Rowan - five years ago
A soft glowfrom the interior of the cabin dances through the pines as we traverse the winding gravel road. At the end of the drive, I crank off the engine and stabilize the bike beneath my feet as Hannah climbs off behind me. The sudden absence of her warmth at my back has me inclined to ask if she wants to ride a little longer. But I think better of it.
Pops texted while we were at the bar about when I would be coming home. I threw his own words back at him, saying I didn’t need a babysitter. He responded with an eye-roll emoji followed by his signature.
“He knows I’m coming, right?” Hannah asks.
I collect our helmets and hang them on the handlebars. “Yeah, he knows.”
She turns for the porch steps. I stop her with a soft tug on the backpack. “And I should probably warn you…” I flick a glance to the door, sliding the bag off her shoulders. “My grandfather is?—”
“Oh boy,” she cuts in. “Is this the part where I find out you’ve brought me to a secluded cabin in the woods to chop me into tiny pieces?” I quirk a smile. “There’s probably no Pops at all, only a collection of hunting knives and averysuspicious black duffelbag by the back door.” She looks at the house, then levels her gaze at me. “Gotta say, soldier, I didn’t see this coming.”
Her arms fold and she pops a hip. The same joy I saw back at the bar when I asked her to dance, sweeps over her face. The dingy old room moved along in real time but the air felt like it got sucked into a vacuum. A time capsule moment I want to remember for the rest of my life. Me, her, that earth-shattering smile, and the thumping heart in my chest at the sight of it.
I shake off the thoughts I shouldn’t be having about a woman I barely know and flash a smirk.
“Cute,” I quip. “As I was saying, Pops can be a little…withdrawn sometimes.”
“He just lost his wife. I get it.”
“Yeah, that’s partly it, but…he’s not a very talkative man. I don’t want you to take it personally.”
“Alright,” she sighs. “Got any suggestions for helping him open up?”
A shadow moves across the frosted window on the front door. I extend a hand for her to walk ahead of me as I search my mind for an answer. “He loves chess, I guess.”
Hannah spins around so fast I nearly fall off the porch. A set of wild green-gold eyes look down at me from two steps above. “Did you say chess?”
“Yeah?”
She ignores how my reply came out like a question and crosses her arms again. “He any good?”
“He’s”—I ascend one step until our eyes are level—“very good.”
Her palm thumps her chest, her whole face lifting on a delighted grin. “Can we go inside now? I’d really like to meet the man of my dreams.”
“Your funeral,” I taunt as I nudge her forward with a hand on her back.
She gasps, mocking. “I don’t lose, Rowan.”
“You might.”
“I won’t.”
We stop on the welcome mat, bodies positioned like reflections in a mirror.
“Cockiness suits you, runaway.”
She’s so self-assured it’s almost comical. I’d laugh if it weren’t sodamnattractive.
“Not cocky. Confident.”
Sweet, naive girl.
“You’re telling me you’veneverlost a game?” I ask incredulously.
Her face falls flat. I arch a brow.