I throw out my arms. “Nothing happ—” I drop her gaze, take a calming breath. “He didn’t do—” The heel of my hand digs into my sternum to relieve the pressure. “He didn’tactuallydo…what you think he did.”
“Baby girl”—she steps in close, clasps our hands together—“the most important thing is you’re safe now. You’re here. But it’s also okay to not be okay. It doesn’t make you any less strong.”
I open my mouth, close it, and open it again. My eyes begin to sting.
“I’ll be right here when you’re ready to talk,” she adds before she looks back to my wrists. “I think a little concealer and a few bracelets will cover these up.”
My only reply is barely a whisper. “Thank you.”
Mom quietly tugs me toward the dresser and opens my jewelry box. We scour through my bracelets in silence. I slide a watch over my left wrist, she clips a thick silver cuff on my right.
“Now, you wanna tell me about this Rowan?”
I snort. “There it is.”
“He sure does leave an impression, doesn’t he?”
Turning away, I fight my smile on my way to the bathroom. Mom’s right on my heels, shoulder leaned against the doorjamb as she watches me rush through an abridged makeup routine.
“He’s handsome. A gentleman. Imagine my surprise when I showed up last night to find him doing your dishes.”
My cheeks flush, and I wish I could say it was because of the pink rouge I just applied. Mom smiles because she knows better.
“Checked the locks on the back and side doors, too, before he left.”
I clear my throat, focusing back on my mascara tube, teeth raking over my bottom lip. “How long was he…um…did you guys talk?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
My eyes drift to hers in the mirror, a flat glare as I move the wand overmy lashes.
“A little of this, little of that,” she goes on when I don’t answer her. “Could’ve done without all the‘yes, ma’ams’and‘no, ma’ams’and perhaps a little less honor so I’d know what happened last night, but I digress. A man who keeps your secrets is worth holding on to.”
“And, for the record”—she moves in behind me, face floating over my shoulder, attention sharp—“that’s not me calling for your engagement.”
I spin around and slap her arm. “Oh my god!” Her chuckle follows me out of the bathroom. “I have to go.”
She trails me through the house, peppering out questions. I leave them mostly unanswered as I gather my keys and purse. Mom doesn’t know about that night with Rowan five years ago, and now’s not the time to get into it.
Her own purse in hand, she steps onto the porch and I lock the front door behind us. I hustle toward my car with Mom only a step behind.
“Okay, okay, you’re both human vaults, I get it. But just one more question.” I turn to face her over the frame of my driver’s side door. “Will you at least tell me whatDucatiis?”
I cackle. “It’s a motorcycle, Mom. Seriously, I gotta go. Love you.”
She waves over her shoulder and heads to her car parked on the curb. I pull my door shut, dropping my head back on the seat. Mom’s words from earlier take root in the hollow silence—it’s okay to not be okay.
But Iamokay. Aren’t I? All I really want is to forget.
My phone buzzes from the cupholder.
Rowan
How’d you sleep, runaway?
A smile spreads across my face. There’s a lot about last night I want to wipe from my memory, but I never want to forget him. I know I drank too much, used alcohol as a coping mechanism, embarrassed myself beyond belief, but I remember everything.
Before I can respond, another message comes through.