This was obviously a huge fucking mistake. I blamed Diego and the dude’s powers of persuasion he wielded with shocking efficacy.
Come to the Halloween party, Vi. It’ll be fun. You’ll have a few drinks, hang out with everyone. It’ll be grand.
My skin pulled tight, itching like ants crawled in my clothes. I could blame it on the dress because seriously? Who thought dresses were a good idea as a concept? Honestly. It was a death contraption. As someone who trained with swords, axes, darts, and several deadly weapons, I was fully allowed to make this judgment call.
I tripped over the hem every two seconds despite the fact Esther had shortened it for me. Between watching my step and keeping track of Rowan, I was constantly stumbling. Me, queen of balance and jammer in a roller derby team, suddenly rendered clumsy.
Because of a dress.
Not a guy.
Cue the swells of cheesy – and nauseating – romcom music.
It was silly, but Rowan was so handsome in his Herman Munster costume. The dark suit was on the tight side because dressing a bear was not easy. It showcased all of his rolling muscles. Even with the plastic screws sticking out of his neck, he was the hottest guy at the party. His blond hair was the longest I’d ever seen it. It wasn’t quite long enough to be tied up yet, but he could do this sweeping-it-back thing that made my heart clench.
Other parts joined in on the clenching.
Cool it, Violet.
Ex.
He is your ex.
A piece of his fringe fell onto his forehead, and I wanted to leap over all of the partygoers to tuck it back for him.
Perhaps while I was there, I could run my fingers through his beard. It was short and soft but left a mark during heated kisses. I knew that for a fact. The scruff was a few shades darker than his hair, making his eyes bluer and his lips irresistible. But maybe that was me adding my own spin.
Because I longed for him.
Because he was right there… but just out of reach.
Because it was so damn destabilizing not being beside him.
I searched him out in the crowd, used to keeping tabs on him. I hadn’t been to a party without him since… Shit. Never. I had never in my life gone to a celebration without Rowan. No wonder I missed him.
Like one long, shrill banshee scream, every pager under the white tent went off, disrupting my daydreaming. It was a damn good thing that most of the guys from the station refrained from drinking a single drop of alcohol. After all, Halloween was known to be one of the busiest nights of the year.
“What is it?” Béatrice asked Colson.
He frowned down at the pager. “Fully involved structure fire. Haxby needs backup.”
Every single person within earshot had the same thought: the arsonist.
“It’s a farm.” Viktor’s voice was rough as he hurried away, followed by Max, Diego, Renaud, and a few others.
After the death of Pete Osgood, there was a lull in between fires. I was honestly naive enough to believe that we were free and clear of the arson plague.
Obviously not.
This was the second blaze in as many weeks. Daphne told me that the previous one in Saint-Canton was declared arson by the investigator. It didn’t take a genius to notice that, after a long absence, the arsonist was quickly escalating.
Terrifying.
All remaining and sober firefighters kissed their significant others and raced away. I scanned the worried crowd, looking for Rowan. The pager did strange things to him. Literally a siren call, it pulled him into the rocky shores of pain and trauma.
He thought he missed it, that he longed to go to calls. But ever since the day of the accident – when his parents’ address flashed across the pager – his reaction to the sound was radically different. Weeks ago, Rowan froze at a call. The crashed car threw him into a flashback, pinning him there for way too long.
He quit that night.
Rowan stood alone by a picnic table, his skin ashen and his stare vacant. His handsome features were pulled into an angry sneer. No longer on in the Eastwood Fire Department, Rowan had to stay behind.
It hurt him.
His pain echoed through me.
It always did.
I rolled my shoulders back and commanded my feet to be steady as I made my way over to him. Every step forward was heavier than the last, but somehow, I felt lighter. As soon as I was in his orbit, my exhausted soul clicked into existence. Like it had found the missing piece of the puzzle — my heart. I was whole again – connected and alive.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” he answered. His eyes were storm clouds. I could nearly hear the thunder.
“Are you okay?” It was a useless question, more of an overture.
Rowan shrugged. “It was shitty timing. Pretty sure it’s the arsonist. Again.”
