Page 51 of Yes No Maybe

My face pinches, and more stupid tears drip from my puffy eyes. “Really? I thought you were upset with me.”

“Never. Myself, yes, but it doesn’t matter…. Um, help yourself to more whiskey if you need it.”

“Thank you, Jack.”

“Anytime. I mean that.” He stands, heading toward his sliding glass door. “Oh, and Rowan…”

He catches my gaze, holding it in his. “When you’re ready, go back in there and tell that asshole you’re not putting up with her shit. You’re a good person doing a good thing. You deserve… better.”

He leaves me. More tears plummet from my eyes like crying is a new invention, and the novelty hasn’t yet worn off. It’s a double relief—getting alone time to pull myself together here and Jack not pressuring me to talk about it. His words resonate, too, mimicking what I said to Dean—I deserve better. I put those words on repeat as I soak up the dying sun, sip whiskey, and spend twenty minutes gathering myself.

The tender way he touched me, his fingers on my face, replay in my thoughts, and it’s a memory I hope I never lose.

When my eyes are dry and my glass empties, I leave the luxurious chaise, not bothering with cleanup or needless thank yous. Jack isn’t waiting for that.

I march home, bypassing Edgar’s meows to pound on Sara’s door. It flings open, and she stares at me daringly as if this is her house and I’m the invader.

“If you ever talk to me that way again, I’ll makeonephone call. Within the hour, you’ll be moved into a group home with a bunch of pissed-off girls, like you, only angrier and more violent, and you’ll be their new target. Let me tell you, it sucks being someone’s target. I hate that these things have happened to you, Sara. I wish I could wave a wand and make your world better. But I can’t. The best I can offer is this.” I wave my hands around my cozy little house. “And if that’s not good enough, then go, try your hand with the group home and the inner-city school. Or stay. And have a decent life for three months. Either way, you willnevertalk to me like that again. Understood?”

The stone-cold expression under her lavender hair fades into one of worry. “Fine. Sorry. I shouldn’t have said shit about your face or Mr. Maddix.”

“Never again,” I reiterate, sternly.

“Okay,” she says, just as sternly. “Can I watch TV?”

Edgar saunters between us, rubbing himself against my legs and hers like he’s forging a friendship.

“Um, sure.” I leave her to it, retreating down the hall to my room, where I splash my face with cold water and take cleansing breaths. My relief mixes with my surprise—standing up for myself came easier than I expected and instantly made things better.

When I return to the living room, Sara’s watching a ghastly horror movie. Edgar settles onto the couch beside her, and I do the same, taking the other end.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s Mira asking for an update. I type out a quick—Better now. Call me tomorrow.

Then…P.S. Jack Graham isn’t the spoiled playboy I thought he was. He’s actually a little amazing. I’m… befuddled.

Mira:Befuddled = a distant cousin to desperate. We should talk more about this.

Me:The only thing I’m desperate for is a wine night. Maybe tomorrow night you can help me with that?

Mira:Absolutely, as long as you elaborate on your befuddlement. What’s happening with your neighbor?

Me:If I knew that, I wouldn’t be befuddled.

Mira:Fair enough. See you at 6.

The next night, Mira, Jane, and the kids bring wine and pizza, successfully luring Sara out of her room. Though she still keeps her distance from me, she plays with the kids and pleasantly socializes long enough to give me hope.

And strangely, thinking about Jack gives me hope, too.

Seventeen

Rowan

Afteralongdayof errands, I putter into the driveway at home to see Jack bolt from his front porch wavingThe Other Usin his hand—mycopy ofThe Other Us, I realize, seeing its multi-colored mohawk of sticky notes.

“That’s my book!”

He opens the car door for me. “Unrealistic? Ridiculous? A guy’s version of a woman? What the hell, Rowan?”

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