The wait at the airport is grueling. I keep messaging Rowyn, desperate, telling her we need to talk, but I get nothing back. Phone silenced, probably. She’s scared I’ll accuse her of…of trapping me. Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.
I’m wired, exhausted, and restless when we finally board. I try to settle in my seat, to ride out the long trip home, but my body is humming with tension. A couple of drinks help, just enough to calm the edges and let me get a few hours of sleep.
By the time we touch down in Boston, it’s the middle of the night. No luggage to collect, I step outside and hail a car. Rain lashes down in sheets, drenching everything in its path, but I don’t care. I give the driver my address. Then I pause. She’s probably gone home. I change it, and give the driver hers instead.
The car finally pulls up. I pay and step into the dark, rain-soaked night. Water soaks me to the bone, dripping off my hair, running down my collar, but I barely notice. Her house looms ahead, dark and silent.
I hurry to her door, knocking once…then twice. No answer. My hands pound harder, reckless, enough to wake the neighbors.
A light flicks on upstairs. I catch a glimpse of her in the window. I point at the door. She disappears. My heart thuds. Is she going to open the door…or stay upstairs, hiding in the dark?
Then I hear her voice. Soft, trembling. “Jaxon.”
“Let me in, Rowyn. We need to talk,” I say, keeping my voice calm, steady. I refuse to let her think I’m angry.
“Jaxon…I’m…sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for. Now can you please let me in? We need to talk.”
I see the door handle turn, but the door won’t budge. She flicks on the porch light, and my stomach drops. The wood has swollen in the rain. “I should have gotten this fixed for you,” I mutter under my breath. Goddammit. I’ve failed her in so many ways.
“It was my responsibility,” she murmurs, almost inaudible.
“What about the back door?”
“Let me try it.”
I wait, tense, listening to the quiet apart from the rain hammering down. Then her voice comes again, panicked. “It’s stuck too. I can’t get out.”
I can’t get in.
“The windows?”
“Still painted shut.”
I spin, taking in the dark, rain-slicked night. My chest tightens. She’s a writer. A reporter. She prefers showing over telling. And I plan to tell her, to lay it all out with words, but right now… it’s showtime.
I take a deep breath, muscles coiled, heart hammering, and prepare to do whatever it takes to reach her.
I yank my phone from my pocket with shaking hands and fire off a text to my buddy.
“Jaxon,” she calls through the door, voice thin, trembling.
“I’m here.” I press my palm flat to the swollen wood. My pulse hammers. “I’m not leaving.”
“I—I thought you left.” The crack in her voice nearly splits me in two.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say firmly. “Not now. Not ever.”
My hand stays on the door, and I swear I can feel hers beneath it. Just inches of wood between us. “We’re having a baby,” I say quietly, reverently. “You and me.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then a shattered whisper, “I wanted to tell you…I thought?—”
“You thought I’d be angry,” I finish. “Thought I’d believe you tricked me. But, babe… I know you’d never do that.” My voice breaks. “If anything, I blame myself for every second you’ve been sitting here terrified.”
“I’m… scared,” she admits, voice shaking.
“You don’t have to be,” I say, leaning my forehead against the door. Rainwater drips from my hair to the threshold. “I’m here. I’m right here, Rowyn.”