubstituteforhavingJordiaround,butatleast
itkeepshimsane.

“Everyone likes to feel important,” Rowan agrees, his expression softening, and

Stephenmomentarilypauseshiseffortstorolldoughout.Hethinkscaringlooksgoodon
Rowan,eveniftheothermanseemstotrynottocaremostofthetime.

“Whataboutyou?I’msureyou’reimportantinyourworkplace.Isitokaytobeaway

thislong?”

Rowanlookssurprised—pleasantlyso,Stephenhopes.Themanpausesforamoment

whilemixingtheicingforthefirstbatchofcupcakes,preparingthetray.

“I’mjust an animatorat a videogame company. There areseveral of us.I may be a

veteran—thesecond-oldestemployee—butthatdoesn’tmeanI’mindispensable…notthat
Deanwouldfireme.It’sjust…itwaseasyformetotakeabreak.Idon’tusually.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Stephen says, smiling to take the edge off, “Jen doesn’t

takealotoftimeoff,either,butthenitisn’tusuallythisstressfulhere.”

“IguessI’mjustbadatlivingoutsideofwork,”Rowangrimaces,spinningacupcake

withapracticedhandasheswirlsicingoverit.

“You?Really?”

“Don’tactsosurprised,”Rowanmutters.Heseemstodrawbackminutely,shoulders

closingasifhe’ssaidtoomuch.Stephenquicklytriestothinkofawaytobacktrack.

“Itjustseemslikeyou’regoodatbeing…Idon’tknow,functional?Imean,youhavea

careerandaplacetoliveandyouseemself-sufficient.Likeyoudon’treallyneedanything
oranyone.”

“That’snotentirelytrue,”Rowanfinallyadmits,“Everyoneneedsconnections.Imean

—I have friends at work. And I like to visit my family, although I haven’t done that
enoughrecently.”

“Well,I’msureI’mnotnearlyasput-togetherasyouare.Ishouldprobablybetaking

notes.”

Am I laying it on too thick? He’s not even sure how receptive Rowan is to

conversation. Stephen wonders for a moment if maybe he drew things out, making the
othermantalkwhenhe’dratherbesilent.Thatdoesn’tseemtobethecase,though.Even
after his little stumble, Rowan is still more relaxed than he’s ever been around the shop
before.ItmakesStephenmorecomfortablewithdrawingthingsout.

Just as he’s thinking about what to say next, Stephen notices Rowan tugging at the

cornersofabagofflour.Hestopshiswork,handspausingoverthemixingbowl.

“Be careful, the edge—” he starts to say, a hand moving to gesture, but then Rowan

yanksandthebagmakesaloudpop,flourdiffusingoverthetableinatinycloud.Rowan
freezes, wide-eyed, white dust sticking to his lashes as he blinks furiously. Then he
coughs.

“Oops.”

Somehow,thesceneissoridiculousthattheybothstartlaughing.They’recoughing,

too, waving hands in the air and covering their mouths with the crooks of their elbows,
dissolvingintofitsofgigglesastheflourfallslikesnowontothetable.

“If you wanted flours you could have just asked,” Stephen manages, laughing as he

coughsthelastofthedrydustfromhisthroat.

“That was a terrible pun,” Rowan chokes out, dissolving into a coughing fit even

while he’s still grinning like a fool. “I can’t believe you would do that to a man who’s
alreadydown.”

“Well,justletitmillaroundinyourmindabit,”Stephenadds,practicallycollapsing

ontothetableashelaughs.“You’relookingalittlepastrythere,yousureyoudon’tneeda
break?”

Hedoesn’tknowhowlongtheystandtherelaughingbeforethedoorstothekitchen

swing open suddenly, Jen appearing with a suspicious expression. Stephen immediately
bitesbackhislaughter,shouldersshakingwiththeeffort.Rowanduckshishead,hidingin
hiswork.

“IsweartoGod,ifyoutwodestroythekitchenbecauseyou’retoobusymakingdad

jokes,I’mgoingtoputyoubothonopeningdutynextweek.Allweek.”

AssoonasJendisappears,theystartlaughingagain.It’sbetterthanStephenexpected

—hecertainlyhadn’tthoughtRowanwouldbethisopenwithhim.Hewondersifmaybe
thingsarewarmingupbetweenthem.Still,hismindkeepsgoingbacktothatmoment—
thebriefkissandthewaytheybothranawayfromit.Wasitamistake?Hecan’thelpbut
wonderifRowanmeantit—ifmaybeheneededsomethingmorefromStephen,something
to keep him close. Stephen doesn’t want to push, though, because he knows he doesn’t
wanttomakeamistake.Rushin.

They trade a few more bad jokes through the course of the day. Somehow, they

manage to move around each other as if they’re used to it. Even the occasional brush is
metwithmoreofasmallsmilethanannoyance—StephenalmostbacksintoRowanand
themangentlystopshimwithhandsonhisshoulders,thetouchlingeringfarpastthetime
itshould.

Is it just me, or is he making excuses to get close? He can’t tell. It’s frustrating and

wonderfulallatonce;onesecondRowan’saskingforhelpreachingforsomethingandthe
nextStephenismakingexcusestoleanoverthetableandbrushagainsthisarm.It’slike
whatevercompelledtheirfirstkissisdrawingthembacktogether,overandoveragain.

“Everythingdone?”Jeninterruptsthemneartheendoftheirexhaustingshift,startling

bothmenfromtheirhalf-slumpedpositionsatthetable.

“Yes.Yes—alltheboxesaresetupinthewalk-in,”Rowanexplains,shakinghimself

fromhistiredstuportostartcleaningup.

“Great.I’llruntheseacrosstown.Takecareoftheshop,okay?I’llkeepintouch.”

They wave Jen off, thankful for the reprieve the end of the day is bringing. Rowan

goestothesinktostartwashingafewthingswhileStephenstartsreturningsuppliestothe
pantry.

“Youknow,Iforgottopayyoubackforthelunch,”Stephensays,testingthewaters.

“Ifyou’dlike,wecangrabdinnerafter.I’lldriveyouhome.”

Hewondersifitsoundslikeadate.Itprettymuchis,though,andhe’snotashamedto

admitit.He’sjustnervousthatRowanwillsayno.Itwouldn’tbeunbearablebutitwould
maketheirnewfoundfriendshipalittlelesseasy.

“Youdon’thaveto,”Rowansupplies,scrubbingatapan.That’snotano.

“LeastIcoulddo,”Stephensmiles,“andit’dbeawelcomebreak.Ithinkweearned

it.”

“Yeah.Okay,”Rowansays,smilingback.

It’sprobablythebestthingStephen’sheardallweek.Hespendstherestoftheevening

practicallyspinningaroundthebakery,alightfeelinginhischest,gettingeverythingdone
ahead of time so that they can leave as soon as they close. Part of him wishes he could
showerbefore going outbut he alsoknows it’s important notto make itinto a big deal.
He’s not going to make Rowan uncomfortable. It seems like barely a minute passes and
thenJenisback,fiveminutesuntilclosing,lookingtiredbutpleased.

“You both did fantastic,” she announces, sighing as she slumps against the front

counter.Rowanisalreadyfinishingupatthefrontend,tablescleanedandfloorswept.

“Yes,wedid,”Stephensays,winkingatRowan.“Infact—”

“You’re both coming with me tonight. Drinks each, on me,” Jen smiles, stifling a

yawn.“Anyway,it’shightimeRowanmetsomeofmyfriends.”

Stephen freezes. Rowan seems to stop, too, and then his eyes immediately meet

Stephen’s. They share a brief, electric moment of communication. Stephen can see the
hesitationandguiltinRowan’seyesandthewayheseemstornbetweenlettinghissister
downandtryingtomakebothinvitationswork.LetitneverbesaidIwasn’tateamplayer,
Stephen thinks, feeling the let-down like a small bruise before he covers it up with the
knowledgethatatleastthey’llbetogetheranyway.He’snotevensureRowanwantstobe
alonewithhim.

“Okay,”Stephensays,noddingatRowan,“butIamnotgoingtogettrashed.Oneand

done.I’dliketobeabletodrivehome.”

“That’suptoyou,”Jensayscheerily,slidingawayfromthecounter.“Ro?”

“Yeah,”Rowansays,stilllookingatStephen,“I’mupforit.”

’

NOT

oneofStephen’susualbars.Thisoneisfurtherawayfromthedowntowncenter,

closer to the city-styled part of Oriole. It’s newer and it seems like most of the people
insideareyounger;collegestudentsandtravelingtwenty-somethingspracticallyspillover
theboothsandtablesintheplace.Stephenfeelsparadoxicallyoutofplace;he’sprobably
theoldestpersonthere.

Rowan seems a little on edge with the crowd so Stephen decides to take a chance,

movingclosertobrushhishandagainsttheotherman’s.Heducksdownalittletospeak
overthemusicandchatter.

“Ithoughtweweregoingtoabar,notaconcert,”hejokes.

“You’renotkidding,”Rowansays,raisingbotheyebrowsashefollowshiscousin.

Jen’sfriendsarefamiliartoStephen.Hewaitswhilethey’reallintroducedtoRowan

—there’sAmy,Ben,Cassidy,andJordan.Halfofthemarehighschoolfriendswhilethe
otherhalfarepeopleJenmetsomewhereortheother.Asfarasfriendsgo,they’vealways
seemed pretty nice, if a bit young for Stephen. He’s always a little bewildered by their
storiesofcross-datingandofficedrama.

Itoccurstohimafterafewminutesthatmaybecomingwasn’tthebestidea.Asthe

newguyandJen’scousin,Rowanispracticallyabsorbedbythegroup,questionsflyingat
himfromeveryangle.Aftertenminutesofcross-interrogation,Stephendecidestostepin.

“Wannagograbadrink?”heasks,leaningintotalk.ThereliefinRowan’sexpression

tellshimitwastherightmove.

“Yes,”themansays,immediatelyfollowinghim.

Theynavigatethecrowdeasily,slippingthroughgagglesofstudentsontheirwayto

thebar.Atleasthere,Stephenfeelsmoreathome.He’sdefinitelynotinthemindsethe
usuallyis,though.

“Thatwasintense,”Stephensmiles,glancingsidewaysatRowan.

“God,you’retellingme.NowIknowwhatitfeltlikeforLeo,”Rowanmutters,barely

audible.

“Who?”Pleasedon’tsayaboyfriend.Pleasedon’t—

“Leo.He’sdatingoneofmybestfriends.Longstory,”Rowansmiles,leaningagainst

thebar.Whatdoesthatmean?Stephenwonderswhatitimplies.Doeshelikepeoplebeing
straightforward? He considers whether he should start making his intentions clearer. It
certainly wouldn’t hurt. He reasons with himself that if Rowan isn’t interested, at least
theywon’tbeworkingtogetherformuchlonger.Itcouldbesimpleforthebothofthem.

“Whataboutyou?I’msureyou’vehadyourfairshareofromances,thoughnotstrictly

in the office,” he adds, remembering Rowan’s strict propriety the first time they met.
Rowanseemstonoticethecharacterization,alittlepleasedbyit.Heevenblushesalittle,
tryingtohideitbyduckinghisheadforamoment.

“Notreally.Inevergotintodating.Just…toomuchtime,outsideofwork.Iguessit

wouldmakesenseformetomeetsomeoneatwork,then,butI’veneverbeeninterested.”

“Really?Whynot?”

“Oh…Idon’tknow.Toomuchthesame,maybe?Iguessit’sjustthatmostanimators

have a long-term plan and it’s so hard to match up…and we don’t compromise on our
plans,”Rowanadds,laughing.

“Well, at least you have one,” Stephen snorts. “My plans consist of trying to make

moneyforbillsandnotforgettingtocheckthebreadformold.”

Itsoundedalotmoredepressingthanitdidinhismindandhealmostthinkshe’slost

Rowan, his messy life burning under the spotlight again. Instead, he’s granted another
delicious taste of Rowan’s laughter. The man shakes his head, leaning forward on his
elbowsasthebartendertakestheirorders.

Why does he not hate me? He can’t bring himself to figure it out. By all accounts,

RowanshouldbedisgustedbyStephen.Hewasdisgusted by Stephen, not too long ago.
Somewherealongtheline,though,thecontemptturnedintofriendshiporevensomething
alittlemoreintimate.Whatthehellcouldhepossiblybeattractedtoinme?Heknowshis
lifeisamess—hehasanex-wifeandakid,forcryingoutloud.Mostsinglemen—much
lessthoseyoungerthanhim—wouldn’tgowithinfiftyfeetofhim.Eventhestrangersin
barsneverexpressedmoreinterestotherthanpassingthetimewithadrinkingpartneror
havingaone-nightstand.Havingsomeoneactuallybuilduptosomethinglikethishasn’t
happenedsince—shit,sincehighschool,hethinks.It’sflattering.

He tries to stay true to his word, nursing the same drink for most of the night, but

Rowan goes back to the bar twice—never anything strong, Stephen notices, but Rowan
also seems to be unused to drinking because he’s very quickly a little flushed and a lot
looserthanhe’sbeenformostoftheevening.Nothingabouthismannerseemsdrunk;he
goesslowlyenoughthatStephenisprettysurehe’sjusttipsyatbest.Tipsyandalittle…
closerthanusual.

“I’m starting to get a headache, honestly,” Rowan mutters after their second hour at

thebar,leaningcloseinthedimlight.

“Icantakeyouhome,ifyouwant—”

“It’sfine.Itwon’tdomuchgood,now.”

“Well,ifyoustillwanttogetout,wehavetimefordinner.It’sonly…teno’clock.Ish.”

Rowan grins, leaning into Stephen; his body seems warm. More solid and real than

most things—certainly more real that Stephen’s failing imagination. He hopes his blush
isn’tvisible.Calmdown.

“Let’sgo,then.I’mstarving.”

Rowan says goodbye to Jen quickly, brushing away her protests and questions, and

they somehow make it out the front door without being followed. Stephen almost can’t
believeit’shappening.It’snotuntilhe’sinthecar,turningthekeyintheignition,thathe
realizeshismistake.

“Uh…Idon’tthinkanythingisopenrightnow,otherthanfastfood,”hesays,staring

at the steering wheel. Damn it, Stephen. You can’t even get your offers right. Rowan
snorts,laughingeasily,pattingStephen’sshoulderwithsurprisinggentleness.

“Hellyes.MyauntandunclearehealthnutsandI—nomatterhowbusinesslike—do

enjoyagoodburger.”

It’saself-awarejab,whichStephenappreciates.Hefeelslessnervousasheturnsthe

wheel,startingdownthestreet.Thecityismostlydead,ahandfulofbarsopenandafew
collegestudentstrudginghomelikezombies.

“Gotapreference?”

“Somewherewecanpickup.I’drathernotsitinsideahyper-fluorescentbox,”Rowan

grimaces,“Doyoumind?Imean—Idon’twanttojustinvitemyselfoveroranything…”

IttakesStephenamomenttorealizewhatRowan’sasking.He’snotjustagreeingto

food;he’saskingStephentotakehimbacktohisplace.Oh.Hepanics,wonderingifhis
placeisclean.Hecan’trememberwhatitlookslikeforaterrifyingmoment.Isthereeven
a guest bathroom downstairs? Jesus, when was the last time I vacuumed my couches?
Suddenly,hefeelsmuchlessconfidentthanhedidbefore.

“No.Yes,”Stephencorrects,tryingtoexplain,“it’sfine.I’mnotinthemoodtodeal

withdrunkteenagers,either.”

He has trouble concentrating while he orders. All he can do is worry—worry that

thingswillgowrong,somehow;thatRowanwillbeputoffbythehouseorunhappywith
Stephen. He can just imagine them eating in awkward silence at his tiny dining room
table,wantingthesilencetoswallowthemwhole.Beforeheknowsit,they’repullingup
infrontofhisplace,thedarknightenvelopingtheworldoutside.

“It’snice,”Rowansaysashejumpsoutofthetruck,carryingtheirdrinks.Helooks

overthesmallgardeninthefront.“Whatflowersarethose?”

“Anemone,” Stephen says, glad to have something to talk about. “Jordi wants me to

plantsomethinglivelier,likeit’llmakemesuddenlythehappiestmanonearth.”

“Blue is lively,” Rowan argues, following Stephen inside, “and they’re pretty.

Anemone.”

Pleasedon’thateit,Stephenthinks,leadingthewaytothekitchen.He’snotsurewhat

tosay.“Welcometomyhome,itusedtobealotlivelierbutthenmywifedivorcedmeand
mykidwentofftocollege”?Partofhimwantstoreachforthewhiskeyinhiscabinetto
filltheotherhalfofhissodaandtaketheedgeoff.Heknowsit’sastupididea,though.He
didn’tcomeheretowatchyougetdrunk.Byallaccounts,hehatesitwhenyougetdrunk.

“Have you always lived here?” Rowan’s question jerks him out of his stupor and he

takesaseatquickly,unloadingthepaperbagasRowanpokeshisstrawintohiscup.

“No.Ilivedinashittyapartmentincollege.MelissaandImovedhereafterJordiwas

bornandthen…Ijustkindofstayed.”

“Huh.It’snice,”Rowansmiles,reachingforafry,“Cozy.”

“Whydidyouleave?YouusedtolivewithJen,right?”

“Yeah.Atfirst,Ijustleftforcollege,butthen…Ikindofstayedgone,”Rowanshrugs,

lookingalittleuncomfortablewiththethought.

Greatgoing.Changethesubject,Stephenberateshimself,tryingtoswallowhisfood

quicklyenoughtospeak.Hismindraces.There’snotmuchhecanreallysay.Idon’teven
knowwhatthepointofthisis.Isthisadate?Orsomething?HecantellRowanisstillthe
tiniestbitbuzzed,hischeekspinkandhisusualstraight-lacedposturerelaxed.He’sbyno
meansdrunkbuthe’satleastridingtheliquorhigh.

“Must be lonely, living so far from your family. Do you live alone?” An innocuous

question,butprobablyalittleprobing.Stephenhopesitisn’tgoingtoofar.

“I’m not bothered by being away from family, though I do like coming back often,”

Rowansays,swirlingtheiceinhiscup.Hefrownsatit,somethingdispleasedenteringhis
expression.“Idolivealone.Theapartment’sprobablytoobigforjustmebutit’snotlikeI
can’taffordit.”

“Oh,”Stephendrawlsjokingly,“soyou’rerich.”

“Ofcourse.Ievenhavesomeonepourmywaterforme.”

“Andagoldtoilet?”

“Please. Platinum is much classier,” Rowan says, grinning. Just like that, whatever

tensionStephenfeelsdissipates.There’snopressureinthewayRowanjokeswithhim,all
ofitcasualandeasy.Hefeelsnoneedtotalkorcomeupwithconversation;he’scontent
justtoletthingshappen.

“Mustbenicetoberich.SorryIcouldn’tgetyouagourmetburger.”

“IdemandataxationofFrenchfries,”Rowansnorts,reachingoverthetable.Justas

his arm crosses, Stephen lifts his and then suddenly the cup between them goes flying
over,iceandsodarollingoverthetablelikeatsunamitohitStephen’sshirtanddripinto
hislap.

Theystayfrozenthereforasecond,wide-eyedandmortified,andthenRowanlaughs.

Stephenjustlaughsalong,gladithasn’truinedthemood,tryingtosopupwhateverhecan
withcheapnapkins.

“I’msorry,”Rowansays,stilllaughing,“IpromiseI’mnotdrunk.”

“Yeah, I know,” Stephen says, feigning anger as he gets up from the chair. I usually

have laundry down here from when I can’t be bothered to sleep in bed. Maybe there’s a
shirtinthelivingroom.“Where’smyother…”

Hedoesn’tthinktoomuchofpullinghisshirtoff,soakingupwhatmesshecanwhile

consideringwhetherheshouldchangeorjustshower,andthenhehearsasmallcoughand
realizeshe’sverymuchhalfnakedinfrontofRowan.Whoisstaringveryhardataspot
justtotherightofStephen,blushalittletooredtobejustfromalcohol.

“Oh.Sorry—”Stephensaysquickly,readytounravelthesoakedshirtandyankitback

on,butRowanwavesahandathim.

“No,no.It’sfine.Um.What…whatareyourtattoos?”

Stephen pauses, trying not to smile at the way Rowan’s voice cracks a little. Rowan

gets up from his seat, studiously throwing away their trash, trying to help clean up the
spilledicefromthetable.