“Right.” My mouth went dry. Please don’t pull away from me again. “Right, but it’s not your responsibility anymore. How about we go back home?” The word slipped out without permission. “Check on the dogs,” I amended. “I’m sure as soon as they hear the sirens, they’ll freak out. There’s probably gonna be a pee puddle somewhere, thanks to our nervous Picasso.”
For one long minute — sixty full seconds ticking by slowly — Rowan studied my face as if it were some kind of trap. As if the invitation wasn’t real. With shaking legs and trembling fingers, I reached out to take his hand in mine.
“Are you seriously inviting me over?”
“Well, that’s what I said, yeah.” I tried to smile.
The moment was loaded – a deciding juncture in Rowan’s life. In ours.
It was an instant that would have lasting repercussions. I held my breath as I waited for his response.
“Okay. Yeah. Let’s go check on Picasso. I’ve had a beer, so you’ll have to drive.”
Using our joined hands, I tugged him away from the party.
Rowan followed, and I won a battle with the darkness in his head.
Hand in hand, we walked down the long lane lined with cars and now empty spots. Rowan didn’t let go of me.
Unless I was losing my mind, he gripped me tighter. I wanted to believe he was anchoring himself to me. To us.
When we finally found my truck, Rowan stood there, pensive. Despite the pale moonlight, his gaze embraced every inch of my body before going down, deep in my soul.
“Thanks, Vi.”
He helped me up into the driver’s seat before settling in the passenger seat. As soon as I cranked on the pickup, one of my favorite country songs floated over the airways. Rowan would know why I was listening to his favorite station. I wasn’t big on country. He was. Most songs that played reminded me of him. Every playlist was ours, somehow.
Needing to do something, I reached for the volume nob. Rowan did, too. Our fingers brushed for a mere second, but we both gasped and pulled away.
“Sorry.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “I know you like that tune even if you pretend you don’t.”
I looked at him from the corner of my eye, giving myself three seconds before focusing back on the road. My throat was drier than a tinderbox, but my sweaty palms slid on the steering wheel. I could lie to myself all I wanted in the privacy of my own thoughts when Rowan wasn’t around. But when he was? There was no hiding from the way he made me feel.
Here was the man who had been mine since I was fourteen. I learned to love and trust in his arms. I discovered kissing and sex with him. More than half of my life was tangled up in all things Rowan. For the first time since we broke up, I felt whole.
He came with me willingly. It was a victory.
He didn’t choose the fire department over his well-being.
He didn’t leave to hunt for destruction but held on to me.
It was more than a simple rush of endorphins. It was like reattaching a gaping hole of my soul to the part that had been severed. I had a glimpse in our kitchen, but this was confirmation, burning away the last of my doubts.
The relationships gurus out there claimed that breakups were like quitting drugs cold turkey. Push through the craving. It’ll fade with time.
I didn’t see that happening.
How was that even possible? My roaring desperation for him would decrease to a dull roar before eventually vanishing completely to the annals of my memories?
I didn’t think so.
That well-intended advice didn’t understand my situation with Rowan.
We really were different.
We grew up together, first as reluctant friends when our parents hung out. Then as actual buddies when we discovered we had similar interests. And finally, as lovers who discovered we liked kissing each other.
We weren’t just a couple that split up. We were a single tree trunk, struck by lightning, severed down the middle.
Our roots were intact.
There was hope.
There wasn’t a single memory from my past that didn’t feature Rowan in some way. From losing my first tooth when he dared me to jump off the jungle gym in kindergarten to winning a gold medal in an MMA competition. He was there the night I found out my brother died, the day we buried him. He insisted on being there with me the first Christmas we had without Craig.
Rowan didn’t mind that, to fall asleep, I needed to touch my foot to his. Even when my toes were tiny glaciers – which they always were.
Lately, our friends — hell, most of Eastwood — saw Rowan as a surly and grumpy man who sulked about. But they didn’t see the boy who used to sneak me ring pops after practice. He was the teen who braved my father’s wrath and snuck into my bedroom to hold me while we slept. They have no idea that, behind closed doors, the man will put on an old, slow song and spin me around our kitchen. He’ll let me steal his snapback and sweatshirts and swear he likes them better when they smell like me, anyway.
He was by my side, cheering me on, when I opened Bullseye.
Rowan has facets and multitudes that only shine and glimmer for a few select people. I’m one of those people. I get to see the good. The bad. The terrifyingly ugly.
