Page 55 of Yes No Maybe

She clears her throat before moving again. “Um, I had an after-school hankering for mac-n-cheese, and as Burns wrote,best-laidplans oft go awry.” An uneasy chuckle escapes as she sets the tray on the coffee table. “Let me grab the wine.”

Vernon holds up a finger. “Household accidents are a silent killer—no one talks about them. My Uncle Lou died after an unfortunate scuffle with a toaster…”

Rowan whips by me, her gray-blue eyes catching mine. Her forced smile and her fidgeting fingers give her away. She’s not only uneasy but downright nervous.

And I get why. Her no-big-deal story for her students is her way of controlling the narrative. It’s practiced and delivered in a space where she’s in charge. That it happens here, around her new neighbors, and without her leading the story, derails her tried-and-true explanation. She didn’t plan for this.

She returns, bottles at the ready.

Rose chides Vernon for rambling while Tom agrees, “Most people die close to home.”

“Um, red or white?” She holds up the wine.

“Red for me,” Sara says.

“Nice try. You can have yellow… as in Mountain Dew.”

“Wait, I don’t get it, love,” Rose says as Rowan fills her glass. “How did the water get from the pot to you?”

Her practiced smile returns. “The pot was too small, Rose. It happened when I turned from the stove to the sink—I did it too fast.”

Vernon seems about to argue the logistics of it, so I jump in with, “Hey, um, Sara, what’s the deal with the purple hair? Do you identify mermaid or something?”

“I want to know what brand you use because it’s awesome,” Marcy adds, twiddling with a wayward lock of Sara’s hair like they’re already best friends.

“What could you do with mine?” Rose asks.

Rowan plays hostess, filling everyone’s glass, and the tension in her shoulders immediately releases with the subject change. Stepping away from the group, her eyes close tightly, as if blocking out the lie.

She brushes by me again, careful not to make eye contact as she retreats to the kitchen. She serves the donated desserts, staying busy, while Sara keeps the group engaged. She talks about her father’s lawn care business, which I joke Rowan should hire as soon as possible, earning a small smile. Sara relates that she loves crystals, horror movies, and RPGs. Rowan seems to relax the more she learns about her roommate.

The party dissipates once Sara promises to visit Rose for crocheting tutorials and Marcy’s for hair dyeing, as if that had been the main goal for them descending on the little house in the first place. The neighbors leave. Sara retreats to her bedroom.

In silence, we address the leftovers and dirty dishes. I hand wash the wine glasses—all but ours, which I promptly refill. She seems somewhat perplexed that I’m helping in the kitchen, but she doesn’t question it.

When the work is done, I take my wine to the living room and play with Edgar on the floor. She takes a spot nearby, not seeming to mind our informality. She tugs the hair tie from her wrist and recreates her messy bun—I take this as a sign that she’s becoming more comfortable with me.

Since everything with Rowan feels like an experiment, I test the waters. “A kitchen accident isn’t the real story. Is it?”

She stares into her wine glass like it might generate an answer for her. She wants to smooth out the lie, and I expect her fake smile and a suitable deflection. Perhaps she’ll claim I’m so desperate for drama that I can’t accept that there isn’t any.Not everything’s a book-worthy spectacle, Jack—cue laughter.

Her words don’t come, though. Instead, she releases her hair again like a curtain, ending the show.

“It’s okay, Rowan. We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Good because Idon’ttalk about it.”

Her defensiveness surprises me. “First rule of Fight Club?” My attempt at humor falls short. “There’s no judgment here. It’s smart to have an answer ready for an inevitable question, and I bet teenagers can be rude about it.”

“Adults are worse.”

“It’s an awful situation to be in. The thing that affects your life the most is the one thing you don’t want to talk about. I get it, but does it hurt less holding it in all the time?”

“Some stories don’t belong to you, Jack.”

“If you don’t share your stories, what’s the point of having them? How can anyone truly know who you are?”

Again, she doesn’t answer.

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