“Whichones?Imean,someareolderthanothers.IalmostforgetIhavemostofthem,

since I can’t really see what’s on my back,” Stephen jokes. He moves towards the
staircase, wondering if he should get a shirt. Rowan follows and then seems to realize
what he’s doing, one foot pausing above the first stair and hovering there. His gaze is
questioning.Stephentriestotakeitinstride,wavingahandasifhemeantforthemtogo
upstairs.

“Therose.Onyourleftshoulder,”Rowanadds,humorinhistone.

“Wow. That one’s pretty old,” Stephen says, thinking back. “It was my third. Got it

whenIwasnineteen—IwantedsomethingtorememberatripItook.IwenttoCalifornia
withaclassanditwasjustroses,rosesasfarastheeyecouldsee.MostamazingthingI’d
everseen.Itkindofgotstuckinmyhead.Ithought,ifIcould,I’dlovetolivesomewhere
likethat.Surroundedbyflowersandgreen.”

“Itsoundsbeautiful.”

“It was. Didn’t even want to leave. I spent too much time looking and not enough

listening—theprofessorhaduswritesomestupidreviewofthetripandIcouldn’tevendo
it.HadtoaskMelissatodoitforme.”TheystepintohisbedroomandStephenthrowshis
dirtyshirtintothehamperinthecorner,turningtowardsthecloset.

Something brushes against his back and he stops, holding his breath. He wants to

movesobadlybutpartofhimrecognizesthatRowan’shandisonhisskin,tracingover
some of the tattoos curled there, exploring. He doesn’t want to interrupt whatever is
happening,nomatterhowbadlyhewantstolookoverhisshoulder.Hewaits.

“Didtheyhurt?”

“Mostthingsinlifehurt,”Stephenlaughs,thesoundhumorless.It’satritesayingbut

hecan’thelphimselffromsayingit.It’strue.“Thatdoesn’tmakethemanylessbeautiful.
Anditsuredoesn’tmakeyouwantthemanyless.Yeah…ithurt—”

Rowan’shandcurlsaroundhisshoulderandStephenfinallyturns,hearthammeringin

hischest.Itseemssilly,tobesoafraidofaguybothyoungerandphysicallyslighterthan
him,buthecan’thelpit.Stephenknowshe’samess.He’samanwhoshouldbesettled
downandinstead,hehasachildandanex-wifeandadrinkingproblem.Theonlything
that’sgoingrightinhisliferightnowishisjob.Hehasnothingtooffer.

Sowhyishestillgettingclosertome?

There are no mops or brooms between them this time. They’re closed off from the

world,hiddenbehindclosedcurtainsanddoorsandthesecurityofStephen’shome.This
time, when they kiss, it’s not a fleeting exchange. They move heavily, like two planets

pulled into the same orbit, just so close to touching. Stephen can feel Rowan’s fingers
brush the back of his hand; it’s almost like they’re swaying in place, wanting more but
almostunabletofollowthrough.

He doesn’t really care that Rowan tastes sticky, like soda, the faraway bitterness of

rum on his tongue. He can’t even bring himself to care that his stubble is probably
scratchybecauseRowanhasn’tpulledawayandthey’removingclosertogether.Stephen
somehowtangleshishandsinRowan’sjeans,tuggingcarefullyatthebeltloopsbecause
hedoesn’tknowhowfartheothermanwantstogo.

He’salmostshockedwhenRowanstartsguidinghimbacktowardsthebed.Hepulls

Stephencloser,fingerspressingagainstbareshoulders,andStephentakesitasarequest.
HesomehowgetsRowan’sshirtupandoverhishead—whentheybreakapart,hemisses
his warmth, hungry for something he didn’t know existed before. He already feels
embarrassingly hot, blood rushing in his ears like he’s a teenager all over again. Slow
down,hethinks,hismindstutteringasmuchashishands,youneedtomakesure—

“Um—Ro—Rowan,”Stephentries,reluctantlyuntanglinghimselffromakiss,“Ineed

—Ineedyoutowait.Holdon—”

“What?What’swrong?”Rowanasks,pantingjustalittle,honey-browneyeslust-hazy

ashetriestofocus.

“Nothing.Nothing—Ijustneedtoknowthisisokay.Idon’t—”

“Yes,”Rowansayswithoutpause,fingersinchingalongthebandofStephen’sjeans,

“Iwantthis.Okay?”Heaskscarefully,asifmakingsureStephenisfine.It’scomforting
tohear.

“Yeah.Okay,”Stephenagrees,barelygettingthewordinbeforehismouthisoccupied

again.

God,Iforgothowgooditwas,hethinks,barelyrememberingtohelpRowanoutofhis

jeans. He really has almost forgotten how it felt to kiss someone—how it felt to be
touched,outsideofcasualhugsandheavyarmsaroundhisshouldersfromdrunkpeopleat
thebar.

And Rowan knows how to touch him. Somehow, everything the other man does is

careful,asifhe’stendingtosometaskthatneedshisundividedattention.Asifhe’smaking
something at the shop, Stephen realizes, laughing a little at the thought. Rowan huffs,
pullingawaytofrownslightlyathim.

“What’ssofunny?”

“Nothing.Swear,”Stephengrins,drapinghisarmsoverRowan’sshoulders.Helikes

the way they stand at just the right angle, comfortable and easy. Rowan smirks,
maneuveringStephenfurtherbackuntilhefeelsthebackofhislegshitthemattress.

“Hm. I’ll find out,” Rowan murmurs, still smirking, and then his head dips into the

spacebetweenStephen’sneckandshoulder.

Rowan bites and Stephen moans, the sound embarrassingly loud and heady in the

emptyroom.He’salmosthorrifiedbythewayhemeltsatthetouch.Howlonghasitbeen

since someone gave me a hickey? Years, that’s for sure. How am I going to hide it at
work?Healmostlaughsagainbutholdsitback,givingRowanmoreaccessashetiltshis
head further. He doesn’t care as much about what happens tomorrow as he cares about
what happens in the next moment. He’s pleasantly surprised, then, when Rowan finally
shoves him back onto the bed, suspended easily above his body as if he’s done it a
hundredtimesbefore.

Andmaybehehas.FarbeitforStephentojudge.Hehonestlycouldn’tcarelesswhat

experienceRowandoesordoesn’thave;allheknowsisthatforonce,he’snotdrunkand
he’snotregrettinganything.Heis,infact,filledwiththeoppositeofregret.He’ssuddenly
immenselythankfulthatheevertriedtopushthingsalittle,evenifitnevergoespastthis.
Itjustfeelsamazingtobewantedagain,ortogetanykindofattention.Hecantellthat
Rowanisn’tinitforbriefsatisfaction;theyshareddumbjokesoverfastfoodandRowan
istakinghissweettime.Well,hewas.

Somewhere in between falling onto the bed and wondering how he ended up in the

situation, Stephen was so distracted he didn’t notice Rowan moving further down his
body. He ends up almost yelling in shock when he feels the man’s mouth against his
underwear,hotandheavyashisfingersbrushalongStephen’ships.

“You—don’thaveto—”Stephentriestosay,everythinghewantstosaygettingstuck

between his teeth as he hisses and tangles his fingers in the sheets. This is going to be
embarrassinglyfast,hethinks,tryingtopullRowanbackup.Hedoesn’twanttoleavethe
othermaninthedustjustbecauseit’sbeenawhileforhim.

“I’mgoingto,”Rowansays,thesameimpishgrinonhisfacethatwastherewhenthe

manhadmadeasnidecommentinthebakery.“Unlessyoudon’twantmeto.”

Shit. He can’t even think of a proper way to answer. All he knows is that Rowan’s

answer makes his blood rush south, the image of the usually proper man folded neatly
acrossStephen’slegsmakingacompletelyincongruousandirresistiblepicture.Heknows
now that he’ll never be able to forget this. He briefly considers that this might change
thingsatthebakery.

The serious side to their encounter is not a problem he’s willing to think about now,

though. Not when he’s suddenly exposed to the cold air and Rowan is throwing his
underwearinthecorneroftheroomasifit’sbeenexiled.Stephencan’tlookawaywhen
Rowan ducks his head, the anticipation brushing down his spine with a shiver. He loses
focusassoonashefeelsRowan’shotmouthagainsthisskin,thesensationbloominglike
afirethroughhisbody.

Hecouldprobablycountononehandthenumberoftimeshe’sdonethisandnoneof

them have been with another man. Not that he’s never been interested—it’s just that he
and Melissa were young when they started dating and he never really had any other
relationships or even flings. Whatever he thought would happen, all he knows is how
fantasticitfeels.Partofhimrecognizeshehasnowaytojudgehowgooditis—afterall,
it’sbeenliteralyearssincethelasttimehehadsex—butanotherpartofhimknowshe’d
verymuchliketodothisagain.

Rowan moves slowly, carefully, just like everything else he ever does. It’s like what

he’sdoingisthemostimportantthinghewilleverdoinlife.ItmakesStephenwarmin

otherways,knowinghe’sbeinggiventheutmostattention.

Buthe’dverymuchliketomovealittlefaster.Ithasbeenyears.

Hecan’treallythinkofanythingtosaysohereachesdown,curlingahandaroundthe

edgeofRowan’sjaw.He’sthinkingoftiltingtheman’sheadup,pullinghimawaytotry
andfigureouthowtosaywhatheneeds.That’shisplan,butRowanseemstothinkit’sa
requestandthenhetakesStephenevenfurtherintohismouth,thesmallsoundofhislips
poppingechoingintheroom.Atthatpoint,everythinggoesoutthewindowandStephen
criesout,reflexivelygrippingthesideofRowan’sface.

Heknowshe’stooclosetodragthingsoutanyfurthersohepullsRowanupquickly,

enjoyingthewayRowanlookshazyandcurious,hisfaceredeveninthedarkroom.He
thinkshecanseeRowansmilingjustalittlebeforehedragshimcloser,tryingtoexplore
furtherthanbeforewhenhekisseshim.Helikesthewayhecantastehisskinandsaltin
theman’smouth;somehow,thethoughtofwhatRowanwasjustdoingmakeshimeven
morearoused.

Whentheykiss,hetakesthetimetoreachbetweenthem,feelingclumsybutwanting

totouchRowanbeforeheforgets.ThemomenthefinallycurlshishandaroundRowan’s
cock,he’s treated toa low moan.He practically eats thesound as itfalls from the other
man’smouth,thetensecoilbelowhisstomachtighteningjustalittlemore.Hefeelslike
they’reconnectedbythesamepulse;everytouchandpullismirroredbythewayRowan
rocks against him, breathing heavily until he gives up trying to kiss Stephen, fingers
rakingagainstskin.Everythingaboutthewaythey’removingismindless;they’rechasing
sensations, the slide of sweat-slick skin and the heat the only things they’re paying
attention to. Somewhere amidst the push and pull, he loses track of Rowan murmuring
encouragement in his ear—yes, keep moving—and the sound of the bed and their
breathingisallthathecanhear.

Stephenfinishesfirst,therushshudderingthroughhisbodyashepushesintoRowan’s

hand, weak from the force of it. He’s suddenly glad they’re on the bed; he knows if he
werestanding,hislegswouldprobablyhavegivenoutbeneathhim.It’smoreintensethan
he’susedtoandthefeelofsomeoneelse’shand,steadydespitehisshakingbody,makes
him temporarily numb to everything else. Wait, he thinks, mind fuzzy, I have to—He
barely moves, trying to turn his attention back to Rowan, and when he finally helps
Rowanoverthatedge,hefeelshimquiver.He’snotsurewhethertokeepmovingorhold
stillandsettlesonleavingafewmarksonRowan’sneck,tryingtotasteasmuchskinas
possiblewhileRowanbreathesheavily,comingdownfromhishigh.

Whatevermessy,briefencounterthey’veindulgedin,Stephenisgladithappened.He

laysagainstRowanforalongmoment,breathinginthescentofsweatandsex.Healmost
wants to laugh—it’s like they’re teenagers, rubbing against each other in a brief and
explosiveencounter.Is that what happens, once you know what you want? When you’re
olderandyouhavenotimeorenergytospendonhour-longsessionsduringtheweek?He
feels a little stubborn about it—if he does this again, he wants to spend more time on
Rowan,exploringmoreaboutwhateveritisthey’restarting.

Willtherebeanothertime?

“Ishouldgethometonight,”Rowanfinallymurmurslazily.Stephenlooksdowntosee

him,cheekpressedintothemattressandeyesclosed.Hesoundssleepy.Sated.

“Sure.I’lldriveyouback.Bathroom’sinhere,”Stephensays,wonderingifheshould

offertheshower,butRowanrollsoffthebedwithatiredgroanandmakeshiswayacross
theroomwithoutsayinganything.

He takes a moment to enjoy the view because he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get to

again.HethinkshelikesthefaintgoldtoRowan’sskinandthewayhishairlooksafter
rolling around, a tangle of brown waves. His butt is perfectly formed. Stephen wonders
again why Rowan ever decided to let this happen. It’s not like he couldn’t do better,
Stephen thinks—especially since he’s living in a bigger city. Is it just something to kill
timewhilehe’shere?Theinsecuritycreepsupbuthepushesitaway,remindinghimselfof
how attentive Rowan was. As if he didn’t care about anything but how Stephen was
feeling.

Rowanslipsoutofthebathroom,clothedbutstillclearlylanguidfromthepost-coital

high,andheopensStephen’scloset.

“Thanksfordrivingmeback,”Rowansays,lazilyshiftingthroughshirtsonhangers.

Stephentakestheopportunitytoslipintothebathroom,hurriedlycleaningupasmuchas
possiblewithawashcloth.

“Ihaven’tdrivenyoubackyet.”

“YouknowwhatImean,”Rowansmirks,peeringaroundthehalf-opendoortohand

Stephenacleanshirt.“Youdon’thaveto.”

StephenlikeshowRowanisevery-so-casuallytakingcareofhiminthislittleway.

“I’dbeanassholeifIdidn’t,”Stephensays,pullingontheshirt.He’stemptedtokiss

Rowanagainasheslipsoutofthebathroom—theman’smouthisstillalittleredandthe
bruisesonhisneckarestartingtopopup.

Excepthestilldoesn’tknowhowfarRowanwantstotakeitsoheholdsback,fishing

his keys out of his pocket at he leads the way back downstairs. The drive to Rowan’s
family’s place—which, thankfully, isn’t far—is pleasantly quiet. Part of him knows that
theybothneedtimeaparttodigestwhathappenedanddecidewhethertheywanttodoit
again. He doesn’t push the subject, letting the lingering pleasure hum between them in
placeofconversation.

Thelightsonthepropertyarealloutwhentheypullin.Stephenputsthetruckinpark

infrontoftheguesthouse,unsureofwhattosay,andRowanturnstohim.

“Thank you,” Rowan smiles, a glint of mischief in his eyes, “for following through

anddrivingmeback.”

“Nowyou’rewelcome,”Stephengrins.

“Don’tstayuptoolate.I’mnotcuttingyouanyslackifyoushowuplatetowork.”

“Yes, sir.” He watches Rowan unlock his door, waving, and then heads home. He

showersandpullshimselfintobedbeforeherealizeshe’sstillsmiling.

Iwantthistolast,herealizes,staringattheceiling.MorethananythingI’vewanted

before.

he morning after, Rowan wakes up half an hour before his alarm and immediately
startstoworry.WhatdidIdo?Allthestepsthathadseemedlogicallastnightaren’t

so clear-cut anymore. Everything he did to convince himself evaporates in the early
morningsunlikesomuchwater.Hestaresathisclock,willingtimetomovebackwardsor
atleastfreezesothathecangethisthoughtstogether.

Itwasn’tanaccident—hecanadmitthatmuch.Hewasn’tdrunkenoughtopassitoff

asastupidmistake.Notthathewould,ofcourse;itwouldbeacowardlyandterriblething
todotoamanthatalreadyhasissueswithself-confidenceandworth.

As much as Rowan knows it’s only partly the reason, he did kind of want to help

Stephenbyshowinghimhisworth.Hisinitialplanhadbeentoacceptthedinnerofferand
getStephentoopenup.TheyweresidetrackedbyJentakingthemtothebarandRowan
had been terrified for a bleak moment that he was going to experience firsthand just the
kindofdrinkingspiralStephenwassousedtoplayingouteverynight.Bysomemiracle
or chance, though, Stephen held the same drink all night and instead seemed more
interested in the conversation. Rowan’s conversations, particularly. Once Rowan caught
on—maybehe’stryingtostaysoberformysake—hebecameexcited.Hewonderedifhe
could get Stephen to realize that his destructive habit wasn’t worth it. Rowan suggested
dinner,howeverlateitwasandhoweverdumbtheidea,andtheyendedupatStephen’s
place.

That was really where his plan was supposed to end. He was only supposed to be a

friend for the man—someone willing to be firm and point out his mistakes while still
offering a sympathetic ear and bad jokes. It started that way, too. Their takeout and
conversationwereinnocentenoughandthenRowanspilledStephen’sdrinklikeanidiot
and then Stephen took his shirt off and…well, one thing honestly led to another. Once
they started, he half-believed that Stephen might push him away and leave him to get
pickedupbyJen.Rowanstillisn’tsurewhattothinkaboutthewaythingshappenedor
thefactthatStephenlookedsohappyafter.

If he’s being honest, it’s kind of an ego boost. Stephen wasn’t so hesitant and so

withdrawnthatRowanworriedhewasmisreadingeverything.Afterall,themanhadbeen
marriedtoawomanbeforeandhehadadaughter.ForallRowanknows,itwassomething
likeaone-nightstandoranexperimentwithalonelyfriend.Hecouldgetnothingbuta
cold shoulder and forced politeness for his last weeks in the bakery. That more than
anythingwouldhurthim,hethinks—losingeverythingoveronenight.

“Howhungoverareyou?”Jenaskswhenhegetsintothecar.

“I’mnot.”

“Oh. Why do you look like you’re in pain, then? Your face is all screwed up,” Jen

says,tappinghisforeheadtiredly.

“Howlongwereyouout?”

“Too long,” she groans, rubbing her forehead with a closed fist. “I swear my friends

arebadforme.”

“Itwasprobablygoodforyoutogetabreak.Icantakethefrontcountertodayifyou

wanttoworkthekitchen.”

“Really?”

“Yes.Lunchtax,ofcourse.”Hesmirks,watchingJenrollhereyesandthenwince.

Stephen isn’t there when they show up, which is normal, but Rowan feels more

anxious than usual. He can’t stop wondering what the man did after Rowan went home.
Didhedrink?Ishestillawakeordidheevergotosleep?Questionsflythroughhismind
butheresolvestoignorethem,focusingontheshop.He’snotgoingtomakethingsweird,
hetellshimself,especiallyifStephenisnervousaboutit.

Hedoesn’trealizeStephenisinuntilhehearsJentalking.Shesayssomethingabout

killer hangovers and Stephen chuckles. He doesn’t sound bad, Rowan thinks, uncertain.
He realizes something with a start—what if he thinks I’m hiding from him? He panics,
thinkingofallthewaysamiscommunicationcouldruinthings,andthenturnsononeheel
andthrowsthedoorsopen.

It’sjusttoobadhedidn’tthinkofwhathewasgoingtodo,pastdramaticallyentering

thekitchen.

“What?”Jenasks,raisinganeyebrow.Rowanmostlyignoresher,tryingtogaugehow

Stephenisfeeling.Helooks…awake.Hopefullynothungover,Rowanthinks,althoughhe
can’t really tell. He’s wearing fresh clothes, though, and seems to have shaved.
Rearrangedhismessofdarkhair.Helooksreallygood,actually.

“Ifinished,”Rowanblurts,nothingelsecomingintohisblankmind.

“Great.Whatdoyouwant,amedal?”hiscousinaskswryly.

“Don’tbeanass,”Rowangrumbleshalf-heartedly,relieffloodinghissystem.Stephen

doesn’t seem like he’s trying to run away or avoid conversation. A good sign, right? “I
wasgoingtoseeifyouneededhelp,butIguessyoudon’t!”

He half-yells the last part, smirking, and Jen flinches away, glaring daggers at him.

Shethrowsafewchocolatechipsathimandheducksbackthroughthedoors,smilingto
himselfwhenhehearsStephensnort.Hestartstothinkthatmaybethingsaren’tsobad—
they’llhavetoconfronteachotheratsomepointabouttheirnighttogetherbutatleastit
seemslikeStephenisn’tshyingaway.ThemanseemstobewillingtotreatRowancivilly,
attheveryleast.