I cast another glance his way before turning down the narrow dirt road off Main Street. His head was thrown back, his eyes focused on something I couldn’t see in the dark night.
“I really should have fixed the road,” Rowan grumbled as the divots in the laneway made the cab skip and hop.
I snickered. “I was thinking the same damn thing.”
He ground his teeth and ran a hand over his beard.
“Gotta say”—I reached over the center console to poke at the ash-blond scruff—“I like this.”
He snorted. “Sure you do.”
“I’m serious. You always had smooth cheeks for the fire department. I like seeing you like this. It’s a new look.”
“Hmm.” The sound was heavy with disbelief. “Libby’s on my case to shave it.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that he looked more like his father with the beard, but that was dangerous territory. I definitely shouldn’t go there.
“The hounds will be happy to see you,” I commented instead.
“I miss them too. Who knew I’d actually long for a kick to the kidney in the middle of the night? Keeps things interesting.”
I laughed because, really, Dali was a terrible bedmate. She was less canine and more demonic ballerina. At least Picasso’s bad habits were mostly curbed now that Rowan was making more and more visits to the house.
I parked the truck and was stunned when Rowan hopped out to rush to my side. He opened my door with a wide smirk, holding out his hand.
“Haven’t done that in a while. Dunno why I stopped.”
I shrugged because it wasn’t the opening of the doors that I missed. I longed for every little instance Rowan found to touch me, to brush up against me. The flirtatious grazes that could excite as much as a long, deep kiss.
Falling in step, we climbed up the front porch to the sounds of Picasso howling like a werewolf about to go through the change.
“Steady now, dude.” Rowan cooed through the door as he unlocked it.
He motioned for me to go in first. Picasso ran through my legs, nearly shoving me to the ground thanks to my dress. With a squeak of surprise, I stumbled. Rowan steadied me with those strong arms of his. His grin was sweet, so reminiscent of the cute, sly smirks he gave me before our friends ever knew we were A Thing.
“Come on, Pee-Meister.” Rowan whistled, leading the beasts of hell away from the door. “Don’t hurt your mom, dude. Who will take care of you then?” He ruffled the black fur on Picasso’s neck while Dali nipped at his toes. “Fuck, it’s like I’ve been gone a thousand years.”
“You play with them more,” I admitted.
He shook his head in disagreement. “I’ll take them out.” He grabbed a few balls from the basket by the door and thumped his way to the back of the house.
No sooner had he opened the door than both dogs ran out as if they hadn’t seen moonlight in weeks. From the window over the kitchen sink, I watched them. Rowan threw the balls, the dogs fought over them before agreeing to return one each, and over and over again.
Using the window as a mirror, I wiped the blood-red lipstick off my lips and took off the hairclip that held a streak of white hair. I debated running upstairs to change but chose to not waste time on silly things.
Rowan was here; that was way more important.
Armed with a couple of beers, I slid on my foam clogs and joined Rowan outside. Our land stretched on in the dark, trees and empty fields full of untapped potential. Despite the cool fall air, I wasn’t cold. Probably because my blood was at a low simmer from being so close to him.
“Here.”
He took the beer with a smile. The kind of smile that always addled my brain. “Thanks.”
“Of course.”
Rowan sipped his beer. Did he have to be so erotic about it?
“You were pretty quick at taking me out of there.” His voice was low and rough.
I didn’t know how to respond, so I only nodded before gulping down nearly half my bottle.
“Why do you care?” His question crackled between us like dry lightning. We were about ready to ignite, but I didn’t know if it was a good thing.
“I mean,” I whispered.
Rowan sighed, rubbing his hand against his neck. “Violet.” The way he spoke my name held me captive. I looked up into his blue eyes.
“Why.” It wasn’t a question. It was something else. A plea. A wish. “Vi…” He left off the last syllables of my name, holding them back as I held back my reasons.
“Because I still love you, you idiot.” The words were out before I even knew what happened. I couldn’t take them back even if I wanted to.
I didn’t.
Rowan blinked at me. His long lashes beat so fast he could take flight.
I never planned on telling Rowan I was still in love with him, but more to the point, I didn’t expect him to take me in his arms and kiss me.