Page 30 of Yes No Maybe

Rowan

Theslammeddoorshakesthe little house and echoes like a car backfire. I’m not a door-slamming person—I regret it immediately, along with everything else. Attending the party. Letting him in. Buying the little house.

I call Dean. No answer.

I’m up and ready to run at 5:30 the next morning. Using the gully next to Jack’s house, I get on the cross-city trail and map out my new routine. It takes me to Magnolia Park, where I do loops without worrying about traffic or neighbors.

But even though it’s a lovely run, two thoughts keep recycling through my head—thatI’m not that fucking interestingandI should’ve said no to the little house.

I don’t evenwantto be interesting. Blending in has been my life goal since fifteen. I spent years wearing hoodies to hide under. Becoming a teacher took mental strength I never knew I had, and it’s still a daily struggle. The last thing I want is more unwanted attention from an arrogant writer who thinks he can use my pain and dares to believe he can understand it.

Five fast miles later, I race over the concrete bridge toward home. Sweaty and winded, I slow down, spilling into the neighborhood. I take in the little house as the sun speckles its bricks and gray roof. It’s not the sad place it was, not with its pansy and marigold flower boxes, freshly repainted blue door, and tidier lawn. With Edgar in the window eyeing my return, the house is postcard-perfect. To me, anyway.

If only I could pick it up and move it elsewhere.

In the shower, I refocus on my inspiration project. The best I can come up with is a vague philosophical approach to classic books—finding the meaning of life through literature. But it feels boring and unimaginative. Still, I make a mental note to grab my annotated copy ofA Tale of Two Citiesfor a story of love and sacrifice to introduce it.

Though it’s summer and I’m technically off-duty, I dress professionally—blue, ankle-length chinos, a pink polka-dotted white blouse with a collar, and my strappy black heels to show Dr. Evelyn Tate that I’ve made an effort. The magazine-worthy administrator appreciates style. With my dark hair straightened into a sleek bob that frames my face and modest make-up covering the bags under my eyes, I’m ready—at least by appearances.

A knock at the door quickens my pulse sharply. It’s probably Rose and Vernon with their tea service, ready to dish about last night.

But it’s Jack.

“I lied.” His hands go up like he’s trying to diffuse a bomb. “Youarethat fucking interesting.”

“I don’t care. I don’t have time for this.”

“Right, important meeting. You look very nice. Professional. Um, I swear, I come in peace. I-I feel awful about last night.”

“Yeah, me too.” My coffee pot gurgles behind me, but I stay focused on Jack. His stumbling words and distressed expression strike a slightly sympathetic chord in me. “I have to leave in seven minutes.”

“All I need is one. Rowan, please.”

He’s wearing the same clothes as last night, and the soft skin under his eyes is more shaded than usual. I groan, ticking through a must-grab list in my head.Coffee. Keys. Bag. Book. Notebooks.“A minute… but follow me.”

“Awesome.” He closes the door behind us, and I keep a cautious eye on him.

I click-clack over the hardwoods to the kitchen and prepare my coffee.

“Okay, I’ve been an asshole—I get that. Yes, you’ve sparked some ideas. But the party, the dancing—that wasn’t some manipulation to get material. I was having a nice time. I had nothing to do with Renita’s behavior—”

“I know that.” I leave my coffee mug and step into the converted garage.

“Good. Anyway, I could hardly sleep last night thinking about our fight. I’m not a vampire, more of a… scavenger. But I’d never take anything that wasn’t freely given. Understand?”

I shrug, focused on my mission. Two large bookcases flank the side wall—one with annotated books and the other with a rainbow of color-coded three-ring binders labeled by unit. Sure, it’s all material safely secured in the cloud. But it’s comforting and ritualistic for me, beginning a new unit by brushing up on the material in my hands, like going through an old photo album.

“Um, if you say I can’t write about you… And by that, I mean someonelikeyou… then fine. I’ll delete the pages—”

“Really?” I look up from the shelves in surprise. “The first pages you’ve written in over a year? Do you mean that?”

“Yes,” he says with a slight hesitation.

“Good.”

“But maybe you’d be willing to read them first?” His usual broodiness shifts into puppy-dog pleading.

Huffing, I pull out the lavender notebook labeled THEMES and a second one on GENRE. He holds out his arms to carry them for me, and I notice a book tucked against his side. I hand him the stack with a sigh, meeting his eyes.

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