Most of the day passes without incident. Rowan thinks maybe it’s a good thing he’s

notworkinginthebackwithStephen;theyhavetimeapartandhe’sstartingtocalmdown
and stop thinking about everything that could go wrong. The customers come and go,
Stephensteppingouttochatwithregulars,andRowaneasilynavigatesthecrowdwithout
asecondthought.

Bythetimequittingtimerollsaround,Rowanisinagoodmoodanddecidestoride

the feeling and invite Stephen out to dinner. He makes it sound casual, not wanting
StephentoworrythatRowanputtoomuchstockinthepreviousnight’sencounter.

ButStephenturnshimdown.

Rowan tries to keep a smile on his face. “Cool. I just thought you might be hungry.

Anothertime.”Hemanagestoturnbeforetightlyclosinghiseyesinembarrassment.I’m
anidiot.

“Wait,Rowan.”

Rowanforcesasmileonhisfaceandturns.“Yeah?”

“I’dactuallyreallyliketo,butI’vegotapriorcommitment.”

“Don’tworryaboutit,seriously.I,”helaughs,“Ihopeyoudon’tthinkIthinkwe’re,

youknow…together…now…oranything.”

Stephengiveshimasweetsmile.“Rowan,Imeanit.Infact,”hesays,ashestartsto

takeoffhisapron,“comewithme.”

“Idon’twanttobea…thirdwheeloranything.”

“Notatall.Ithinkyou’lllikethisplace.”

Rowanfeelsaflutterinhisstomachasheaccepts.

Theyworktogethertogetthebakeryclean,andthenheadouttoStephen’spickup.

“Whereareweheaded?”Rowanasks.Helooksdownathisclothing,stilltidythanks

tohisapron,butchosenforcomfortandutilityinsteadoffashionorattractiveness.Hejust
hopesitwilldo.

Insteadofananswer,Stephenasksaquestion.“DidJentellyouhowwemet?”When

Rowantellshimshehasnot,hecontinues.“SheisprobablyoneofthekindestpeopleI’ve
ever met. And I’m sure you know that she gets that from your uncle. About four years
ago,theybroughtatruckloadofpastriestoSt.Matthew’sshelterforChristmasmorning
breakfast.”Hepausedtoclearhisthroat,andwhenhespeaksagain,hisvoicewaversever
soslightly.“ItwasthefirstfoodI’deatenintwodays.I’dspentmylastfivebucksonthe
biggest bottle of whiskey I could afford. Nasty shit. And…I probably stank. I wasn’t
stayingthere—hadthetownhouse,ofcourse—butIstumbledinlookingforsomethingto
eat.Theywereso…kind.Nojudgment.Norepulsion.Nopity.Justkind.Jenremindedme
ofmydaughter.Butmydaughterdidn’thavesomeonelikeyourUncleRobert.”

Stephen is silent again. Rowan doesn’t know what to say. He’s touched by the

descriptionofhisownfamily,andsaddenedbyStephen’sconfession.

“Ididn’tquitdrinking,asyouknow,butthat’swhenIdecidedtomakesomechanges.

Isobereduplongenoughtolookforajob,andwhenIsawthatthebakerywashiring,I

jumped at the chance to work for such great people. And I started volunteering at St.
Matthew’s.”

Theyturnacornerandthesmall,humblechurchisinfrontofthem.Stephenparksin

thelot,turnsoffthetruck,andfacesRowan.“Sothisismy‘date’forthenight.Wantto
joinin?OrIcanrunyoubacktoyourplacerealquick.”

Rowansmiles.“It’sadate.”

EVERAL

HOURS

LATER

,andRowanisbackhome,alone,exhaustedbuthappy.

It wasn’t what Rowan expected, but it ended up being the best night (well, maybe

second best) he’s had in awhile. The staff and clients alike were obviously fond of
Stephen,greetinghimwithheartyhandshakesandwarmsmiles.Anditwassurprisingly
fun. Rowan had expected it to be sad, and while there were those moments, the staff
workedhardtokeeptheatmospherewelcomingandfriendly.Musicplayedduringdinner,
games were played after, and so many pitched in for the post-dinner clean-up that the
kitchenwasspic-and-spaninnotime.

After,Rowancan’tstopthinkingaboutStephen.Thereisonescenethathecan’tget

outofhismind:Stephenkneelingdowntojokewithanelderlymaninawheelchair.The
waytheoldfellow’seyeslitup…

Rowantakesahotshower,heatsupsomemilk,andtriestoreadthebookhebrought

withhimfromhome.

Finally,finally,hisexhaustionwins.

THEIR

LUST

FUELED

nightwaswhatconvincedRowanthathewasphysicallyattracted

toStephen,theirnightattheshelteriswhatconvinceshimthatStephenisthekindofman
hecouldreallyseehimselfwith…anditseemslikeStephenmightfeelthesameway.The
nextdayatwork,StephenasksifRowanwouldliketocomeovertowatchamovieafter
work. They pick up tacos from the Taco Bus, an Oriole institution, and watch The
TreasureofSierraMadretogether.Afterthemovie,theystarttalking.Rowanisintrigued
bytheman,andwantstoknowabouthischildhood.Beforetheyknowit,it’stwointhe
morning.It’saphysicallychastenight,butanemotionallyintimateone.

The next day, Stephen tells Rowan casually that he’s gone two nights now without

drinking.

Rowanfeelshisfaceturnpink.He’ssohappyitalmosthurts.

They kiss a few times during the week, the sweet, delicious kisses of two men

enjoying getting to know each other. There’s a slow-burn of passion that Rowan feels
buildingup,andeverytimeStephenkisseshim,he’scertaintheothermanfeelsittoo.But
there’snohurry.Theireveningsarespentcookingtogether,watchingfavoritemovies,and
talking.

It’salljustsurprisinglyeasyandfunandsweet…

…untilThursday.

Anunfamiliarwomanwalksin—darkbrownhairwithapencilstuckthroughitanda

facethat’ssomehowyouthful,despitetheagereflectedinhereyes.Sheseemsasifshe’s
beenthroughthewringer.Shehangsbackasothercustomersorder,gazingatthepastries
inthecaseasifthey’lltellhersomethingsheneedstoknow.Bythetimetheshopclears
out,she’sstillstaringatthemacaroonsasifthey’llrevealtheanswerstotheuniverse.

“MayIhelpyou?”Rowantriestoaskasunobtrusivelyaspossiblebutshestilljumpsa

little.

“Hi.Sorry.Um—Idon’trecognizeyou.You’re…”

“Rowan.I’mJen’scousin,”heexplains,curious.“Areyouaregular?”

“Notquite,”thewomansaysdrily,glancingaroundtheshop.“I’m—”

“Melissa,”Jensaysshortly,appearingfromthebackwithaclipboardinhand.“Hi.”

“Hi,Jen.Stephenhere?”

Oh.OH.Rowansuddenlyfeelsflushed—heisn’tsurehowtodealwiththesituation.

That’shisex-wife,herealizes,heartpoundinginhisthroat.Hefeelslikeshecantell.See
everything.Suddenly,she’snotjustsomewomancomingintotheshop.She’sthewoman.
Hefeelsimmenselyembarrassed,despitethefactthathehasn’tdoneanythingwrong.Jen
glancestowardstheback,givingRowanasidewaysglance.Oh,no,don’t—

“Yes.Ro,canyougoupdatethislistinthepantry?Melissa,goaroundbackandI’lllet

youin.”

MelissathanksJen,turningtowalkoutthefrontdoor,andRowanisfrozeninplace.

He’sstillstandingthereasecondlaterwhenJenpasseshimtheclipboard,mouthdrawn
intoaline.

“Juststayquietandoutofsight,okay?Thingscangetalittle…unpleasant.”

Oh,God.Rowannodsandslipsintotheback,lettingJengofirsttounlocktheback

door. He catches Stephen’s eye on his way to the pantry, nervous. The other man looks
likehewantstomovecloserorsaysomething.

“Keep the door open,” he murmurs, just loud enough for Rowan to hear. Rowan

pauses,noddingshortlybeforesteppingintothepantry.

Thisisthelastthinghewants.Hedoesn’twanttoeavesdroponsomeoneelse’sdirty

laundry—especiallythemanheworkswith.Andkindof…hadsexwith.Andhassortof
beendating. Not thathe isn’t gladStephen trusts him tobe around; hejust isn’t sure he
wants to know the extent of the issues. What if it’s worse than I thought? He can’t help
imaginingallthethingstheycouldsay.Forallheknows,Stephenisn’tasgoodafatheras
heclaimshe’stryingtobe.Orworse—whatifhewasabusive?Rowanshakeshisheadto
trytoclearthethoughtsaway.

ThebackdooropensandJenannouncessomethingaboutcheckingthefrontregisters.

Aminutelater,there’saheavysilence.

“You know, part of me wondered if you’d even be here, if you were lying about

keepingthejob.”

“WhywouldIlie?Iloveithere,”Stephensaysevenly.Hesoundsstrained—asifhe’s

tryinghishardesttobeneutralbuthestillcan’thelpthedefensivenesshefeels.

“You’veliedbefore.Aboutthefactory.About—”

“Melissa,please.Notnow.”

“Not now? Then when? When exactly are you planning on owning up to your

mistakes?It’snothardtosayyouhatedyourjobanddranklikeafishtonumbyourself,
Stephen.”

That much I knew, Rowan thinks, a tiny drop of relief flooding his system. He feels

selfishforthinkingofhisowndesiresbuthe’sgladthatStephenisjustwhathethought.
Tiredandsad.Notthatit’sgood;it’sjustthatRowanknowshowtodealwithit.Heknows
howtohelp.Ifitweremore…well,heprobablywouldn’ttry.

“Whydidyoucomehere?”

“IgotacallfromAaronacoupleofdaysago.Youknow—fromDerry’s.Yourthird

stoponmostnights,thoughIdoubtyourememberit.”

Rowanpauses,abandoningthesaltboxeshe’scountingtoleanclosertothedoorway.

Hisheartispounding.WhyamIsoinvestedinthis?

“IknowwhoAaronis.”

“Doyouevenknowhowmuchyoudrink?Hetoldmeyouwerethereuntiltwo-thirty

inthemorning.Hehadtowalkyoubackhome.You’rejustluckyhecaredenoughtodoit
—he’sgothisownlifetoworryabout,youknow—”

“Well,I’msorryaboutthat,”Stephensays,voicerising,“butthatwaslastweek.I’ve

madesomechangessincethen.”

There was a moment of silence before Melissa responded. “Right.” Her doubt was

loudandclearinjustthatoneword.

ItsoundslikeStephencriesoutinfrustration,andthenfootstepsecho.Rowanspinson

hisheel,buryinghimselfintheshelves,tryingtoconcentrate.Pleasedon’tcomeinhere,
pleasedon’t—

Stephen,itseems,istryingtotakerefugeinthepantry.Rowanstareshardatthelabel

on the flour bag he’s reading, feeling like he’s burning alive. They may be several feet
apartinanenormousroombuthestillfeelstheargumentasifit’stakingplaceinhislap.

“Melissa, you don’t have a responsibility for me, remember? You gave that up,”

Stephenhisses,voicelow.Heslamsafewthingsaroundontheshelfandglancestowards
Rowan.

Doeshewantmetohelphimgetoutofthis?Rowanrealizeswithastart.He’salmost

angryatfirst—it’snotlikeRowanhasanyplaceintheconversationtobeginwith.Still,he
recognizes what’s happening here. Melissa coming back is just opening up old wounds
over and over again, ripping them wide and pushing him back towards the habits he’s
trying to change. It’s not fair to Melissa but Stephen probably needs space more than

anything.Space…andme,apparently.

“Igaveitup?So,it’smyfault?”

“That’snotwhatI—”

“Stephen,youneedtostoprunningfromyourproblems.Youknow,forawhilethere,I

thoughtthisjobmighthaveputyoubackontrack.Evenyourdrinkingnightsweren’tas
bad—I wasn’t getting calls from your neighbor every other night about how you fell
asleep on the lawn. But this—whatever it is, whatever reason you’re finding to poison
yourselfandourdaughternow—you’reslipping.Slipanymoreandyou’regoingtofall
rightintoapityouwon’tbeabletopullyourselfupfrom.”

The room is silent. Part of Rowan wishes the floor would swallow him whole. He

manages to sneak a look at Stephen, thinking maybe he’ll see the man quietly nod and
send Melissa away, but he instead catches Stephen’s gaze. He knows what’s being
communicated.Help.Saysomething.

Butwhatcanhesay?

Mostofwhatshe’ssayingistrue.FromwhatRowan’sseenofStephen,themanhasa

habit of drinking frequently and heavily. He finds reasons to punish himself and chases
themdownwithwhiskey.Itaffectshisentirelife.Nomatterhowmuchheloveshisjobat
thebakery,ifhedoesn’tlearntolovehimself,Rowanknowshe’snevergoingtobeableto
beaproperpartofhisdaughter’slife.AndRowanhasseenthegoodinhim—he’sseen
thedesireforchange.ThewayStephenwassoopenandcarefulwhenhewassoberthat
first night. The way he decided to not drink, even if just for a few nights. He knows,
without a shadow of doubt, that Stephen is capable of being better. Maybe he needs to
hearwhatMelissahastosay.Maybeitwillmakehisrecentchangespermanent.

ThemomentpassesandMelissasighstiredly.Stephendoesn’tspeak.

“Help yourself. You’re the last person you have left, Stephen. I can’t help you

anymoreandnooneelsewill,either.You’regoingtohavetohelpyourself.”

Melissa leaves, the back door closing carefully, and Rowan bites his tongue. He

doesn’tknowwhattosay.DoIsupporther?Itcouldpushhimawaybutheneedstoknow
she’s right. He knows he could just say something simple—I’m here for you—but that’s
justasworthlessasanyotherget-well-cardphrase.He’sstillfishingforsomethingtosay
whenStephenstartstoleave.

“Wait—”Rowanstarts,unsureofwhathe’sgoingtosaybutknowingheneedstodo

something. Stephen turns to him, expression flat. It sends a shiver down Rowan’s spine.
It’s like the man is wearing a mask, completely blank and cool, and there’s no trace of
anythingelsethere.Excepthiseyes—hiseyesaredisappointed.Inme?

“She’s right. No one else is going to help me,” Stephen says quietly. He turns away,

grabbingacontainerofcinnamon,andwalksbackoutthepantrydoor.

Itfeelslikealoss.Rowanisn’tsureofwhat’shappened;allheknowsisthatnothing

has gone right. Somehow, he feels as if Stephen has moved six steps back and they’re
furtherawayfromgoodthantheywerewhentheyhatedeachother.Ihavetoprovetohim
Iwanttohelp,Rowanthinks.IguessIjusthavetobelieveitfirst,myself.

“A

IDIOT

?”

“Ofcourseyouare.Whatdidyoudonow?”Linaasks,amused.

Rowanrollshiseyesatherfaceonhislaptop,whichisopenonthebed.Thisisthe

firsttimehe’sopeneditsincearrivinginOriole.

“I…mayhave…”

“Ohmy—didyou?!Didyoufu—”

“No!”Rowanpracticallyshouts,wincingwhenheremembershe’sintheguesthouse.

“No.Imean—sortof?Yes?”

“Well,whichisit?”

“God,dowehavetododetails?”

“Okay, fine. No details is fine. Just—was it casual or did you…make an evening of

it?”

“Stephen’sadad.Asad…drunkdad.AndIwastipsy.Wewereboth exhausted from

work—whatdoyouthink?”

HehearsLinasnortontheotherend.Heknowshe’sbeingabitshortbuthecan’thelp

it.He’sstartingtomillthingsoverinhismind,pickingaparteverymomentfromthetime
he and Stephen left the bakery until he returned home and then when he did something
wrongwhenMelissashowedup.

“Howwasit?”

“None of your business. And since then we’ve been spending time together, after

work.Ilikehim,Lina.”

Her face splits into a huge grin on the computer screen. “Okay. So what’s the

problem?”

“Hisex-wifecameintoday.”

“Ohhh…thatsounds…notfun.”

“Itwasn’t,”Rowangrumbles,rubbinghisforeheadwithatiredhand.“Imean,shewas

fine.Seemedniceenough.It’sjust…shecameintochewhimout.”

“Oh.So,she’saharpy?”

“No.No,sheseemedtoactuallycare.And,Idon’tknow…shewaskindofright?”He

saysitasifit’saquestion,wincingagainasifheexpectstobeyelledat.Hedoesn’tknow
whyhefeelssoguilty.

“Probably.Imean,youmentionedhedrinksalot,right?She’dprobablyknowbetter

thananyonehowmessedupheis.”

“Yeah,”Rowansighs,gladforthereassurance,“buthejust…Idon’tknow.Hekindof

shutdownafterthat.”

“Whydoyouthink?Didshesayanythingspecific?”

“Imean…shekindofaccusedhimofslipping.Somethinglikeshethoughtthejobwas

helpingbutshethinksitisn’tenough,now.AndIthink…Stephentriedtolooktomefor
help.Orbackuporsomething,Idon’tknow…”

“Whywouldhedothat?Youdon’tknowhimthatwell,right?”

“Not really,” Rowan says, trying to mill everything around in his mind. “But he’s

madeanefforttonotdrinkforthepastweek.He’strying.Shesaidsomethingabouthim
needingtohelphimselfbecauseshewouldn’tandeveryoneelsewasdonetrying,too.It
waskindof…final.Iguessshe’sbeencomingaroundforawhileorsomething.”

“Oh,Rowan,”Linasayssuddenly,realizationandsadnessheavyinhertone.Hisheart

startspoundingfaster.

“What?”

“He’sprobablybeenexpectinghertogiveuponhim.Hemighthavelookedtoyoufor

help because you’re not…her, you know? You’re an outsider. A new person. Someone
whohasnohistorytojudgehimby.Maybehewantedyoutobackhimuponthefactthat
he’strying.”

Rowanbiteshislip,contemplatingherwords.

Athissilence,shecontinues.“Andthenyou…didwhateveryoudid,whichwassexno

matter what way you put it, and that was probably something that made him think you
were going to be there for him. Like, a little more than a casual bystander, you know?”
Hervoiceispatientbutthere’ssomesarcasmtoherwords.

“Oh, shit,” Rowan murmurs, throwing an arm over his head. I got it all wrong. I

messedup.“Ididn’teven—Imean,Iwasgoingto…”

“Look,becauseIknowyou,Iknowyoudidn’tmeanforittobeaone-timething.But

because I know you, I also know you probably didn’t think much past ‘fixing the
immediateproblem.’Youhadsextofixhim—which,bytheway,isnotthewaytostart
any relationship—and when it kind of worked you forgot what the point was and didn’t
standupforhim.Youprettymuchdouble-crossedhim,Rowan.”

“I didn’t mean to—I mean, I know you can’t fix someone that way,” Rowan argues,

frustrated,“andIdidn’tplanonusingitasawaytofixhim—”

“Yeah,exceptfromwhatyou’retellingmehe’swaytooinvestedinhowotherpeople

mightthinkofhim.Hewasprobablyprettydamncomfortablewithyoutoevenhavesex
inthefirstplace.Imean,hashebeenwithanyoneelsesincehisex?Nomatterhoweasy
or casual it was, he probably didn’t count on the messy feelings part of having sex.
Especiallysinceyoutwoseeeachothersooften.Andheclearlylikesyouasaperson.”

“Okay, so we’re both idiots, is what I’m getting,” Rowan groans. Suddenly, going

backhomeandtohiscomputeratworkseemslikeabetterandbetteridea.“Neitherofus
meanttomessupthatwaybutwedid.Ijustneedto…fixit,somehow.”

“Okay—Rowan, I love you, and I love that you’re always willing to make things

work.Butyoucan’tfixsomeoneelse.Youjusthavetoshowthemhowtofixthemselves.

You keep thinking the way you are and you’re just gonna end up screwing him over.
Especiallysinceyou’renotgoingtobethereforlong.”

She’sright.ItmakessensethatStephenwouldbeclosedoff;itmakessensethathe’d

be too worried about other people’s opinions, especially after thinking he’d failed both
Melissaandhisdaughter,Jordi.Hell,Rowansuspectedasmuchinthefirstplace.Hejust
convenientlyforgotafteradrinkortwo.Nowthathethinksaboutit,heregretsbeingso
compulsive.Hecan’tevenbelievehewouldmakethingssomessy—he’susuallytheone
sittingbackandthinkingabouttheproblem.Heusuallytakestimetogetinvolved,evenif
hedoes.

