Mom
Can we get our nails done on Friday before the fundraiser?
Me
My afternoon is jammed but I could do morning.
Mom
Perfect. I’ll get it booked.
My fingers hoverover the screen. I should tell her what happened. But the words are too hard to say.
Not yet. The gala, Norm’s memorial, Rowan, Mom’s cough…no, I’ll do it later. Soon.
I toss the phone onto my desk.
I’m not ready to talk about it. I told Rowan as much last night.
After my shower of shame, he wrapped me in two more towels and helped me out of the tub. My eyes were nearly swollen shut from all the crying, and my limbs were so, so tired. It was one of his T-shirts he put on me—the cotton smelled like him and I said I’d bestealing that one too. He brushed my wet hair with painstaking gentleness, braided it in a single plait down my back. Then he fed me dinner.
The sun had barely gone down when I announced I was ready for bed. No chess, no hot chocolate nightcap on the dock. Rowan didn’t question anything. Just put on a pair of pajama pants, set a glass of water on the nightstand, and climbed in beside me.
He didn’t bring up the subject again, but I saw the pain in his eyes—how much he wanted to say more.
I placed my hand on his cheek and simply said, “I heard you, but I’m not ready. But I think I could be someday.”
Maybe it wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but he accepted it with a nod and a soft kiss to my wrist. Then he tucked me into his chest, my little spoon to his big spoon, and held me until I fell asleep.
Rowan pleaded with me to stay home from work today. On a different week, I might have considered it. But I’m already taking tomorrow off for Norm’s memorial and with the gala on Friday, there’s too much to get done. Plus, I needed the distraction.
My computer pings with an email. I toggle to my inbox and see Mr. Whitley’s reply to my request from yesterday. So much has happened since then, I’d forgotten all about it.
I don’t know what I expected his response to be, but I know what I’d hoped for. It was a long shot—I knew it was—but my heart still sinks a little at the message.
“Hannah, I looked into it and, unfortunately, there’s no record of anyone with that name ever being employed at BCH.”
That thread I thought I’d found was nothing more than a fool’s hope. I shake away the disappointment and pour my focus into finishing my speech.
My lunch hour comes and goes as I blast through my to-do list. Event timelines. Vendor confirmations. Team meetings.
A knock on my door peels my eyes from my computer screen.
Rowan.One shoulder propped on the doorjamb, hands slid into the pockets of his joggers.
My smile is wide. “This is a surprise.”
He approaches me, twirling my car keys around his indexfinger. My brows furrow. We left my car at the market last night and I’d assumed we’d get it on our way back to the cabin later.
“I took an Uber to the store after dropping you off this morning and brought your car back. It’s parked out front.”
“And you got my keys how?”
He shrugs, cool as a cucumber, and drops the keys next to my phone. “From your purse.”
I rotate in my chair to face him as he rounds my desk, leans his weight against it, arms folded, ankles crossed. “You got a minute?”
The look on his face transforms into something I can’t interpret. “If you’re here to check on me, you don’t have to. I promise I’m fine.”