Page 50 of Yes No Maybe

“What’d she say?”

With a deep breath, I blurt out, “Oh, the usual… about my ugly fucked-up face and how everyone at school thinks Dean feels sorry for me. And my face has kept him away all summer.”

“I’ll come right now, pack her ass up, and take her downtown.”

“No, Mira. I can’t do that to her.”

“Well, how about I come over and talk to her? We’ll set more ground rules.”

“No, I don’t want that either. I’m not… tattling. I’m not backing out. I’m venting.”

“What then? Tell me what you need.”

“I need… a good cry, some alcohol, and about fifteen minutes away from her so I can figure out what I’m going to say when I go back inside.”

“Well, how about you and Sara come to our house for dinner tomorrow night? She’ll loosen up around other kids.”

“Mira, how the hell would I get her in the car? She doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

“Then, we’ll bring the party to you. Dinner, too. And alcohol. Tomorrow night at six.”

“Okay. That might help.”

Mira offers other encouragement, but her words run together with my tears. Still, I assure her I’m fine, promise to text later, and get off the phone.

I lean against the porch siding, taking deep breaths. But when the tears don’t stop, I bury my face in my hands and just let them come like a necessary detox of all my bad feelings.

“Rowan.” Jack appears at the hedge corner.

I blurt an expletive and consider running away to spare myself another indignity. Ihatethat he sees me like this. I can’t even look at him, but I keep my head low and my puffy, wet eyes fixed on the dirt under my bare feet.

He moves next to me, so close I smell pine and coffee. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to listen, but my study window was open, and… well, a woman bawling her ass off is hard to ignore.”

My uneasy laugh creates a weird mash-up with my crying that doesn’t quite work. “Then, I’m sorry. It’s a new workout I’m trying—bawling my ass off.”

“It’s working for you.”

An awkward beat passes before he moves in front of me. Unable to look at him, I fixate on his bare feet, closing in around mine. His hands rise slowly between us before gently reaching my chin. His fingertips slide along my cheekbones, lifting my face until our eyes meet.

He’s touching me? Not just me, but my face? And I’m letting him? These events don’t make sense like a crazy dream without a storyline.

Still, I can’t look away when his boyish smile and thoughtful eyes land on mine. He takes me in, studying me, my lines, my marks, everything, never once revealing anything but admiration. His hands are warm, tender, and surprising, cupping my cheeks like they’re simply two sides of me, one no different than the other.

I can’t remember the last time someone touched me like this, and certainly not in kindness or affection. More tears surface over his sweet acceptance and how beautiful it makes me feel.

He thumbs my tears away, and his smile grows like he knows what I’m feeling.

“Rowan… This is the beautiful face of a woman who can handle anything.”

I laugh out loud. First, because he’s right—thisisthe face of a woman who can handle anything. Second, because his sweet joke and enchanting acceptance have me thinking—just for a second—that he might kiss me, an idea so preposterous that it’s funny.

He hesitates before letting go and reaching for my hand. “Come with me.”

My hand drops into his like he’s put me in a trance. He leads me around the hedge, up his deck, and into a cozy wicker chaise.

“Stay here.”

He returns with liquor in a crystal tumbler and a box of tissues. He sets both on the small glass table and crouches beside me. “Stay here as long as you need. Cry as much as you want. Do whatever makes it better.”

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