Somaybehe’srushingalittlebitbecauseofhistimeframeandmaybehe’sjumpingto

conclusionsbecausehelikesStephen.Heforgetshe’sdealingwithamanthathasapast
and needs time to recover from it. It’s just that he somehow, indescribably, really wants
thistowork.HewantstoknowwhatStephenwaslikebefore,whenhewasyoungerand
carefree and still unbroken. He wants to know what the man who stared at the roses
lookedlike.Howhetalked.Howheloved.

“Oh,Lina—”

“Iknow,”shesayscarefully,cuttinghimoffbeforehecansayanything.“ButIneed

youtostopandthink.Iknowthat’shardandanyothertime,I’dtellyoutogoforit—butI
think you need to give Stephen time. Let him be open and healed enough to care about
youthesameway.Okay?”

“Yeah.Iwill,”Rowansays,rubbingathiseyes.Hecan’tthinkofwhathe’sgoingto

donextorhowhe’sgoingtodoit.Hefeelslikehehastheworld’sbiggestsecretinhis
chestandhecan’tshareitwiththeonlyotherpersonitinvolves.

HowlongcouldIlastbeforelettingitout?Woulditevendoanygood?

Hedoesn’tknow.Hedoesn’tknowanyoftheanswerstohisquestionsandthatscares

himmorethananything.Allhedoesknowisthathehastowait.Hehastobepatientand
holdbackbecauseifhedoesn’t,herisksbeingtheonetopushStephenovertheedge—
andthat’sthelastthinghewantstodo.

DROPS

him off in the morning, running to get a few supplies before opening, and

RowanisleftattheshoptowaitforStephen.Hefeelssomethingsimmeringinhischest
theentiretime—somesortofdreadcoupledwithanticipationandnervousness.Hekeeps
thinkingabouthisconversationwithLina,cautionandreminderspilingupinthebackof
hismind.

“Morning.”

RowanalmostjumpswhenStephengetsin,theothermancautiouslymovingaround

theshopasifhe’swaitingforaminetogooff.Ormaybelikehe’sexpectingMelissato
ambushhim.

“Morning.Sleepwell?”Rowantacksthelastpartonwithoutthinking,tryingnottolet

hisfaceshowhowmuchheregretsthetritequestion.

Stephenpauses,notquitelookingathim.“Iguess.Where’sJen?”

“Shewenttopicksomethingupfromthestore,Ithink,”Rowanoffers.Oh,God,this

isjustasawkwardasIthoughtitwouldbe.Heverymuchwantstobeanywhereelsein
theworld.Exceptnowheknowsthathecan’tgiveup.Hehastosaysomething.“I,um,
wantedtotalktoyou.”

“Why?”

“I wanted you to understand why I didn’t say anything. Yesterday,” Rowan tries,

knowingheshouldbestartingupthecoffeemachinebutalsoknowingheneedstoclear
theair.

“It’sfine.Itwasn’tyourproblem,”Stephensaysevenly,turningawaytostartthefirst

batchofeclairs.

“No, it was. I need you to know that I do care,” Rowan emphasizes, “and I should

have said something because I know how hard you’re working, how much you actually
wanttochange—”

“Youdon’tknowthat,”Stephensays.It’sthesametoneofvoiceheusedbefore,like

he’s trying not to get emotional but he feels everything that’s happening with acute
sensitivity.

“Ido.WhenwewentoutwithJen,youhadonedrinkandthenyoudidn’tgotothebar

thatnight.Thenyoutoldmeyouweretakingtimeofffromthebars.Youseemtoreally
wantit.”

“Youdon’tknowthat.”

“Wow,original,”Rowanjokessarcastically,tryingtotaketheedgeoffbysmiling.“I

knowit’shard.IknowyoufeellikeyouruinedthingswithMelissaandyou’resabotaging
them with Jordi. I know. But I’ve seen the decisions you’ve made this past week. And
that’sallthereistoit.Onenightatatime.Changeasithappens.Youdon’thavetoplan
thenexttwentyyears.”

It’smorethanhe’severreallysaidbefore.MorethanIwouldevertrytotellsomeone.

Excepthisheartisbeatingtoofastandallhecanthinkaboutishowmuchhewantstodo
thisright.Iwanthimtobebetter.Hefeelsselfishforthinkingitthough,asifhe’ssayingI
wanthimtobebetterforme.Nomatterwhat,hetellshimself,theleasthecandoishelp
Stephenbackontohisfeet.Anythingelseissecondary.

“I messed up,” Stephen says quietly. “I expected her to give up on me, you know.

Melissa.”

“Igetthat,”Rowantries,“andIknowyouwerewithherforalongtime,right?”

“Iwas.Butthat’snotevenit.Ijust…shekeptlookingafterme,evenaftershedidn’t

needtoanymore.Forhertojustgiveup…”

“Idon’tthinkshewill,”Rowansays,thinking.Should I? Is it too much? He tries to

approach it as carefully as possible. “But…maybe it’s good that she’s done. Maybe you
needspacefromher—fromwhatyouwentthrough—toheal.FromwhatIsaw,itseems
likeshebringsupthepastforyou.Anditmaynotbeonpurposebutitisn’thelping.”

“I screwed up in the past,” Stephen reminds him, even though he looks a little less

miserable.

“Yeah. But going back isn’t going to help anything. You need to focus on moving

forward.Onnow.”

He’snotsureifhegetsthroughtothemanbutfortherestoftheday,Stephendoesn’t

seemasdowntroddenashedidbefore.Maybethiscanwork.Maybe.

estillfeelsastingfromRowan’sdecisionnottospeakupinfrontofMelissa.Ithad
hurt—he’dexpectedsomesupport;justalittle,really.Notanoutrightargumentbut

somethingtohelphimup.SomethingtohelpshowMelissathatStephenwasdoingbetter.
Thatthingshadchangedinaweek.

Somuchhadchanged.

He’d felt…different, after the week with Rowan. Not changed but faced with the

possibilityofchange.Itwasbetterthanheexpected—asifallofhisstressandself-doubt
had evaporated. Something about the way Rowan put him at ease and made him forget
about his past had helped him. Laughing each night, talking about happy memories,
sharingtheirindividualpassionsanddreams.Hewenttoworkeachmorningafterwithout
thinkingabouthisfailures—atleastuntilMelissashowedup.Herargumentjustbrought
everythingbackagainandhewaslefthopelessafterwards.

Hedidn’tgodrinkingthatnight,afterseeingMelissa.Hefeltthecompulsiontogoand

thensomethingsouredinhismouth.Hewasstandinginfrontofhisbed,thinkingabout
thelasttimeRowanwasthere,andhehatedtoreplacethetasteofvanillawiththeburnof
whiskey. No matter how much Rowan had turned away, Stephen couldn’t help but wish
for what they’d had. Not just the night they were intimate, but the simplicity of every
nighttheyhadspenttogetherandhownothingelsehadmattered.Howthereweren’tany
questionsorexpectations.

RowantryingtoprovethathecaredhadjustbolsteredStephen’shope.Justatinybit;

justenoughforhimtoconvincehimselfhecouldtry…thattherewasapossibility.Still,no
matterwhathewants,heknowshecan’tjumpintoanythingagain…notnowthathe’sfelt
pushedawayonce.He’snotabouttojumpbackintobedagain.Hefeelstoooldandtoo
beaten for that kind of casual thing. He can’t stop caring about Rowan, though. Rowan
just…cares,nomatterhowunaffectedheisbyeveryoneelse.Stephenbothwantstolearn
fromhimandshowhimjusthowtoloosenup.Stephenisn’tsurehowheendedupbeing
oneofthepeopleRowanlikes,butheknowsenoughtoknowit’sararegift.Hecan’tlose
it.

“What are you doing tonight?” Stephen asks without hesitation because he’s thought

about it since last night. He knows his questions and he knows the ways Rowan could
answer.

Rowanlooksupfromhislineofcinnamonrolls,eyeswideasifcaughtbysurprise.He

hurriedlystartsliningupanotherrow,lookingforalltheworldasifhe’srunningthrough
aninnermonologue.ItmakesStephenwanttolaughalittlebit.He’ssocute.

“Um—going home? What…you think I’m flying off on a private jet? That’s only

everyotherFriday.”

Stephen snorts, shaking his head. Okay, I planned for everything but his sarcasm.

Which is, arguably, the only thing I could count on from him. Rowan’s smiling, a little
morerelaxed,whichisgood.Ineedhimcalmforthis.

“Wanttogetdinnerafterwork?Properly,thistime.”

Rowan pauses. Stephen tries to keep working, acting as if it’s routine. He needs

Rowantoknowthisisjustasimpleinvitation;nothingattached.Nosex;nohelpingthe
lessfortunate.He’sjustplanningonsomethingbasic.Twofriendsgoingout.Thefactthat
they’vehadsex—kindof—meansnothing…oritdoes,butnotinthiscontext.

“Sure.Ideas?”

“Justone.YoulikeItalian,right?”

“Sure,”Rowansmiles,finishinghistray.“Whatarewecelebrating?”

“Adjustableshowerheads.”

Rowan laughs harder than before and Stephen smiles inwardly. Good. This is good.

Beingonthesamesidefeelssomuchbettertohimthannotknowingwhototrust.Atleast
ifhehasRowanheknowswhattoexpect.Heknowstoexpectthesarcasmandthequiet
andthepatientpragmatism.Thetruth,evenwhenhedoesn’treallywanttohearit.

The day goes well. They work together better than even their first week of being

friendly; they know each other’s routines and quirks now. Rowan always works on
Stephen’srightsideandhealwaysgrabsanextraspoonwhenmixing,knowingStephen
willforgethis.StephenpassesRowanextraflourforthetablebeforemixingdough,sure
that Rowan won’t have enough from his handful. Things do work so much more
seamlesslywithbothmennavigatingwitheachotherinsteadofjustaroundeachother.It’s
asiftheyfinisheachother’ssentences,exceptthey’rejustpassingingredientsandducking
awayfromloweringovendoors.

“That was fast,” Jen says, raising her eyebrows as Stephen slips a new tray of

croissantsintothecase.

“Guessso.Productiveday,”heshrugs,balancingtheemptytrayinhishand.Jenlooks

himover,aquestionflickeringoverherface.

“Youknow,it’sbeenalotneatersinceyouandRowanhavestoppedbickering.”

“Whosayswestopped?”Stephenreplies,raisinganeyebrow.Jennarrowshereyesat

him,suspicious.

“Hey, asshole, I hate you. Also, the brownies are done,” Rowan supplies, leaning

againstthedoortothekitchen.

“Thanks,jerk.Whydon’tyoucrawlbackunderyourmixingbowlfortherestofthe

week.”

They’rebothgrinninglikeidiots.JenrollshereyesandRowansnickers,holdingthe

doorasStephenslipsintothekitchen.Theyletthedoorsswingshut,preparingtounload
theoven,andthenJenyellsbackatthem.

“You’re both weirdos!” she yells, leaning through the swinging doors for a brief

moment.

“Bestill,myheart,”Stephensnorts.

“She’sarealcharmer,”Rowangrins.

Stephen feels more and more positive as the day passes—he and Rowan are more

comfortablearoundeachotheragain,evenifStephenkeepspullingbackfromtoomuch
contact. I just need someone to be on my side, he thinks, and being together would
probablybealittletoohasty.Notthatheisn’tinterested—theothernightisproofenough
of that. It’s just that he knows with heavy certainty that it would be irresponsible and
damaging to get into a relationship when he’s still trying to convince himself every
momentofthedaynottodrinktoforget.

He doesn’t get nervous until right around closing. Was this a bad idea? He reminds

himselfthatit’snotadate.Thatdoesn’tstophimfromdroppingaspatula,though,which
hehastorewashthreetimesafterdroppingitagain.Jengiveshimalookwhenshecomes
infromthefronttofindhimdroppingitagain.

“Goddamnit,”hemutters,throwingitintothesink.

“Youtellthatspatula,Stephen.It’snotthebossofyou,”Jensays,grinning.

“I’m just hungry,” Stephen says by way of excuse, trying to concentrate on not

droppinganythingashefinishesuptherestofthedishes.

“Good thing we’re getting dinner,” Rowan muses, walking past with an empty

cardboardbox.

“Dinner?”Jenechoes,hersmileslowlywidening.Stephenresiststheurgetosigh.It

takesalotofenergyhedoesn’thave.

“Yes, Jen. You know, the meal most humans eat in the evening. The last one of the

day. Typically heavier than breakfast and lunch, although we’ve been told it should, in
fact,bethelightest.”

“Okay,smartass.GuessIwon’thavetodriveyourmopeybutthome.”

Stephensnortsatthat.HealmosttunesJenandRowanoutashekeepsworking.The

banterfillsagaphe’sbeenpretendingisn’tthere.

Heremembersbeingakidinaquiethouse.He’dturnthetelevisiononsometimesjust

tostopthesilencefrominvadinghismind.Thekitchenwasoff-limits;hewasn’tallowed
to touch anything and he was always terrified his mother would know, when she came
home late, that he had done something. Most days he just let the radio or television
murmurinthebackgroundwhilehedrew,crayonsfillinguppageswithcakesandcarrots
andallkindsofimagescopiedfromadsandmagazines.Hewaskindofatinymasochist,
drawingallthethingshecouldn’thave—andwhenhismothergothome,hewouldshove
his things under the bed and wait for her to make pasta like she usually did, a cheap

attempttosoakupthewinesheusuallypolishedoffonherwaybackhome.

SometimesthefruitcompoteJenmakesremindshimofthewinehismotherusedto

drink.Hestillcan’treallybringhimselftodrinkanythingred.Itfeelswrong.

“Ready?”RowanpullsStephenoutofhismind,untyinghisapron.

“Yeah.Yes,”Stephencorrects,shakinghisheadtoridhimselfofthememories.Hecan

tell there’s a brief flash of worry and hesitation in Rowan’s eyes but the man seems to
brushitaway,insteadoptingtosmooththingsover.Pretend.

Rowanstaysrelativelyquietuntilthey’reinthecar,drivingawayfromthebakery.He

fidgetsinhisseat,kneejumpingandthenstoppingself-consciously.Hisfingerstaponthe
sideofthecardoorandthenstop,twistinginhisshirt.Stephenraiseshiseyebrows.

“Sorry.I,uh—I’mnotusedtonotknowingwhereI’mgoing.”

“What, you? A control freak? I never would have guessed,” Stephen says, feigning

surprise.Rowangiveshimapretenddirtylook.

“Ha, ha, Rowan likes to know where he’s going, so funny. It’s good to know where

you’regoing,”heargues,“justincaseyouneedtoprepare.”

“We’reeatingItalian,notgoingtowar.”

“Foodiswar.”

Stephenlaughs.He’sstrange.Agoodstrange,though.Hefeelsalittleprivileged—as

if he’s getting to see a side of Rowan that rarely comes out. The snappy comments and
jokes all seem like tiny bits of gold. Precious moments. Stephen wants to collect them,
hoardingthemawaytolookbackonafterabadday.Hethinkstheymightmaketheworld
alittlebrighter.

Whoa.Toofar.Hedrawshimselfbackalittle,adjustinghisbodytositstraighter.

He pulls into Sevini’s after fifteen minutes of driving, thankful he’s had time to pull

himselftogether.Hegetsthefeelinghe’sgoingtoneedhiscomposure.

“Idon’tknowifIevercamehere,”Rowanadmits,shovinghishandsintohispockets

ashefollowsStephenin.“MaybeIjustdon’tremember.”

“Maybe.It’sprettypopular,”Stephenmuses,waitingtobeseated.Herecognizesthe

girlthatwalksuptothem,herreddish-brownponytailswingingwitheachstep.

“Stephen!Howareyou?”shebeams,pullinghimintoahug.

“Good,Delancey.How’sthebookcomingalong?”

“Almostfinished,”shewinks,“justdoingsomeediting.Who’syourfriend?”Stephen

doesn’tmissthewaysheslideshergazetowardsRowan,somethingslyinherexpression.

“Rowan,”Stephenintroduceshim,“he’sJen’scousin.Camedowntohelpattheshop

foralittlewhile.”

“Rowan,” Delancey smiles, “Good to meet you. It’s nice to see Stephen finally

bringingsomeonein.Iwasgettingsadjustwatchinghimeatalone.”

Shesoftensthewordswithareassuringhandathisarm.Hecan’treallyarguewithher.

Hedidprobablylooklikeasobstory,sittinginacornerboothwithaplatepiledhighwith
pasta.It’snotmyfaultIliketoeatalotafterworkingout,hethinks,andI’mtiredwhenI
come in. He doesn’t say anything, though, instead weaving through booths as Delancey
sitsthematatableinthebackcorner.

“Youtwogetcomfortable,”shesmiles,“I’llsendsomeoneoverfordrinksandorders

inafew.”

“Thanks,honey,”Stephensmiles,wavingheraway.

“Are you sure you’re not working part-time as the mayor?” Rowan asks drily. The

corner of his mouth twitches as if he’s fighting the urge to smile. Stephen smirks,
wonderingifhecangetRowantocrack.

“You caught me. Don’t tell Jen. I’m about to pass a new citywide tax to pay for my

luxurycondoinMiami.”

“Oh,shewon’tlikethat.Youknowhowvocalshegetsaboutthingsshedoesn’tlike.”

“Ofcourse.So,therewillbeanicelittledonationtothebakeryandJencangetthose

icecreammachinesshe’sbeenharpingaboutforthepastthreeyears.”

“Icecreammachines?”Rowanasks,finallybreakingintolaughter.“Whatthehellare

wegoingtouseicecreammachinesfor?”

Stephenalmostforgetswhathe’ssupposedtobeworryingabout.Theypickupwhere

theyleftoffbeforeMelissashowedup,andtalkaboutunimportantthings—whetherpieor
cakeisbetterandwhetherit’sreasonabletoassignthreehoursofhomeworkperclassin
college—andeatbetweensentences,somehowcarvingalittleworldforthemselvesinthe
backoftherestaurant.RowandropsabowtiepastaonthefloorandStephenpokesfunat
him.Stephenalmostspillshiswater,fumblingforthecupasitstuttersattheedgeofthe
table,andRowanhastohidehisfacebehindaclothnapkintostoplaughing.

“Ithinkyou’regoingtohavetorollmehome,”Rowansayswhentheyfinish,elbows

lazilybracedonthetable.

“Icouldputyouinthebedofthetruck,”Stephensnorts,“I’msurethat’llbefun.”

“Pleasedon’t.Ioncelostabaseballcaponthebackofatruck.I’mtraumatized.”

Thewaitercomestopickuptheirdishesandslipsablackcheckbookontothetable.

Stephen reaches for it and at the same time, Rowan does. Their hands meet over the
folder,bumpingawkwardly,andthetinytouchsomehowupendseverything.Stephencan
feelhisfaceheatingup.

“I’ve got it,” he tries to say, waving Rowan away, but the other man just raises an

eyebrow,slippingitawaywithaneasysmile.

“Myturn,”Rowanremindshim,twirlingthepenoverinhisfingers.Thatlookednice,

Stephenthinksnumbly.Whatelseishegoodat—hestopshimselfquickly,tryingtoforce
himselftothinkofsomething—anythingelse.

AnythingelsebutRowan’shandsonhisskinandhismouth…

“Thanks for coming,” Stephen says, a little too loud, and then he realizes what he’s

justsaidisprobablythemostawkwardchoicehecouldhavemade.Killmenow.Hefeels
like a stupid teenager again, trying and failing miserably to pretend he doesn’t have a
massivecrushonsomeone.

“Imean,howcouldIturndownfood?”Rowanjokes.Hissmileissofterthanbefore,

asifherealizestheshiftintone.

Howishesogoodatmakingpeoplefeelcomfortable?Stephenfeelslikehe’stheone

followingwhentheyleavetherestaurant;healmostgivesupthedriver’sseatforasecond,
feelinglikehe’stheonebeingtreatedratherthantheotherwayaround.

“YouandJenarereallyclose,”Stephensaysbeforehecanfigureoutwhy.“Yougrew

uptogether?”

Maybe he’s thinking about Jordi when he says it. She’s a single child, after all. Or

maybehe’sthinkingabouthisownchildhood,devoidofanyrelativesorsiblings.Maybe
he just really wants to know how Rowan is so good at being…good. At putting other
peopleatease.

