Page 21 of Yes No Maybe

She gets a laugh out of me. Not only does she ask the weirdest question, but her hands go to her hips like she’s about to lecture me. Every clenched muscle in me relaxes. I lean against the doorframe and tuck the pencil against my ear. “Um, yeah. Sometimes. She doesn’t tolerate it, either.”

“Good. Maybe the next time we interact, you can use your mom filter and cut out anything she wouldn’t tolerate. We’ll probably get along better that way.”

“Think of you as my mom. Got it.” Fat chance, given where my head’s going already. I remember her racing across her lawn in her nightie—no make-up, no bra—and imagine things I shouldn’t.Stop it, Jack.

Her eyes narrow into icy slits like she’s reading my mind.

“My apologies for being rude, Rowan.” For fun, I use my bedroom voice.

She softens in a blink. Still, she looks unsure, like she expects me to be the bad guy in a story she’s reading. I don’t like that bullshit vibe. I’m no villain.

Eyes locked on hers, I say, “Sorry for what I said with my friends, too. It was drunk-no-filter-Jack talking, and I honestly didn’t think you’d hear it.”

She stiffens again. “I bet your mom could explain what’s wrong with that apology… but I’ll take it. Um, I’ll get the paperwork later. Get back to writing.”

She leaves so abruptly that I miss her when she’s gone.What the hell?I don’t go inside until I hear her slam the door to her place.

Then, I resume my playlist. “Build a Bitch” by Bella Poarch blasts from the speakers as I pour myself a drink—water, no alcohol tonight.

My phone chimes—a text from Amber, a frequent companion.Running a little late, but I’ll be over soon.

I completely forgot about our plans. I text back.Don’t bother. Can’t tonight. Working.

She responds with a simpleMaybe next week, thenlike it’s no big deal. Itisn’ta big deal—we have a mutual understanding. We occasionally enjoy each other’s company for fun, uncomplicated sex. No dating. No plus-one favors. No meeting friends or families. No gifts or expectations. No obligations. It’s an arrangement that works, and most women appreciate the honesty and convenience of it.

So, I get it—Rowan’s not the only one with rules against romance.

I also appreciate her anti-damsel-in-distress clause. Sure, there are some things thatmightbe easier for a woman with a dude around, like reaching something high on a shelf or loosening the lug nuts on a tire. But that’s why the world invented step stools and mechanics. Women can solve their own problems.

Still, some women intentionally play the damsel like a commitment test to see if her guy will come running when she calls. It’s a manipulation I see through in a heartbeat and end things quickly. Being there for someone you care about is an honor. Getting roped into “saving” someone who can save herself just because she has boyfriend ideas isn’t.

Even so, many men fall for playing the hero—they even like it. For some assholes, it makes them feel superior. I imagine that’s why it made Rowan’s list—she can take care of herself and doesn’t want to be with someone who thinks otherwise.

That I understand… respect, even. If I ever fall in love—highly unlikely—it’ll have to happen without the usual bullshit. No games. No manipulations. No romance.

I stand by my office window, overlooking the little house, and glimpse her kitchen. Rowan’s washing the wine glasses from earlier. Her hair is in a messy bun, not hiding her scars but showing off her slender neck. A lock of her dark hair falls over her eyes, and she blows it back, smirking when it returns to the same place. I shouldn’t watch her, but I like seeing her this way, graceful and relaxed. Thereissomething about her.

I turn away from the window, hating that the neighbors are right.She’s ending my writer’s block.And I’ll need more material, more grist for my mill.

More of her.

My pen wants what it wants, but damn—I don’t like this. She’s annoying, stubborn, and too much trouble.

“Just like you,” I imagine Devin saying, but I don’t engage. I’ve got work to do.

Returning to my desk, I imagine Rowan getting ready for bed soon. She’s one of those irritating people with routines and schedules. She’ll soon hate living next door to me, if she doesn’t already.

The repercussions of not writing for over a year is that I’ll write all night, as long as I can, until my fingers ache and my brain feels like mush in a blender. Music will serve as my companion, with Olivia Rodrigo, Billie Eilish, Selena Gomez, and Rihanna headlining. My badass Cinderella playlist will keep the princess next door up all night.

Now, back to my no-name character in the shadowy park…

Eight

Rowan

Aweeklaterandthe night before my dreaded meeting with Dr. Evelyn Tate about my non-existent Inspiration Project, I stroll toward the Fourth of July oyster roast, knowing I’ve already ruined my evening.

Stress over my lack of a plan has built over the last twelve hours—I’ve pored over my old lesson plans and novel notebooks since dawn with nothing to show for it.

---