“Yeah.We’remorelikesiblingsthancousins,”Rowansmiles,lookingoutthewindow.

“She was always more outgoing than me, though—and we’re not the same age, so we
weren’tusuallyinthesamefriendgroup.Itwasstillgood,though.Wegrewuplearning
aboutbakingfromherfather—myuncle.”

“Sothat’swhyyoutwocanbakeinyoursleep,”Stephenjokes.“Icannevercatchup.”

“You’regood,”Rowaninsistsimmediately,turninginhisseatsuddenly,“Reallygreat.

Youknowwhentostarteverybatchandyouknowalltheinsandoutsoftheshop.Imight
be able to make things, sure, but that doesn’t mean I know anything about the shop. I’d
liketobutI…gavethatup,Iguess.”

Stephen has to take a moment to absorb the litany of compliments. He feels a little

warmfromthem—hewasalwaysalittleunsureabouthisplaceattheshop,evenifhe’s
awareofhowmuchheknows.Somethingderailshistrainofthought,though.

“Whatdoyoumean,gaveitup?”

“I kind of…ran away for college and never came back,” Rowan says uneasily. He

turnsbacktowardsthedooralittle,anarmcrossingoverhischest.Closinghimselfoff.

“Butyoudidcomeback.Youcametohelp—andJenwashappy;I’mprettysureyour

auntandunclewouldn’tshutyououtevenifyoubroketheoven,”Stephensmiles,trying
topokeatthemangently.

He’sgiftedwithprobablythebestsighthe’sseenallday.Rowansmiles,genuineand

warm,andhiseyesseemtomeltlikepoolsofgold.God,Ilovehiseyes,Stephenthinks.

“Thanks. But I still went off on a completely different path. Sometimes…I kind of

wonderwhatitwouldbelikeifI’dstayed.Workedattheshop.Idolovebaking.”

“You could still do it,” Stephen tries, hoping he doesn’t sound too pushy or excited.

“You’re obviously good at it and if you like it more, why not? There’s time. There’s
alwaystime.”

He pulls up to the guest house as he’s talking, stopping quietly in front of the door.

Rowan stays in his seat for a moment, pondering. Stephen waits for him to speak,
wonderingwhatwillhappen.It’strue.There’stime.AndmaybethatwouldmeanI’dgetto
seehimmore.Taketimetolearnabouthim.Hefeelsliketheyaccidentallyskippedalot
theirfirstnighttogether,eitherbecauseofexhaustionorpent-upfrustrationanddesire.He
wantstogoback,tothepartbeforesex.Tothetrusthe’smissing.

ButRowantugshisseatbeltoffandthenturnstoStephen,somethingunreadableinhis

expression.HeleansoverthetinyspacebetweenthemandStephenfeelshisbreathhitch,
panicandexcitementandconfusionswirlinginhishead.Everythingseemstoevaporate
whenRowankisseshim,quietandslow.Stephendoesn’tthinkwhenhereacts,desperate
forthewarmth;hepushescloser,ahandslippingbehindRowan’sneck,brushingagainst
impossibly soft hair. His pulse thrums in his veins and he wants to pull Rowan over the
centerconsoletolethimclimbintohislap.

Wait.Thereminderringsinhisearssuddenly,cautioning,andhetriestopullawayas

gentlyaspossible.

He feels like crying when he sees Rowan. The man’s expression is one of bliss, the

peace fading away as he realizes what’s happened. All Stephen wants to do is lean in
again,maybefollowhiminside—buthecan’t.Heknowsbetter.

“I can’t—” Stephen tries to say, hoping he’s not ruining everything, and he feels a

mountingfrustration.Why can’t things just be easy for me? He wants to say yes, follow
Rowan inside and pick up where they left off. But he knows it’s a bad idea. Especially
sincehe’sstillspendinghisnightsanxiouslywonderingaboutJordiandwhetherornothe
cancompletelystopdrinking.

“Iknow,”Rowansaysquietly.Helooksfrustrated—withhimself,maybe,butStephen

can’ttellforsure.“I—um,it’sfine.I’llseeyoutomorrow.Goodnight.”

“…night,” Stephen manages, watching helplessly as Rowan slips out of the car. The

departure doesn’t feel soured or uncomfortable; it just feels…lacking. He thinks they
could probably both tell what was laying beneath the surface—some sort of deep
attraction, pulling them closer despite the fact that they need time. That Stephen needs
time.

HesobadlywantstofindawayintoRowan’sheart,pullinghimselfcloselikenothing

else in the world matters. But he’s not going to pursue anything while he’s still
emotionallyamess;hedoesn’twanttofoisthisproblemsontosomeoneheactuallywants
thingstoworkoutwith.Besideswhich,he’sstillhavingissuescomingtotermswiththe
factthathe’ssomehowmanagedtostartfallingforamanfromthecity.Theycouldn’tbe
anymoredifferent.

Stephenshowersandliesinbed,staringattheceilingandthinkingaboutRowan.It’s

not until he’s drifting to sleep that he realizes that he not only didn’t have a glass of
whiskeybeforebed,buthedidn’tagonizeoverthedecision.Hesimplydidn’tdoit..

SHIFT

HAPPENS

after work the next day. Stephen is making mille-feuille and Rowan

makesacomment—addnutmeg,it’lltastebetter—andthenJenjokinglysuggeststheyget

togetherandupdatetherecipebook.

Theydo.

“Ifwedothis,youpromisemesomething,”Rowantellshim,washingdishesasthey

closefortheday.

“What?”

“Wedoourlittlebakingsessionsintheevening.Afterwork.Andifyoueverfeelthe

needtodrink,youcallmeandwebakeinstead.”

“Evenifit’sthreeinthemorning?”Stephenasks,smiling.Hefeelshisheartthroba

little.It’sagoodpain;ittellshimhefeelssomethingreal.Somethinghewantssobadly
he’swillingtomakealeapforit.

“Especiallyifit’sthreeinthemorning.”

Stephen holds him to it. They make garlic croissants one evening after work, a

Wednesday when they’re both exhausted but they both want to spend time together. Jen
wavesthemgoodbyefromhercarandRowanpullshisjackettighterinthecoolingnight
air.

“If I pass out in your mixing bowl, promise to pull me out,” Rowan groans as he

slumpsagainstthecardoor.

“That’s a promise I can’t keep,” Stephen smirks. When they get to his house, he

reachesintothefridgeandRowanstiffensforabriefsecond.Therearecalculationsand
questions flying across his face. He looks like he wants to ask something or maybe say
something or maybe both. Stephen pulls two cans out, trying to keep his face neutral.
“Coke?”

“Yeah. Definitely. I’ll need the caffeine,” Rowan says, accepting the soda. Stephen

thinkshehearsreliefinhisvoice.

It’stheonlytensemomenttheyhave.Therestofthenightgoeseasily,Rowanlearning

whereeverythingisandStephenwatchingRowanashebemoansthelackoffreshgarlic
inthehouse—baggedgarlic?Ican’tbelievethat’sathing.Itfeelsliketimestretchesinto
forever, like they’re in some sort of capsule where nothing can go wrong and nothing
matters.

Theymeetagainandagain,aweekgoingbyintheblinkofaneye.EachtimeStephen

feelsmoreandmoreclear,asifhe’sgraduallywipingafilmawayfromhislife.Hefeels
like he’s turned back time a few years, erasing the time he wasted and making up for it
withendlessbatchesofpastriesheendsuphandingouttotheneighborsinthemornings.
Hehassomethingdifferenttolookforwardto,now.

They’re at work one evening and Rowan has an early shift. He doesn’t stay like he

usuallydoes;Stephennoticeshimuntyinghisapronandfrowns.

“Leaving?”

“Going to pick up a few things.” Rowan smiles. “The guest house needs some

attentionandI’moutoftoothpaste.I’llbebackatclose.”

SomeoftheworryinStephen’schestdissipates.HewavesRowanawayandgetsback

to work, wondering what they’ll make next. He doesn’t have much time left here, he
thinks.Maybetwoweeksatmost.Theknowledgehasbeenchewingawayatthebackof
his mind. He hates to acknowledge it; thinking about the fact means recognizing that
Stephenmightlosehischance.Thatitcouldalreadybegone.IfIdon’thavehimaroundto
help me out, can I stay sober? Can I even stay happy? He wants to believe he can be
better on his own. That’s what he needs; he needs to fix himself before he can consider
beingclosetosomeoneelse.

ItgetsclosertoclosingandStepheniscleaningupinthekitchen,stowingtraysand

wipingdowncounters.Hisphonebuzzesinhispocketandhepauses.Noonetextshim,
much less calls—he almost hesitates to answer, wondering if it’s bad news, and then he
seesRowan’snameoncallerID.

“Hello?”

“Hey.God—okay,I’msorry,Ididn’tknow—”Rowanstarts,thewordsspillingoutin

arush,andStephenfeelsanxiousjustlisteningtohim.

“Whoa—slowdown.Juststartfromthebeginning,okay?”

“Iwasabouttoheadbackoraskyoutopickmeupandmyauntandunclecaughtme.

TheywanttogooutfordinnerwithmeandJen.”

“Okay—that’s great, right?” Stephen leans against the counter, confused. Everything

he’sheardfromRowanandJenseemstoindicatethattheyhaveagoodrelationshipwith
Jen’sparents.

“Imean…itis,Ijust…weusually—”

“I’mnotgoingtogodiveintoabottleofRebelYelljustbecauseIdon’tseeyouafter

work,”Stephensnorts.“Go.Havefun.Ifyoustillwanttodropbylatertoday,justgiveme
acall.Okay?”

“Okay.Yeah.I’lldothat,”Rowansays,sighingintothephone.“Bye.”

Stephen shakes his head, smiling, and finishes putting the kitchen in order. Jen

emergesfromthefrontwithagoodnightandhewavesheraway,takinghistimetocheck
everythingagainbeforelockingup.Beforeheknowsit,he’sstandinginfrontofhistruck,
lookingatitwithablankmind.Hejumpsoutofhistrancewhensomeonepassesbyon
thesidewalk,laughingandtalkingonthephone.

“Don’tmakethisweird,”hemutterstohimself,startinghome.

There are bottles in his house. He knows this. Somehow, though, their call isn’t as

strongasbefore.It’sstillthere,ofcourse—justonedrinkisn’tgoingtoaffectyou—buthe
ignoresit.Hisheartseemstoremindhimthatifhegetsthroughtheday,itmeanshe’sstill
strongonhisown.Onawhim,hesetsarecordtoplayinthelivingroom,gatheringevery
bit of alcohol he knows he has and lining the bottles up by the sink. He hums
absentmindedlytothemusic,pouringashegoesandtryingnottowrinklehisnoseatthe
burning smell. I guess my drain’s going to be really clean. Maybe I should use it in the
bathroomsink,too.

Hepourswhat’sleftintoalargepitchertodojustthat,tryingnottoknockoverempty

rumandvodkaandwhiskeybottles,theglassamulticoloredforestbyhissink.Theydon’t
evenlookhappy.Hefeelsalittlebadashe’spouringthecocktaildownthebathroomsink
—I probably should have just given it to someone—but he finishes “cleaning” anyway,
wrinklinghisnoseathowmuchthehousesmells.

“Well,atleastitstillsmellslikehome,”hesaystonooneinparticular.

I wonder if Rowan will come by. He knows he’s too preoccupied by thoughts of

Rowan; wondering how he’s doing, if he’s having a good dinner, if he’s thinking about
goingbacktohisapartmentandjobinthecity.Hisheartachesalittleatthethoughtbut
hecan’tbringhimselftofeelinconsolable.Whydon’tIfeelasbadasbefore?Hewonders
if it was too much alcohol—he’s a bad, maudlin drunk—or if it’s just because he feels
safe. Secure. Like no matter what happens, he’s not going to lose Rowan, or what they
have.It’sprogress.

Hemakesafrozenpizzaandfinishestheentirething,despitehisbetterjudgment.He

walks up to his bedroom afterward, thinking he’ll watch something on his bed, and
promptlypassesoutontopofthesheets,tiredandfull.Thesmellofalcoholisstillinthe
airbuthesomehowignoresit,thinkinginsteadaboutaskingRowantomakepiesnext.He
likespies.

etriestocallStephenashe’sleavingtherestaurantwithhisfamily.

“Notanswering?”Jenasks,pullinghercurlsoveroneshoulder.

“Nope.”

“Heprobablydoesn’tevenknowit’sringing.Youknow—”

“Healwayskeepsitonvibrate,yeah,”Rowansays,smilingfondlyasheremembers

theirlastkitchenescapade.StephenhadsenthimoutformoreflourandRowanhadtried
to call him to ask about whether he wanted ice cream or not. When he didn’t get an
answer, he’d bought it anyway. The look of pure shock and joy on Stephen’s face had
convincedRowanthatsurprisinghimwasalwaysthewaytogo.

“Whoisthis,dear?”hisauntasks,gazeandsmilesharp.It’sthelookshegetswhen

she’sontosomethingnew.

“Stephen.We,uh—worktogether.”

“Inthecity?”

“No—no,atthebakery,”Rowancorrects.

“They’ve been baking every day for, like, a week,” Jen snorts, unlocking her car.

“Wereyougoingovertonight,Ro?”

“Iwantedto.Notsureifhe’sawake,though…”

“Rowan, it’s nine o’clock,” his uncle says, raising his eyebrows in an unimpressed

expression.Hisauntlaughsatthat,slappingherhusband’sshoulderwithasmallerhand.

“Allright,”Rowangrumbles,fakingannoyance,“Igetit.Jen—”

“Yes,I’lldriveyou,”Jensings,alreadyturningthekeyandbucklingherselfin.Rowan

rollshiseyesandhugshisauntandunclebriefly.

“We’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart,” his aunt says. He feels like he might be

blushing.

Jenisthankfullyquietduringtherideover.Rowan’sgratefulthatshedoesn’tpokeany

morefunathim;he’snotsurehowtohandleitanymore.IknowhowIfeel;it’sjustthat
Stephenhastogethimselftogether,first.Rowanhasknownsincetheirfirst‘date’afterthe
bar what he wants. Maybe he can’t explain it but he knows it’s there. He’s drawn to

Stephenandthewaythemanloves—howheloveshisjob,hisdaughter,andevenhisex-
wife.HowStephentriestodorightbyeveryone,evenifthatexcludeshimself.Rowanjust
wantstohelpStephenlearnhowtohelphimselfasmuchashetriestohelpeveryoneelse.

“Makesmartchoices!”Jenyellswhenshedropshimoff,grinningasshepullsaway.

Rowan ignores her, heart already pounding as he approaches Stephen’s door. He knocks
once,waitingnervously,andlooksdownathisphone.Nomessagesorcalls.

HetriesknockingagainandcallingStephen’sname.Asmallseedofdoubtcurlsinhis

chest—little tendrils reach into his mind, telling him he’s drinking and why couldn’t you
just skip dinner to bake with him? He knows the little voice is wrong; if Stephen can’t
keep himself sober for a few hours, the problem is more than Rowan can solve. He
glancesaround,wondering,andtriesthedoorhandle.

It’sunlocked.

“Wow,you’rereallyaskingtogetrobbed,”Rowancallsoutasheenters,lockingthe

doorbehindhim.Hepauses,waitingforananswer,eyesskimmingtheroom.Hecantell
thekitchenlightisonandthere’sarecordplayerinthecorner,openandfrozen.Rowan
steps forward to fix it, thinking maybe he forgot to turn it off, and then he smells
something.Somethingvery,verystrong.

Hisheartdropsashewalksintothekitchen,hopinghedoesn’tseewhathethinkshe

will.Therearebottleslinedupagainstthesink,haphazardlycrowdedandempty.Oh,my
God,hethinks,whatdidhedo?

“Stephen!” he’s yelling as he runs around the ground floor, trying to find the man.

Rowanisalmostcertainhe’sgoingtofindStephenpassedoutsomewhere,slumpedonthe
floorinadrunkenstupor.Herunsupthestairs,feetpounding,andcurseshisstupidity.Of
course you couldn’t help him just by trying. Of course this was going to happen. Why
didn’tyoujustgethimhelp?Whydidyouhavetotryandfixthingsyourself?

HemakesitintoStephen’sroom,flingingthedooropen,andseesStephencurledup

onhisbed.He’sstillclothed,anarmdanglingovertheedgeandhidinghisface.

“Stephen,”Rowansays,stillhalf=shouting,“Please,Stephen,wakeup.”

Stephen groans and grumbles, squinting as he rubs blearily at his eyes. He frowns,

lookingoveratRowanwithmingledconfusionandhappiness.

“Rowan?Whyareyouyelling—”

“Whatdidyoudo?Howmuchdidyoudrink?Ste—”

“I didn’t drink, what are you talking about?” Stephen says, the pleasure in his

expressionevaporatingashepullsaway.Somethinginhisgazeisresentful.Rowanshakes
hishead,frustrated.

“Isawthebottles,Stephen,what—”

“Yeah,thebottlesIdumped?Goodjob,Sherlock.Jesus.YourealizeifIdrankallthat,

I’dbedead?”

Rowan sits on the edge of the bed, mind swirling. I just need to wait. Think. Part of

himalreadyknowsit’strue—itwasdumbofhimtogetsoworkedupinthefirstplace—

buthe’sstillanxious.He’sstillnotsurehebelievesit.

“Youdumpedthem?Then—”

“Yeah,itreeksinhere,”Stepheninterrupts,yawningashestretches.“Givemesome

credit.DidyoureallythinkI’dfallapartjustbecauseyouwentouttodinner?”

Yes? No? Maybe? Rowan doesn’t know how to answer. He knows he wanted to

believeStephenwouldbeokay.PartofhimworriedStephenwouldn’tbe.Intheend,his
onlythoughtwasthatsomethingwouldhappenandhe’dhavetofacetheconsequences.
To have this revelation happen without so much as a blink of an eye from Stephen is
throwinghimoff.

“I—”

“Youdid,didn’tyou?”Stephenasksflatly.“YouthoughtI’djuststartdrinkingagain.”

“No—listen,Ididn’tknowwhatwouldhappen,”Rowansays,tryingtogetthingsback

ontrack,“andIjust…Iwasworried.Okay?Anditdoessmelllikeadistilleryinhere.”

He got up to open a window, but also to hide his face. I was so worried. He didn’t

knowwhattoexpect,walkingintoahousethatreekedofalcohol.Hepartiallyexpectedto
findStephendrunkordrinking.Thefactthathewasn’tisfantasticbutitdoesn’tchange
thefactthatRowanhadfeltthatpanic.Itwassoconsumingheignoredthesimplelogic
thatthingswereclearlynotwhattheyseemed.

“Didyouatleasthaveagooddinner,orwereyouworryingaboutmetheentiretime?”

Stephenasks.There’satinysmilegrowingonhislips.Rowanfeelsanimmensewaveof
reliefwashthroughhim.

“You’reafucking—”

Therestofhisinsultdiesalongwithhispanic,smotheredbywarmthasStephenkisses

him. Rowan almost wants to jump into the man’s lap; he feels like it’s been ages since
they last touched. All of their get-togethers and baking nights have been fantastic but
essentiallyplatonicandhe’sbeenwitheringslowly,desperateforjustatinybitofcontact,
justthebarestreminderofwhattheyhadforonenight.

Hedidit,Rowanthinks,dazed.Itwashimthistime.Hefeelslikehisheartisbursting.

HishandsslipoverStephen’sarms—they’reamazing,Ican’tbelievehowstrongheis—
andhecansmellsomethingfamiliar,beneaththealcoholfogsurroundingthem.

“Did—didyoueatpizza?”Rowanasks,managingtopullhimselfawayforamoment.

“That’s not very sexy, Rowan,” Stephen mutters, even though his eyes are sparkling

brightly.“Ifyouwantedabetterkiss,youcouldhavejustasked.”

Better? He flips suddenly, the same arms he’d been admiring managing to suspend

himcarefullybeforedepositinghimontothebed.Thistime,Stephen’skissisn’tassweet
as before. Rowan moans into it, turning his head to get just a little closer as Stephen’s
tonguepressesagainsthismouth.HishandstrailcarefullydowntothehemofStephen’s
shirt, hesitating. Do I? Should this go any further? He’s still worrying when he feels a
suddentugathisjacket,theitemthrownacrosstheroomafterStephenmaneuversitoff
withstartlinglyquickhands.Iguessso,Rowanthinks.

HestopsworryingthesecondStephenstartsbitingathisneck.Allthoughtsbleedout

from him in a blissful flash of pain and pleasure, escaping into the world. Rowan is
preoccupiedwiththehotmouthagainsthisskinandhastofocusonundressingStephen.
Healmostlaughswhentheygetcaughtinthetangleofclothesandcomeclosetorolling
offthemattress.

The laughter dies in his throat when Stephen leans further over him, a leg pressing

againstRowan’sgroin.Rowangaspsoutasound,hisnailsbitingintoStephen’sarms,and
he feels bad for the briefest of moments before Stephen’s mouth returns to his. Rowan
takes the opportunity to use his hands, carefully brushing over the body above him. He
wantstomemorizethefeelofeverything:Stephen’ssculptedmuscles,thesoftnessofhis
skin,theheatradiatingfromwithin.

He’s hesitating, Rowan realizes after a minute, noticing Stephen’s arms tensing. He

breaksawaycarefully,worried.

“What’swrong?”

“No,nothing’swrong,”Stephensays,breathless.Hiswordsarealmosttoofast,asif

he’savoidingsomething.

“Hey.Wait,”Rowansays,pushinghishandthroughStephen’shairtomoveitbackso

hecanlookintohiseyes.“Wedon’thavetodothis.Iknowit’sfast—”

“No,that’s…it’snottoofast,”Stephensays,sighingalittle.“Ijust…Ihaven’t…”

Oh,Rowanrealizes,feelingdumbfornotrecognizingitfaster.Ofcoursehe’snervous.

It’sprettyclearthatStephen’sonlyeverreallybeenwithMelissa.ForallRowanknows,
Stephenhasneverbeenwithaman,besidesRowan.Itwouldcertainlyexplainhimbeing
so hesitant. He knows better than to push it now. They can always talk later, if Stephen
feelslikeit.HewantsStephentobecomfortable.

“Okay.It’sfine.I’macontrolfreakanyway.”Rowansmirks,watchingthehesitation

inStephen’seyesstarttodissipate.“Andwecanstopanytimeyouwant.Okay?”

“Yeah.Okay,”Stephensays,asmilemakingitswaybackontohisface.

Now, where’s—Rowan opens the bedside drawer haphazardly, pulling Stephen down

intoakissagain.HisblindsearchisslowedevenmoreasherelishesthetasteofStephen’s
mouth, feeling heated but not as frantic as their first time. His fingers manage to close
aroundsomethingplasticandhesmiles,pullingabottlefromthetable.Hepushesupfrom
thebed,poursoutsomeofthelubeintohishandandbeginstowarmitasgracefullyas
possible.

Stephenisdistracted,whichRowanisgratefulfor—he’dliketobepreparedwithout

takingawaytoomuchtimefromwhatthey’redoing.Ifit’sStephen’sfirsttime,oratleast
hisfirsttimeinalongtime,Rowanwantstomakeitmemorable.Theingloriouspartsof
havingsexcanwaituntilthey’remorecomfortablearoundeachother;fornow,hewants
to pretend that everything is easy and the change isn’t as much of a change as Stephen
thinksitis.Atleast,that’swhathe’sthinkingbeforeheslipsanarmbelowhisownbody,
thestretchinhisshouldercoupledwithatwingeashepushesafingerinsidehimself.

Stephen swallows Rowan’s moan hungrily, as if he hasn’t eaten in years and the

soundsRowanmakesarewhathefeedson.Rowanfeelshisownarousalgrowingashe
adds fingers and stretches himself in anticipation. He’s panting and excited, wanting
thingstomovesomuchfaster,andthenhe’sready.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” Rowan gasps, out of breath and impatient. He says it

becauseheknowsheshouldcheck,butallhewantsistogofurther.

“Don’t stop,” Stephen says. It’s unnecessary but he says it anyway, something in his

burningeyestellingRowanitneededtobesaid.It’slikesomesortofunspokenpromise.I
wantthisasmuchasyoudo.

Rowan barely concentrates enough to roll over Stephen, letting the man settle as he

tries to get comfortable. After a minute of waiting—a minute that seems to stretch into
eternity—Rowan sinks down onto Stephen’s cock, sighing through every blissful
sensation.Sogood.ItfeelsgoodbecausesomehowitfeelstotallynaturaldespiteStephen
never having really done this before. Even as Rowan balances himself, ready to move,
Stephen’shandsarefittingperfectlyonhiships.

“You’rekindofbeautiful,”Stephensays,barelyawhisper.

“Kindof?”Rowanrepeats,laughterbleedingintoasighashestartstomove.Theheat

coiledbelowhisstomachburnspleasantly,pouringintoeveryinchofhisbody,fromhis
centertohisfingersandtoes.Herisesandfalls,slowlynow,wantedtomakethepleasure
last,knowingit’sprobablybeenawhileforbothofthem..

“Very,”Stephenmanages,ahandwanderingfromRowan’shiptobrushoverhischest.

Rowanlosestrackoftheirbodies,handswanderingandtouchesburninglikefire,as

herocksmindlessly.Eventually,allheknowsisthefullnessinsideandthepressofflesh
and the way Stephen’s arms are strong enough to keep Rowan upright as he levers his
bodyupwiththelastbitofstrengthhehas.Rowanfinishesinahazyflurryofheatand
sparks behind his eyes, his entire body shaking with the force. He hears a shout, barely
recognizingitashimself,andthenwithverylittlelefttogive,heholdson,holdson,holds
onforafewmoresecondsuntilhefeelsStephen’sorgasmbeneathhim.

Tooshortbutsweet,Rowanthinks,butdamn,wasitgood.Hefeelsrubberyandspent.

He barely wants to move but he knows they’ll both be sticky and gross if they don’t at
leastmakeaneffort.

“We should clean up,” Rowan mumbles, breathing in the smell of Stephen’s skin

beneathhischeek.Hepeelshisheadupalittle,lookingupatStephen.

“Sure,” Stephen smiles, vaguely amused. One of his hands threads through Rowan’s

hair, pulling him closer. What am I, fifteen? Even the smallest touch gives Rowan
butterflies,theflutteringinhisstomachaccompaniedbyapleasantwarmth.

“Imeanit.”

“Iknow.”

Stephen finally pats Rowan’s lower back indulgently, levering himself upright, and

they stumble towards the bathroom. Rowan barely muffles a yawn, wrinkling his nose
whenhesmellsalcohol.HeshootsStephenalook.

“Cleaning,”Stephenexplains,passingRowananextratowel.“Sleephere.It’slate.”

“I’mnotgoinganywhere,”Rowanpromises,feelingasmileworkitswayacrosshis

lips.

When they fall asleep later, Rowan buries his face in Stephen’s neck to mask the

fadingsmellofliquor.Helikesthecombinationofsaltandvanillathere,theshopbaked
into Stephen’s body like a perpetual cologne. I could get used to this. He falls into a
dreamlesssleepandforgetsalltheworrieshehadbeforecomingintothehouse,anxiety
replacedwithapleasantwarmth.

’

LATE

in the evening at the bakery and Rowan feels like an idiot in love. Two days

havepassedsincehishespentthenightatStephen’sbuthefeelslikeit’sbeenmoments.
Any time Rowan passes Stephen he has to fight the urge to reach out and touch him.
There’samagnetbetweenthem,drawingRowanclosereverytimethey’reneareachother.
Hejustwantstofeelthesamethingshefeltthatnight—thesamewarmskinandcareful
mouth.

Heendsupaddingtoomuchwhippedcreamtotwoordersofcoffeebeforeherights

himself. Work isn’t the place to be daydreaming about having sex, he tells himself. It’s
easiersaidthandone.

Hehasn’tactuallyhadalong-termrelationshipsincehisfirsttwoyearsofcollege.Of

course, they’d been fumbling and baseless, more a matter of convenience than anything
else. His partners had usually been classmates and while their time together had been
good,ithadbeenimmature.Whenhefirsthadarelationshipfreshmanyear,theybrokeup
over summer in what Rowan felt was an adult way. Now, he thinks it was probably the
leastadultthinghe’severdone.Startingsomethingjusttoabandonitbecauseitwasnever
supposedtolast.Ican’tbelieveIgaveupsoeasily.

“CanIgetacoffee?”

Thevoicethatbringshimbacktorealityisfamiliar.Rowanlooksupfromthecoffee

machine he’s cleaning, surprised, to see Melissa at the counter. She doesn’t look as
exhaustedasbefore,althoughshestillseemstobetired.

“Oh…yes,ofcourse.Whatwouldyoulike?”

“Icedchocolatemocha,please.It’shotterthanhelloutside.”

“Ibelieveit,”Rowansays,wonderingifheshouldbesmilingmoreorless.DoIsay

something? Should I ever say something? Is there a point when I’ll have to tell Melissa
I’mhavingsexwithherex—husband?

“How’sStephendoing?”Melissaasks,quiet.

Oh God she knows, Rowan thinks, immediately panicking. He manages to keep a

straightfaceashetriestocalmdown,remindinghimselfthatshehasnowayofknowing.
AsidefromStephentellingher,ofcourse,whichisunlikely.

“He’swell,Ithink.He’snotdrinkingeverynight.”

“Really?”Melissalooksthoughtful.Sheleansagainstthecounter,lookingdownather

phoneassherubsthebackofitscase.Sheseemstobeconsideringsomething.“Iwantto
helphimgetbetter.”

“Ofcourseyoudo,”Rowansaysimmediately.Hedoesn’tadd,youwerehiswife.He

feelslikehe’salreadyinstickyterritory.“Hedeserveshelp.He’snotabadman.”

“I know,” Melissa says, a rueful smile lighting her face the smallest amount. “You

know, before we finished college, he was fantastic. He’s always been father material, I
think—heworriesaboutotherswithoutsmotheringthem.He’sgoodatrememberinglittle
thingsandhelikeshavingaroutine.”

“Yeah.Ikn—noticed,”Rowanstumbles,tryingnottogivetoomuchaway.

Somethingtugsatthecornerofhisheart.Doesshe…stilllovehim?Hesuspectedshe

still cared about Stephen, of course, but now he’s wondering if Melissa still loves him.
Wants to be with him. He wants to ask about the divorce—why it happened—but he
knowshecan’t.It’snothisbusinessandhedoesn’twanttopry.

WhatdoIdoifshedoesstilllovehim?Ifshewantshimback?MelissaandStephen

have a daughter. She might be in college but if both parents want to get together again,
whoishetostandintheway?

“I’mgladyou’vebeenthereforhim.Heneedsafriend—especiallyonewhodoesn’t

knowmuchabouthispast.Ithangsoverhimsometimes.Hejudgeshimself,evenifothers
don’t.”

“Yeah.I’venoticedthat,”Rowanagreesquietly.“I’mdoingmybesttohelphim.”

“Well,you’reprobablydoingbetterthanIevercould.”Melissasmilestiredly.“Thank

you.”

Aftershetakeshercoffeeandleaves,Rowanisleftstaringatthecounterwithapitof

somethinglikedreadinhisstomach.Hefeelslikethingsareslippingawayfromhim.The
small triumphs he’s faced are all dissolving and all he can wonder is how soon Stephen
willrealizeMelissastillloveshimandhowquicklythey’llgetbacktogether.

Whateverhappens,heknowshecan’tstandintheway.I just have to go back home

andforgetaboutit.

“T

hankGodyoushaved,”Jensays,appraisingStephenwithacriticaleye.“It’saparty

at the putt-putt course, so we need you looking as clean-cut as possible without being a
Kendoll.”

“IthinkIhaveapastelpinksweaterathome,”Rowancontributes,stackingboxesof

cupcakes.Histoneisjustasslyandcheerfulaseverbutsomethinginhisexpressionputs
Stephenoff.

For the last two days, Rowan has seemed…as close to unhappy as Stephen has ever

seenhim.He’sbeenalittlemorewithdrawn.Isitbecauseheonlyhasaweekandafew
days left? They haven’t exactly talked about longevity in their relationship, despite that
they’vebeenkindofdatingandspendingeveryworkdayandmosteveningstogether.Not
to mention the fact they’ve now had sex twice, one instance of which was clear-minded
andslow.

“Stephen,”Jensays,asifit’sthemillionthtime—anditcouldbe,foralltheattention

Stephenisgivingher.“Comeon.Payattention—youneedtofindEricaatthepartyandlet
her know you’re there. I can’t reach her and she never gave me a definite answer on
whetherthecupcakesareasurpriseornot.”

“Isn’t our cover kind of blown if I show up? People know me,” Stephen points out,

dustingflouroffhisjeans.

“Whydon’tIfindthisErica,”Rowanoffers,wavingahand,butJencutshimoff.

“You don’t know her and we can’t risk you talking to the wrong person. Take your

time, all right? The inspector will be at the shop in half an hour and I have enough
employeesintotriple-checkeverything.Nowgo,thebothofyou,beforeyou’relate.”

Jen rushes them out the back door, helping with a few boxes, and then Stephen and

RowanarepiledintoStephen’struck.

DoIsaysomething?Stephenstartsdrivingacrosstown,unsureofwhetherheshould

dragthetopicoutofRowan.Heknowshecouldwait—theybothtechnicallyhavetheday
off,afterthiscateringevent,buthe’salittleworriedthatRowanwillrunoffaftertheparty
toavoidhavingtheconversation.Hedoesn’twanttomakeRowanfeeltrapped,though,so
hedecidesagainstbringinganythingup,insteadwaitingforthedriveback.Atleastthat’ll
givehimtime.Andme,forthatmatter.

Theputt-puttcourseisprobablythesecond-mostpopularpartyvenueforchildrenin

the city. Most of the kids at the party are ten and under, running around with miniature
golfclubswhiletheirparentscalloutinmostly-unconcernedtonesforthemtoslowdown.
The families are all upper-middle class, with kind demeanors and somewhat expensive
carsthatareallfreshlywashed.

“I’ll be right back,” Stephen promises, gazing around the gaggle of adults before

duckingoutofthetruck.Rowandoesn’tsayanything.

Erica is easily visible. She’s in her late thirties, with cascading waves of blonde hair

and a sharp smile. She’s divorced, which would probably be a deterrent on any other
womaninherneighborhood,butshe’spracticallythequeenofhercul-de-sac.Ericaseems
tohavehithersecondwindafterdivorcing;sheevenmakesrunningafterhereleven-year-
oldtwinslookeffortless.WhatIwouldn’tgivetohaveendeduplikethat,Stephen thinks
drily.

“Hey,Erica,”Stephensmiles,slidingcarefullybehindherasshelistenstotwoother

womentalkaboutpottedsucculents.

“Stephen,” Erica smiles, all teeth. Her black-rimmed eyes have almost no traces of

wrinkles. “Darling, it’s been too long. I’m so pleased that Jen sent you.” She air-kisses
himasifbestowingblessingsonhim.

“I’msupposedtoaskifthecupcakesareasurprise,”Stephenvolunteers,“althoughI

doubttheycouldbeanymore,sinceI’mhere.”

“Oh,it’sfine,nosurprise,”Ericalaughsgaily.Hergazewanders,takinginthecrowd.

“I…wait,who’sinyourcar?”

“Oh,”Stephensaysdumbly,suddenlyrealizinghe’sgoingtohavetointroduceRowan.

Keep it simple. Be natural. You chat with people every day at the bakery. It’s the same.
Justthesame.“That’smy,uh…he’sRowan.RowanisJen’scousin.”

“DoesJenknowyouandhercousinaredoingthehorizontaltango?”

“Erica!”

“I’m joking, honey,” Erica smiles, eyes twinkling, “I won’t spill the sauce. It’s too

good. This is all for me,” she adds, waving her hand over his probably flustered
expression.Damnit.

“Right.Well,wehavecupcakes.Wheredoyouwantthem?”

“Table,dear.Theonewiththepinktablecloth.”

Stephen nods, wordless, and slips back to the truck. He wonders if his and Rowan’s

relationship is so obvious to everyone. He can see Rowan staring at him before quickly
breakingeyecontact,pretendingtoglancedownathisphone.Stephenopensthebackseat
door,preparingtopulloutafewboxes,andRowanraiseshiseyebrowsinquestion.

“Nobirthdaysurprise,”Stephensays,shrugging.“Erica’sgreat,butshe’sonlyhuman.

Especially since she has twins. Allison and Milton are definitely smart kids. Jordi was
kindoflikeAllisonwhenshewasyounger,soIgetdéjàvusometimes.”

“You know them well,” Rowan says, less of a question and more of a statement.

Stephencan’ttellhowRowanfeelsaboutthefact.

“Yeah.Erica’sdivorced—shecameoutofitbetterthanbefore,though.Iusedtorun

intoheratthebar.Sheonlyeverhadonedrink—she’dtestherselftoseehowmanyguys
shecouldpickupwithouteveractuallytakinganybackhome.”

“Really?”

“Oh,yeah.She’sariot.Andhasagoodheart.Didalottotryandhelpmegetonmy

feet—notthatItookit,ungratefulmoronthatIwas—butshe’sneverstoppedsendingme
Christmascards.Alwayswithanironicmessage.”

“Youreallydoknoweveryone,don’tyou?”Rowanasks,closingthecardoorwithhis

footashestartstowalkwithboxespiledfourhighinhisarms.

“I guess,” Stephen says, unable to shrug with his armload. “The table with the pink

tablecloth.”

Theysetuptheboxesquickly,hangingaroundtowaitforEricaasshe’sbusytalking

with other parents. As soon as they get the okay from her, they will be free. Not that
Stephen is rushing—he really does know most of the people at the party, either through
work or through Erica. They’re good people, with common concerns and uncommon
personalities.He’sjustabouttostealEricafromachattywomanwhensomeoneslipsin
betweenhimandRowan.Oh,no.

“Stephen!Ialmostdidn’trecognizeyou,allcleanedupandpretty,”thewomanbeams

asifshe’sinatoothpastecommercial.StephencanseeRowanoverthewoman’sshoulder,
lookingvaguelyputoffandconfused.

“Oh,hi…”What’shername?Allhecanrememberaboutherisherpersistenceandthe

wayshe’dtriedtodigherclawsintohimataPTAmeetinghecateredforEricalastspring.

“Josie!Yousillything,Ican’tbelieveyouforgot,”shelaughs,slappinghimweaklyon

the arm as if they’re sharing an intensely private joke. Please make this stop. “Our
conversationwassomemorable!”

Itreallywasn’t,Stephen thinks, trying to find a way out of the conversation. He can

tellRowanhasatinysmugsmileandStephentriestoglareathim,broadcastingahelp.
Theothermanfinallytakespityonhim,insertinghimselfintotheconversation.

“Excuse me,” Rowan says smoothly, “but we need to speak to the host. So many

deliveriestotendto,youknow?”

“I’m sure you can handle it,” Josie smiles, calculated but not rude. “You don’t need

Stephen—”

“Actually,Ido,”Rowansays,anedgecreepingintohistone.“He’sactuallythemost

important person at the shop, other than Jen. He knows way more than I do—I’m just
temporary help. If anyone needs to talk to Erica, it’s him. If you need a conversation
partner,though,I’dbegladtostepin.”

Stephenblinks.Well.EvenJosieseemsalittleflustered,thrownforaloopbytheclear

rebuke.She’sstillgraspingforwordswhenStephenexcusesRowanandhimselffromthe
conversation,duckingawaytowardsErica.

“Thanks for defending my honor—” Stephen starts, feeling a laugh burble up in his

throat.

“Oh,shutup,”Rowanhisses,butsomeofhissmilehasreturnedandhedoesn’tlook

asunhappyasbefore.“Iwould’vejumpedintothesandpittogetawayfromher.”

“You’resuchasocialbutterfly.”

RowansticksouthistongueandStephengrins,pullingthemancloserwithacareful

handonhisshoulderastheywalktowardsErica.WhenRowandoesn’timmediatelypull
away,hefeelsatinyseedoftriumph.Ericaseemstonoticethemmakingabeelineforher
andshegracefullyexitsherconversation,wavingred-lacquerednailsbeforesidlingupto
StephenandRowan.

“Hello,Rowan,isn’tit?”shebeams,teethperfectlywhite.Rowanlooksnervous.

“She’sonlyhalf-wolf,”Stephensnorts,nudgingRowan,“Shewon’tbite.”

“Much,”Ericaadds,extendingahandtoRowan.“You’reJen’scousin.She’slovely.”

“Whenshe’snotmakingyoujumpfromtrees,yes,”Rowansaysdrily.Ericapausesfor

amomentbeforelaughingbrightly,bumpingStephenwithherhip.

“Ilikehim.Goodjob.”

“Oh—wh—I—”Rowanstarts,fumblinghiswords,aflushstartingtoriseinhisface.

HelookspanickedasheglancesatStephen,worried.

“Thankyou,”Stephensayssimply,“buthe’sthepersistentone.”

Even out of the corner of his eye, he can almost see the tension melting away from

Rowan like an ice cube in the summer. Whatever has been bothering Rowan seems to
dissolve, giving way to a pleasant blush and smile. Maybe this will work after all. They
saygoodbyetoErica,takingageneroustipandhotdogsinaTupperwarecontainerthat
shepasseswithaflourish,andthenthey’reontheirwayagain,climbingintothetruckas
childrenswarmthecupcakes.

“Something was bothering you, right?” Stephen asks as he pulls out into lunchtime

traffic, taking his time. He glances at Rowan, who looks a little conflicted but nowhere
nearasdownashedidbefore.

“Melissacameinafewdaysago.Shesaidshereallydidwanttohelpyougetbetter,”

Rowanadmits.

“I mean…sure. She kind of always has, whether it’s been deserved or not,” Stephen

frowns.

“Yes,but…shekindof…Idon’tknow.Itseemedlikeshemissedwhateveryouusedto

have.Incollege,orwhenever.Before.”

“SodoI,butit’snotasifIcouldgoback,”Stephenraisesaneyebrow,“Neitherofus

arethesame.Sheknowsthat.”

“Butifyoucould—ifshewantedtotryagain—wouldn’tyou?”

That’s what it was? Stephen stops at a red light, feeling his eyebrows shoot into his

hairline. He can’t even properly imagine what it is Rowan is suggesting. Rowan’s still
waitingforhisanswer,though,asortofresignedlooksetintohisfeatures.

“No,” Stephen emphasizes slowly, feeling a tiny bit of disbelief when Rowan looks

surprised.“We’rehonestlynotgreatasacouple.Friends,definitely,andweworkokayas
aparentalteam,butnotmarried.No.Imean,itwasn’tterriblebyanymeans,butneither
ofusgotwhatwewanted.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Stephen snorts, “You realize that most people don’t remarry their exes,

andiftheydomostofthoseunionsprobablyendindivorce.Again.There’sareasonfor
that.”

“Itwasanhonestquestion,”Rowangrumbles.

“I know,” Stephen grins, glancing over at Rowan. He feels a little warm. He was

actually worried. He cared enough to think about it. “You know, we’re both off—why
don’twe—”

“We’re ordering takeout,” Rowan interrupts, raising his eyebrows, “I’ve been dying

forsomeChineseandtheplaceIusedtoloveclosed.Howlongdoyouthinkit’lltake?”

“Idon’tknow,”Stephensays,asmilefightingitswayontohisfaceashetriestokeep

anevenexpression,“Thatdependsonhowmuchweorder.”

“Better make it extra, then,” Rowan smirks, “You’ll need leftovers for lunch

tomorrow,right?”

“Right.”

TheybarelymakeitintoStephen’shousebeforeRowanispullingStephen’sshirtoff.

Stephen laughs, trying to help Rowan with his clothes, and they somehow stumble
towards the living room instead of the stairs and land on the couch. Stephen isn’t mad
aboutit.

“How did you ever manage to stay in shape? Your aunt and uncle ran a bakery,”

Stephenmarvels,tastingRowan’sskin.Rowanisn’tabodybuilderbyanymeansbuthis
chestisnicelyfirm,theslopeofhisstomachperfectandsensitivetoStephen’stouch.

“Running,” Rowan gasps, arching as Stephen nips at his side. “From Jen. A lot of

runningfromJen.”

“Hmm.Remindmetothankher,”Stephenmurmurs,smiling.

He’sdonehisresearchsincetheirlasttime.Notthathe’signorantabouteverything;he

just wants to make sure he’s doing everything right. He cares about making sure that
Rowan is comfortable and, ideally, he doesn’t want Rowan doing the work every time.
Stephen is just pulling away Rowan’s jeans when the man starts fishing blindly for
somethingonthefloor,aflashofannoyancecrossinghisfeatures.

“Where’smyjacket?”

“Here?”

“Oh, good,” Rowan breathes, messily turning it inside out before he lets out a little

cheer,fishingouttwosmallpacketsoflubricant.Stephensnickers.

“Didyouplan—”

“Hey!Alwaysbeprepared!”Rowangrins,wavingthepacketsatStephen.He’sgota

point.Still,Stephenisjustalittlepeevedtohavebeenone-uppedwhentheyhaven’teven
started. He yanks one of the packets open after glancing at the wording, knowing he’s
makingamesswiththelubebutnotparticularlycaring.

Rowan’s grin disappears the moment Stephen presses a finger against him, cautious

andnervous.ThesighthatescapesRowan’slipstellsStephenthathe’sdoingsomething
rightsohecontinues,gentlypushinginsideandthenpullingout,andagain.WhenRowan
respondspositively,breathlessly—“Please…more…,”hisfaceflushed,thecolorgrowing
with each passing second—Stephen complies, smiling, slipping another finger in. The
slowerthebetter,hethinks,despitetherapidpaceofhisheart.Hispulseisthunderingin
his chest and his cock feels tight and in need of touch but he still moves slowly,
concentratingonwatchingRowanunravelbeneathhim.It’sabeautifulsight—there’sno
trace of Rowan’s usual composure; instead, all that’s left is flushed skin and lust-filled
golden-brown eyes. Rowan keeps trying to move his hips, pushing further, but Stephen
presseshimdownagainstthecouch,teasinghim.

“God—please, Stephen, please—you’re torturing me,” Rowan manages, choking on

hiswords.

“Notyet,I’mnot,”Stephensmirks,pullinghishandaway,andRowanwhinesatthe

lossofcontact.“Turnoverforme.”

He’s immensely glad that Rowan had everything they need. Stephen would hate to

leaveRowanlikethistolookforacondom—heknowsthepointistokeepRowanstrung
out, one slow touch after another, until they’re both too strained to keep up the waiting.
Stephen pushes into Rowan slowly, hoping he’s done enough to prepare him, and he’s
greeted with a relieved moan. I just have to go slow, he reminds himself, despite the
desperation pooling below his stomach. Slow. It takes all of his strength to move in
centimeters;whenhepullsaway,he’sbreathingheavily.

Hemanagestokeepupthepaceforatorturousamountoftime.Hefeelspent-upand

anxious,everyslidehurtingasmuchasitfeelsgood.Stephenknowshewon’tbeableto
last much longer—he’s shocked that he’s been able to go slow for so long. Rowan is
alreadypanting,bodyshakingwiththedesiretomove.

“What do you want me to do?” Stephen asks, stopping in place. His hand wanders

alongthefaintdipofRowan’sspine.

“Iwantyoutofuckme.Fast,”Rowangasps,reachingforthearmofthecouchasif

it’stheonlythingkeepinghimgrounded.

I can do that, Stephen thinks. His hand manages to stop at the curve of Rowan’s

shoulder, holding the body beneath him with a careful grip. He moves immediately,
pushingasfastashecan,andtheirshockedcriesmingleintheair.It’sthetruthofacliché
phrase; waiting seems to make it that much better. Rowan shoves his body back against
StephenasfastasStephenpushesintohim,theharshimpactmakingtheirpulsespoundin
time. It lasts even less time than Stephen’s experiment; they both fall over the edge

explosively, Rowan’s body arching as Stephen’s hands grip him harder. For a moment,
there’s nothing but the red-black rush of orgasm and then they’re both slumped on the
couch,sweatyandsore.

“Good,so,sogood,”Rowanmumblesintoacushion,blindlyreachingbehindhimfor

Stephen’shand.

“Thanks,”Stephenlaughsbreathlessly,catchingRowan’shandinatangleoffingers.

He’sbentoverhim,stillinsidehim.“Ispentwaytoomuchtimepreparing.”

“That’sbothadorableandamusing,”Rowansays.“Ithink—um,thefoodisprobably

goingtogetheresoon.Weshouldcleanup,getdressed.”

“You’re kind of a neat freak, too, huh?” He pulls away from Rowan, immediately

missinghiswarmth,andstands.

Rowan slaps him halfheartedly and Stephen grins, pulling him up from the couch to

joinhiminthebathroom.It’sagoodthingwehavethedayoff,hethinks,becauseI’mnot
doinganythingforthenextfewhours.

PHONE

RINGS

at six in the morning. One hand reaches out blindly and he groans,

feelingcompletelydeadtotheworldandtired.Whothehelliscallingmesoearly?Partof
himhopesit’sRowan—themanleftafewhoursaftertheirtakeoutescapade,reluctantbut
needing fresh clothes and sleep. Stephen was sad to see him go, but knew they’d likely
meetthenextdaysincetheshopwasclosed.

“Stephen.Whereareyou?”

“Melissa?Inbed.Whereareyou?”Stephenasks,confusedandtired.Hiseyesarestill

closedandhisvoiceisrough.

“Therewasanaccident.”

They’re four words he can’t handle. His ears start ringing as if someone’s struck a

giantbellorfiredaguninhisbedroom.Hejoltsupright,feelingsicktohisstomachfrom
themotionandtheconversation.Hishearthammersinhischest.No,no,no—

“What happened? Where is she?” he’s already tearing clothes out of his drawers,

mindlesslyshovingthingsonwithonehandashestaysontheline.

“It’s—she’sfine,she’sjusthurt—I’msorry,Ishouldhavesaidthatfirst.We’reatthe

medicalcenterbythecollege;AustinMedical—”

“I’monmyway,”Stephensaysquickly,throwingthebathroomlightonashestartsto

runwater,splashinghisfacemessilytotryandcleanupbeforeheleaves.

“Stephen,it’sfine,youhaveworkand—”

“I’monmyway,”Stephenrepeats,emphasizingeveryword.“I’llcallyouwhenIget

totown.”

It’s an eight-hour drive but he would have made it if it were ten. Or twelve. Or any

ridiculousnumber.AllhecanthinkaboutisJordiinthehospital.Hebarelyremembersto

shovehiswalletinhispocket,grabbingajacketfromthecouchbeforehejumpsintohis
truck.Hestartsdrivingwithoutaplan,knowingonlyhowtogetwhereheneedstogo.

Shehastobefine,hethinks,shehasto.

eninthemorningisnotthetimeforhisphonetoring—especiallyonhisdayoff.His
schedule has virtually been cut in half for his last week; Jen is trying to make the

transitioneasyandmostofthecollegekidsareonbreak.He’sstilllazyandsleepy,then,
whenhepullsanarmoutfromunderthesheets,sighingthroughhisnoseashebringsthe
phonetohisface.Stephen?

“Hello?”

“Rowan.” It’s just one word—his name—but somehow, Rowan can immediately tell

thatsomethingiswrong.Hesitsupquickly,worried.

“Whatisit?Whathappened—what’swrong?”

“I—Melissacalled.Jordi’sinthehospital—somekindofaccident.Idon’tknowmuch

butIknowshe’sokay.I’mdrivingtoseeher.”

“Oh—God, okay, well—I hope everything’s okay. If Melissa isn’t worried, maybe it

isn’t that bad,” Rowan offers, heart aching. He hasn’t known him long, but it’s already
obvioushowmuchStephenloveshisdaughter.

“I,um—Imightbegoneforthenexttwodays.If—doyoumind—”

“I’ll cover your shifts,” Rowan immediately says, rubbing at his eyes, “and if I’m

working,I’llseeifIcangetJenoroneofthekidstofillin.Don’tworryaboutit,okay?
I’llletherknow.Youjustgettheresafe.”

“Thankyou,”Stephenfinallysaysafteralongpause,reliefandemotionheavyinhis

voice.

“Don’tworryaboutit.Justgoseeher.I’msureshe’sfine,”Rowanreassureshim.

Stephen hangs up and Rowan sighs, sliding back down onto the sheets. There’s an

uneasymiasmainhischest.Hetriestobrushitoffassecondhandworry—afterall,Jordi
seems like a great kid and Stephen loves her to death—but he feels like it’s something
that’sbeenfesteringforawhile.

Mytimeisalmostup.

It’sbittersweet,thinkingaboutleaving.Heloveshisfriendsandcoworkersinthecity

andhelikeshisjob.It’sjustthatheloveshishomeinOriole,too,andhe’sstartingtofeel
likehemightbefallinginlovewithStephen.It’sneverhappenedbefore—thisfallingin

lovebusiness—andhe’sterrified.DoIpursueit?Risklosinghimbygoinghome?

“God,Ican’tgobacktosleep!”heyellsathisceiling,groaning.Heslapsahandover

his face and stares at his phone. After a moment of consideration, he slides through his
contactsandcalls.

“You’resoluckyI’mawake,”Linasays,herfamiliarvoiceimmediatelysoothinghim.

“I’mactuallyhavingbreakfastwithLeoandAustin.Theysayhi.”

“Hi,”Rowanreplies,feelingalittlemiserable.

“O—kaaay.Whathappenedwithyourbakerboy?”

“Firstofall,he’solderthanmebylike,probablyfiveyears,”Rowansnorts,“andhe’s

visitinghisdaughter.I…I’m…”

LinagaspsontheotherendofthelineandRowanpauses,confused.“Areyouhaving

your revelation with me?” she asks, real excitement and false drama coloring her tone.
“I’mhonored,really—you’rewhat?Goon!”

“Icanalwayscallsomeoneelse,”Rowanwarnshalfheartedly,asmilealreadymaking

itswayontohismouth.

“Youwouldn’tdare.Comeon,Rowan.It’llfeelbetterifyousayit.”

“I-I…IthinkI’minlovewithStephen,”Rowanmumbles,feelinghisfaceheat.Lina

squealsexcitedlyontheotherend,ashufflingsoundindicatingthatshe’sprobablywaving
herarms.

“Good golly, that was cute. I wish I could’ve seen your face. You’re probably

frowning,aren’tyou?”

“No.”

“Okay, so you called me to tell me you love him—which, why—so what’s next?

ElopingtoItaly?”

“France,”Rowancorrects,feelingrelieved.Shewasright.Itfeelsbettertohavesaid

it.“No…Ijust…I’mconflicted.I-Ido…IlovehimandIknowhislifeisthebakery,and
his daughter. I’d never try to pull him away from it. But…I have an apartment. A job.
Friends—”

“Apartments don’t matter—besides, Leo’s sister needs a place and she’s been asking

aboutsubletting.Andyouhaveajobathome—youpracticallytrainedforitallyourlife.”

“Andmyfriends?”

“We’re not going to disappear just because you don’t see us,” Lina says, her tone

softening.“Andwe’llalwaysbethereforyou.Hell,wewerealltalkingaboutcrashingthe
bakerytheotherday.”

“Jenwouldlovethat,”Rowanlaughsweakly.“But…IworkedsohardtogetwhereI

aminanimation.It’s…itpayswellandI’m…”

“Areyouhappydoingit?”

“Ofcourse—Idon’thateit,”Rowansnorts.

“Ididn’taskifyouhatedit.Doyouloveit?”

“Imean…Iguess—”

“That’snotayes.Ifyoucan’timmediatelysay,‘Ilovebeingananimator,’whydoesit

matter?YouloveStephen.Youseemtolovebaking.Ifyou’rehappyandyoufeellikeit’s
right, why waste time? You get chances and sometimes, you just have to take them.
Besides,Deanwouldtakeyoubackinaheartbeatifitdoesn’tworkout.”

“You’re probably right,” Rowan sighs. “I just…I can’t help but think that I’m being

dramaticbyactinglikeifIgoback,StephenandIcouldneverworkout.Maybethat’sthe
betterplan.”

“Holdon,”Linasays,shufflingsoundsechoingontheline.Rowancanhearthefaint

soundofconversationandthenalowwhooshasthephoneisbroughtupagain.

“Um…hi.It’sLeo.”

“Oh.Uh…hi?”

“Lina didn’t say much but she mentioned you’re considering whether you should

movebackbecauseyoumetthisguy,right?”

“Yeah,prettymuch,”Rowansays,perplexed.

“Well—andImaynotbethebestrolemodel—I’dsaygoforit.Actinglikeyou’llget

anotherchanceisfine,butsometimesyoudon’tandyou’llendupregrettingit.It’sbetter
todosomethingandlearnfromtheconsequencesthannotdosomethingandnevergrow.
Especiallywhenitcomestorelationships.”

“That…is actually probably true,” Rowan says, sighing. He appreciates getting the

maleperspective.“Thanks.”

“Yeah.Noproblem.”

LinatakesoverthephoneagainandRowanstaresathissheets,tracingthestripeswith

afinger.

“It’suptoyou,now.Dowhatyouthinkisright.It’syourlife,”Linasays,“Makesure

you’reactuallylivingit.”

“Yes,ohwiseone,”Rowanteases.Hefeelsbetter,though.

Hehasaclearchoice.Eitherhegoesbacktohiswaitinganimationjobandapartment,

steady and sure, or he takes his chances and stays in Oriole, hopefully with Stephen. At
theheartofitisonesimplequestion—willIevergetanotherchanceorlovelikethis?Do
Iwanttogiveitup?Hefeelslikehealreadyknowstheanswer—he’sknownsincethefirst
timehefeltapulltowardsStephen,promptinghimtowaitandstandbythemanthrough
allofhistroubles.He’sinvestedsomuchinStephen.Rowanisfullyawarethatheonly
has a handful of friends—people he genuinely cares about and would do anything for—
andStephenhadsomehowlandedhimselfinthatnumberfasterthananyoneelsebefore.
He carved out a space for himself in Rowan’s life and it could never really be filled by
anythingelse.

Iwanttostay,Rowanthinks,alreadystartingtoplanwhathe’llneedtodo.But does

hewantmeto?

FTER

LYING

in bed for a few hours on Sunday, he makes his way to the main house to

talktoJen.Stephentextshimbeforehegetsthere,histiradespanningseveralnovel-length
messages.Rowanisstillreadingthemwhenhewalksupthestairstohiscousin’sroom.
Jenasksthepredictablequestionsfirst.

“Issheokay?Ishe—”

“Stephen’s fine, just worried. He told me Jordi’s fine—apparently, it was a drunk

driver.Hewasroyallypissed.Wentonandonaboutneverhavingstoopedtodrivingwhile
drunk,especiallythatearlyintheevening.”

Jen shakes her head, pushing curls away from her face. She’s already pulling her

clipboardout,checkingStephen’sshiftsforthenexttwodays.Rowanwonderswhatshe’s
thinking.

“Well,it’sgoodthathecalledyou.I’msurprisedhehadthewherewithaltothinkabout

work,evenwiththatshock.Lookslikeyoucantakehisshifts—noneofthemcrossover
withyours.Areyousureyoudon’twantmetoasksomeofthekids—?”

“No,it’sfine,”Rowansmiles.“And…I’m…canIasksomething?”Smooth,Rowan.

“What’sup?”

“If…forsomereason…Istayed,would—Imean,couldI—”

“Ro,ifyoustayed,youwouldnotbeallowedtoworkanywherebutthebakery,”Jen

smiles. Rowan feels a brief wave of relief, despite the fact that he already knew the
answer.“Didsomethinghappenwithyourjob?”

“No,”Rowansaysquickly,“It’sstillthere,Ijust…um….”DoItellher?He’sacutely

aware that Jen is not oblivious to his relationship with Stephen, even if they’ve been
discreet.She’stoosmartandsheknowshimtoowellnottosuspectanything.Buthestill
hasn’ttalkedtoStephenyetandforallheknows,thisthingthattheyhaveistemporary.

“Well,nowyouknow,”Jensaysfinally,droppingthetopiceasily.Iloveherforthat.

She’salwaysbeenabletotellwhathe’sfeelingandshe’susuallyaccommodating.Ithelps.
“Justkeepmeposted.”

Monday rolls around and Rowan goes to the shop, still half-asleep, glancing at the

clockwhenStephendoesn’twalkin.Hecatcheshismistake,shakinghishead,andnotices
Jen giving him a worried glance. He feels guilty—after all, it’s Stephen that’s suffering,
not him. Rowan is just fine, waiting for Stephen to come back. Well, mostly fine. His
stomachfeelslikeawhirlingballofuncertainty.

He ends up burning his hand with coffee when he’s distracted, playing through

possibleconfessionsinhishead.Laterintheday,healmostordersStephen’susualwhen
hegoesintothedeliforlunch.Mostofhisdayisstilted,justalittleoff-kilter,aStephen-
shapedholetorninhistinyuniverse.Rowanfeelslikealostpuppy.God,I’mamess.How
canyougetsousedtosomeoneinsuchashortamountoftime?IsitjustbecauseIwantit
toworksobadly?

“Rowan,comehere,”Jensays,pullinghimawayfromtheovensatsixintheevening

whenhealmostdropsatrayofcupcakes.“Areyousureyou’reokay?”

“I’mfine,”hesaysquickly,shakinghishead,“I’mjust—Ijustgotusedto…”

“HavingStephenaround?Yeah,Iknow.”Shesmiles.“Halfthecityislookingforhim.

Theyallseemedreadytosendoutsearchparties.”

“Prom king.” Rowan smiles, wanting to laugh and cry at the same time. “What is it

aboutabsenceandtheheart?”

Jenlooksathimwithbarely-disguisedpityforamoment,leaningagainstthecounters

as she contemplates. She glances towards the front, biting her bottom lip for a second.
Rowanwonderswhatitisshe’stryingnottosay.

“Ro…youwerealwaysprettyquiet.Kepttoyourself.Iwasworriedaboutyouwhen

youwenttocollege,youknow.Ithoughtmaybeyoujustwouldn’tmakefriends.”

“Aringingvoteofconfidence.”Heknowsshe’srightthough.

“Iwasworried,”Jenemphasizes,“butyoudidfine.AfterthatfirsttimeIvisitedyou

on campus, I didn’t worry, after that. But I think…maybe you’re not as happy as you
pretend to be. You’ve always been good at fooling yourself to fool everyone else, Ro. I
knowyoufeltlikeyouhadto,withalltheshityougotforlivingwithyourauntanduncle
—butyoudon’thavetopretendanymore.It’sfinetobeunhappywhenyoufeellikeit.”

Well,shit.Hefeelsalumpinhisthroatstarttoinvadehisclear-headedpatience.Jen

smiles,pullinghimintoabriefhug,andheletsoutasighhedidn’tknowhewasholding
in.

“IthinkIprobablywasn’thappybefore,either,”Rowanmutters,“andIthinkIfigured

outhowtobehappy,here.”

“Took long enough,” Jen jokes softly, brushing his hair back in a sisterly gesture.

“Nowgetbacktoworkandtrynottocryonthedonuts,okay?”

“Onlyifyoutrynottoeatthemall.”

Hefeelslesslostaftertalking.Hedoesn’thaveasmanyproblemsfortherestofthe

night,althoughhedoesspillsomevanillaextractthatheknowswillnevercomeoutofhis
shirt.Hesmileswhentheylockupforthenightandheadbackhome,passingtheItalian
restaurantontheway.

MaybeI’lltakehimwhenhegetsback.Couldbearomanticconfession,ifIplanitout.

“I

’monmywayback.Jordi’sfine;justbruisedandscratchedup.She’snothappyabout

theroadrash.”

“Who would be?” Rowan jokes lightly. He feels a ridiculous amount of relief at the

fact that Stephen is coming back, as if he had been in danger of never returning. Is this
howhefeelsaboutmeleavingtown?

“Well,I’mgladI’llmakeitintimeforthebigwedding.SarahandCarterhavebeen

the town sweethearts for years. It’s good to see them finally getting married. The whole
townisgoingtobethere,invitedornot.”

“Well,we’reallpreppinghere,”Rowansays,“sothereshouldn’tbetoomuchforyou

toworryaboutwhenyougethere.Ifyouneedmoretime—”

“No,no.Jordi’sfine;she’sstrong.She’splanningongoingbacktoschoolonMonday.

There’snopointinsittingaround—besides,it’simportantfortheshop.Iwanttobethere.
AndImissyou.”

It’s so hard to not tell him that he loves him, right then, but Rowan just assures

Stephenthathemisseshimtoobeforesayinggoodbye.Whenheendsthecall,hischeeks
hurtfromsmiling.

TheweddingisWednesday,whichmeansRowanonlyhasuntilTuesdaytofigureout

whathe’sdoing.Histimeisrunningoutlikeflourfromatornbag.Hefeelsfrustratedat
hispastself—it’slikehespentsomuchtimedislikingStephenthathebarelyhadenough
timetoenjoytherelationshiptheybuilt.Hewantsmoreofthatrelationshipandheknows
thatifheasks,it’llbeabigrisk.NowthatStephen’sonhiswayback,though,there’sa
chancethathecouldfinallytalktohim.One-on-one,inperson,andfinallyready.

MAKES

THEM

DRESS

“You look great.” She smiles, straightening Rowan’s tie. “I’m kind of surprised you

hadamint-greentie.Iwashonestlyjoking.”

“I have a tie for every occasion,” Rowan says drily. “We’re going to be late if you

keepfussingwithuslikedolls.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jen says, rolling her eyes. “Thanks for doing this, Stephen. I’m glad

you’reback.”

“It’s good to be back,” Stephen grins. God, he’s hot. Rowan almost melted into a

puddlewhenhesawStepheninapatterned,deepbluebutton-upandblackslacks,aslight
five-o’clockshadowandhishairslickedback.Stephenlookslikehe’ssupposedtobepart
oftheweddingparty.Oraweddingguestcatalog.

It’s the first time they’ve seen each other, technically, since Stephen left. They get

everythingpackedintothebackofthetruckeasily,crateskeepingboxesinplace,andthen
they start off. For the first minute, Rowan is quiet, unsure what he should say. You’re
working,hetellshimself,saveitforlater.

“So, who are these town sweethearts?” he asks because he knows Stephen knows—

andifthere’sonethingRowanknows,it’showmuchStephenlovesthepeopleofOriole.

“Sarah’s a local girl. Born and raised; her dad works at the plant and her mom has

worked for the community college. Sarah’s always been smart—she’s won little writing
contestsforyears.Shedecidedtodoundergradworkattheuniversityandshe’sgotagood
scholarshipforgradwork.”

“AndCarter?”

“Moved here to attend the university. He’s a good kid—rich but not snobby. Never

takeshisparents’money;heworkedtwojobstopayforschool.Couldhavehadhispick,
tobehonest,butwe’reallgladitwasSarah.Shedidn’tcareatfirst,actually—itwasgreat
watchingCarterrunaroundtowntryingtowooherwithflowersandJen’spastries—but
thenthekidgotsmart.”

“Whatdoyoumean?”Rowanasks,amused.Thissoundslikeafairytale.

“Heboughtherabook,”Stephenlaughs,“Finallyrealizedhe’dneverseenherwithout

one—and lo and behold, that was the key to her heart. It helped that he loves the same
writersshedoes.”

“Guessitwasmeanttobe,”Rowansmiles,lookingoutthewindow.Whatwoulditbe

like, to find the right match that young? He’s always marveled at the classmates that
married when he was in college. Even the ones that married right out of college. It had
alwaysseemedsoforeigntohim,findingsomeonethatcouldfitthemselvessoeasilyinto
yourlife.Oratleast,ithadbefore.

The venue is crowded with people. It’s a lovely wedding, simple in the way most

Oriolefunctionsare;theeventcenterismid-lit,gauzyroseandyellowfabricdecorating
the tables and walls. It looks like spring in the best way possible. There are daisies and
greenery everywhere. Stephen and Rowan enter through a side door set behind the food
tables, propping it open to make carrying things in easier. As Rowan is unpacking
cupcakesfromacase,settingthemuponatiereddisplay,heseessomeonewalkingover.

“Carter!” Stephen calls, grinning from ear to ear. The young man is wearing a gray-

bluesuit,asprigofwhiteflowerspinnedtohislapelwithapaleyellowribbon.Helooks
moreaveragethanRowanexpected—darkhair,mediumoliveskin,browneyes.

“Stephen,” Carter smiles, pulling him into a hug. “It’s good to see you. How’s Jordi

doing?Iheardabouttheaccident.”

“She’skicking.Morethanbefore,maybe.Royallypissedthatshemissedthreedaysof

class.”

“I bet,” Carter laughs, hands casually stuck in his pockets. “Hey, thank you for

bringingeverything—Ihopeyou’llbestayingawhile.Wecertainlyhaveenoughfoodto
goaround.Dancinglater.”

“Thanks,”Stephensmiles,“I’dliketocatchSarahbeforeIgo.”

“Goodluck.”Carterwinks.“Ican’tevenmanagetocapturemywanderingbride.”

As soon as Stephen and Rowan finish setting up, they manage to find a place to sit.

Rowanfeelsalittleoutofplacebutsomehow,withStephenathisside,everyoneactsasif
he’s always been part of their conversations. Rowan feels like he’s being allowed some
sort of magic key into the heart of Oriole, allowing him to insert himself in a way that
feels genuine. There’s no worry or judgment; he feels just as at home as he did at the
bakery.

SarahmakesherwaytoStephenassoonassheseeshim.Herdressisbeautiful—soft

andsimple,adeepveecutintotheback.Shelooksyoungandvibrant—theverypictureof
abride.Iwonderifthere’sjustsomesortofglowthatpeoplehavewhentheygetmarried,
Rowanthinks.

“Stephen!It’ssogoodtoseeyou!”

“Youlookbeautiful,”StephensaysashehugsSarah,smilingsoftly.‘I’msohappyfor

youboth.”

Does he see Jordi when he looks at her? Rowan wonders if anyone is safe from

Stephen. The man seems to adopt everyone he encounters—and maybe they adopt him,
too.

“You’regonnamakemecry,”Sarahlaughs,coveringhermouthwithonehand.“I’m

sogladyou’rehere.Thisis—Rowan,right?Jen’scousin?”

“Yes,”Rowansaysquickly,extendingahand,“It’snicetomeetyou.”

Shechatswiththemforamoment,beforethephotographerinterruptsthem.

“It’sgoodtoseeyouhappyagain,”Sarahsayssoftly,fixingoneofStephen’sunruly

cowlicks.

“Thankyou,Sarah.Haveafantasticday,okay?”

“YouknowIwill,”Sarahgrins,leavingStephenwithabriefkissonthecheek,anda

warmsmileforRowan.

As it gets later, the music changes and the lights dim even more. The dance floor is

eventually packed with people, everyone enjoying the simplicity and happiness of the
springwedding.Itfeelsliketheentiretownisoverwhelmedwithjoy,notjustSarahand
Carter. Maybe that’s true, though. Oriole has always been tied together somehow, the
happiness of neighbors linked in a massive web. It makes the community stronger, he
thinks.

“Wanttodance?”

“What?”RowanstaresatStephen,shocked.Stephenlaughs,risingfromhisseatand

offeringahand.

“Comeon.We’vebeensittingandtalkingtoolong.”

Rowanhesitates.Infrontofeveryone?He’snotnecessarilyafraid;he’sjust…worried.

Heknowslogicallythatnothingbadwillhappen.It’sjustthatitwilllikelymakeripples.
The entire town will know—which is not bad in itself—but then he’ll be tied to it. And
whatifhedoesn’twantmetostay?

Rowan takes the floor with Stephen, wrinkling his nose as he tries to get into the

dance.Thankfully,it’sslowandmostpeoplearejustswayingandcrowdingthefloor.

“Ifeeldumb.”

“Welcometomylife,”Stephenlaughs.

“You?You’repromking,”Rowansnorts,“everyonelovesyou.Idon’tthinkthere’sa

personintownwhodidn’taskwhereyouwerethesepastfewdays.Andyoutalktopeople
soeasily.”

“Ijustknowthem,”Stephendismisses,“andIprobablycaretoomuch.”

“Youcarejusttherightamount,”Rowancorrects,smiling,“andIlovethataboutyou.”

Guessit’stime,hethinks.Stephenseemstoletthewordsmillaroundhismindfora

littlewhileastheysway.TheanticipationweighsheavilyonRowan’sshoulders.

“I’vebeenmeaningtotalktoyou,”Stephenstarts,careful.Hepullsbackalittleand

looks into Rowan’s eyes. “About…well, I know you’re leaving next week. Only a few
days,now.”

“Yeah.”Hewantstocomeoutandsayit—Idon’twantto,Iwanttobewithyou—but

hecantellthatStephenneedstogethisthoughtsinorder.He’sbeenthroughalotinthe
pastfewdays.

“I…Idon’twanttokeepyoufromyourjob.Iknowyouhaveahomeinthecityanda

goodjobandfriendsandIwouldneveraskyoutoleavethatbehind.”

“But?”

“Nobuts,”Stephensays,serious.“I’mnotgoingtosaybut I want you here. What I

wantdoesn’tmatter.”

“Yes, it does,” Rowan insists, keeping his voice low as they spin between other

couples. “When was the last time you had something you wanted? Something that you
didn’tdoforJordi,orevenMelissa?”

“Acoupleofnightsago,”Stephensmilescrookedly.Rowanfeelshisheartpound.

“Andyoucanhaveme,”Rowaninsists,“Iwanttostay—butI’mnotgoingtoifyou

aren’twillingtoworkforit.Ifyou’renotwillingtotry.”Sayit.Oh,God,askmetostay,
Stephen.

“OfcourseIam,”Stephensays,hislaughbrokenasifhe’stryingnottocry.“Inever

thoughtI’dgetasecondchance,Rowan.IneverthoughtI’dfeellikethis—Iloveyou.”

“Good,”Rowansmiles,feelinghisheartracefaster,“becauseIloveyoutoo.”

They’rebothlaughingwhenRowanpullsStephencloser,fittingtheirlipstogetherlike

puzzlepieces,anditfeelsperfect.Right.

Anewbeginning.

“D

EPILOGUE

oyouguysstillhavethatdinnertonight?”Jenasks,herfacethepictureofconcern

asitpeersintothekitchen.

“Yeah,meetingMelissaandJordiatSevini’satseven.”

“Thengetoutofhere!Seriously.Ineedtolearntocleantheicecreammachinemyself

anyway.”

AssoonasRowanknowsshemeansit,hetakesoffhisapron,blowsherakiss,and

leaves.EventhoughhehasgottentoknowJordiprettywellinthepastyearsinceheand
Stephen started dating, he is still nervous around her sometimes. And he definitely is
nervous around Melissa. He wants to take a long shower and pick out a nice outfit for
dinner.Healwaysfeelsmoreconfidentwhenhe’swelldressed.

HecallsStephenontheridehome.

“Wow,Jentoldyoutoleaveearly,huh?Theslave-driverisgettingsoft.”

Rowan laughs. Ever since Uncle Robert retired and turned the reins over to his

daughter,she’sbeenveryuptightand…well,“slave-driver”isprettyaccurate.

“Sheknowsthisisimportant.IthinkshecouldtellI’mnervous.”

“Babe.Jordilovesyou.AndIthinkMelissaiscomingaround,too.”

Rowansighs.“Ihopeso.”

“It’strue.AndI’llseeyouinafew.Getheresafe.”

Rowan makes his way across Oriole quickly, to the home that he now shares with

Stephen.Themovewasmucheasierthanheexpected,andhedoesn’tmisshisoldjobat
all. He does miss Lina, of course, but she’s been out to visit him twice now and keeps
talkingabouthowmuchshelovesthesweetlittletown.Maybeshe’lljointhemoneday.

Stephen greets him at the door with a kiss that makes him temporarily forget his

anxiety.“Wantcompanyintheshower?”hegrowlsintoRowan’sear,butRowanbatshim
away.

“I’m not fucking you before dinner with your daughter and your ex,” he says with

mockhorror.“Letmegetready.”

Herollshisshouldersandrubshisownneckunderthehotspray,lettingthewaterdo

its work, and then dresses in linen slacks and a button down shirt, hoping to look more
put-togetherthanhefeels.

His boyfriend is in jeans and a tight black tee, a look that he wears well, and soon

they’reontheirwaytotherestaurant.

They’reawell-knowncoupleinOriolenow,greetedateveryturn,andRowanlovesit.

Itdidn’ttakelong,aftermovingbackhome,togetusedtothesmall-townlifeagain.There
areprosandcons,forsure.Everynewitematthebakeryandeverypieceoffamilynews
arebroadcastedandcelebratedacrosstown,butthatalsomeansthateverylittlesetbackis
whisperedaboutwith shakingheads.Occasionally, Rowansmissesthe anonymityofthe
city,butoverall,he’shappywithhisnewlife.

Andhe’sveryhappywithStephen.Helooksathimashedrives,hisdark,longhair

blowinginthebreezeoftheopenwindow,hisstrongjawandfulllipsmovingashesings
alongtotheradio,andRowan’sheartswells.Andbeneaththatstrong,handsomeexterior
beatstheheartofthemostwonderfulmanhe’severmet.

Have I ever thanked Uncle Robert for breaking his leg? Rowan thinks with a small

smile.

Jordi and Melissa are waiting for them, but don’t seem to mind at all. Jordi throws

herselfintoherdad’sarms.

“Happybirthday,baby,”hesaystoher.“Can’tbelievemylittlegirlisallgrownup.”

JorditurnsandhugsRowan,awarm,stronghugjustliketheonesherfathergives,and

hefeelshisanxietyalleviate.

Melissa kisses them both on the cheek. She’s smiling tonight. She looks beautiful as

always,butalsowell-restedandrelaxed.It’sagoodlookonher.

Delancey greets them with a big smile. “Did I hear there’s a celebration going on

tonight?”

When she hears that it’s Jordi’s twenty-first birthday, Delancey asks if she can get

themabottleofchampagne.

“Not tonight, because we’re also celebrating my dad’s one year of sobriety.” Jordi’s

eyesarefilledwithpride.

“In that case, dessert on the house tonight,” the hostess responds with a wink before

leavingthemwiththeirmenus.

Thedinnergoeswell.Oncethey’reeating,sharing,andtalking,Rowanwonderswhy

hewasnervous.It’slikebeingwitholdfriends.Melissawantstoknowhowthebakeryis
goingandwhatkindofbossJenis.Jordiisexcitedaboutseeingthetownhousenowthat
the two men have done some minor remodeling and decorating. Everyone toasts with
sparklingwatertoMelissa’srecentpromotion.

After sharing four desserts, the talk has slowed down. After Stephen asks for the

check,theowneroftherestaurant,Sevinihimself,comestothetable.

“Ihearthere’scauseforcelebrationtonight,”hesaysinhisboomingSicilianaccent.

“You don’t pay.” He slashes his hand through the air with finality. “You don’t pay.” He

leansdown,kissesStephenononecheekandpatstheother,andwalksaway.Thegroup
looksateachotherwithstunnedsmiles.

In the parking lot, Melissa asks if they can get together for lunch before the women

headbackhome.

“Well…uh,”Stephenbegins,“there’ssomethingwewantedtotellyouboth.”

“Oh,shit!”Jordisqueals,thenthrowsherhandsoverhermouth.

“Jordi!” her mom scolds her with a surprised laugh. She looks at Stephen, and then

Rowan,whocannolongerhidetheirsmiles.“Oh…shit.Areyou—”

“Weare.IaskedRowantomarryme,andhesaidyes.”

Of all the scenarios that ran through Rowan’s mind before this night, good and bad,

thiswasnotoneofthem:Jordiburstsintotears,andthenMelissadoes,andbothwomen
throwthemselvesatStephen.AndthenpullRowanintoo.

Rowanunderstandsitthough.Theannouncementisabreathoffreshairafteryearsof

holdingtheirbreath.Themantheylovehasanewleaseonlife,andwithit,anewlove.
Hefeelshisownemotionsrisetothesurfaceandhestartstocrytoo.

“Now,now,”Stephensays.“Icanhandleoneofyoucrying,maybetwo,butthisisa

lottoaskofaman.”

ButwhenRowanlooksupathim,heseesthathisfiancé’seyesareshiningaswell.

After promising to meet for lunch—now to discuss wedding plans—they say

goodnight.

Backhomeinbed,theylayineachother’sarms.

“I’m so happy,” Stephen whispers. “It’s like I’ve been given a second chance that I

don’tdeserve.Havingyoubymyside…”

Rowanrunshishanddownhischestandrestsitonhisheart.“Youdodeserveit.We

deserveit.”

It’s been a long day, and a long, wonderful night, and when Stephen starts to nuzzle

againsthim,Rowanthinksaboutaskingforaraincheck.It’ssolate.

Butthenhislovernipshiminthatspotonhisneck,andRowancan’tresisthim.

“I’msohappytoo.”

ENDOFBOOK2–PLEASEREADTHIS

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