Page 73 of Yes No Maybe

An impossible risk, no matter what her heart tells her.

The longer she refuses even the simplest eye contact, the more I fear I’ve lost her. Backseat conversations create a constant hum behind us on the way home. In the front seat, no one else sees the worry on her face. It kills me that I made her feel this way.

“Fuck!”

Her shoulders jerk, but she doesn’t look over. I shake my head, strangling the steering wheel.

I drop Renita and Ed off first. They make a stumbling production, exiting the van, that would normally have me laughing my ass off. Not today.

I park on the road between our four houses. “Everyone out. Unload your stuff.”

She’s already out of the van and speed-walking across her lawn before I get my orders out.To chase or not to chase. Glancing at Sara in the backseat answers my question. She gives me a stony look—not to chase. Maybe it’s best to give her time.

Course, that doesn’t help my frustration. I write shit like this all the time—it’salwayschase. On the page, I knowexactlywhat needs to be said: the perfectly swoony, desperately needed words that will make her melt.

But with Rowan, words battle too harsh a reality—mineandhers. I can’t seem to string the right ones together.

Inside, Harper Lee joins me and my tall whiskey on the couch. I stream the YouTube videos Sara suggested to the big screen. As rain pelts the back deck and pings against the windows, I watchTen Things, the Shakespearean spin-off she created with her students. Not only is it well-written, but packed with meaning and humor. I couldn’t have done it better.

The play ends. Dean takes the podium, looking self-important and pseudo-humble. He’s like a poor man’s Greg Kinnear or Carson Daly. He does his spiel about the students, charming the audience into well-deserved applause.

Then, the mood changes.

Roses come out—idiot.So cliche… and that dumb expression on his face.

He recites expressions stolen from Hallmark cards.What an asshole! He’s not even trying.

Then, he calls her up. The suspense grows the longer she avoids him. A laugh rumbles from me as I lean forward in my seat.Don’t do it, Rowan.Like I don’t already know what happened.

She takes the stage, looking beautiful but rattled. Uneasy. Her forced smile looks plastered on like a wax figure, melting in the sun, and her heels drag along the floor like she’s not used to wearing them—something I know isn’t true. Another red flag—the spotlights hit her wounded side. He didn’t even give her the courtesy of picking stage right for his spectacle. It’s no wonder she flubs her answer.

But the worst part is how desperately she tries to fix it. For a second, I think she might drop to her knees and propose to him. Anything to save face. To savehisface. The charming Mr. Maddix does nothing to help her. He even holds back a real kiss.Prick.

The highlight reel plays next, counterbalancing his shit proposal. It shows that their students like them, and they like each other. Smiling conversations over the scripts, consulting about costumes, and sitting together in the audience during rehearsals. This thing with Dean started as friends.

It’s the kind of love story I’d write about. Unlikely partners to friends to lovers. Two jaded people, resigned to being alone, find each other and realize they don’t have to be.

Seeing them together hurts unexpectedly. He isn’t the dickhead I want him to be, and I get why she’s trying to save it.

Only he can’t be the hero of her story.

I send Rowan a text.Can we talk?

Nothing.

I shower. Try writing. When that doesn’t work, I rotate through my current reads. Nothing holds my interest. I keep thinking of her. That kiss. And her sudden coldness.

The rain stops. Desperate for a distraction, I invite my friends over to enjoy copious amounts of alcohol while watching the Yankees play the Red Sox. It works for a while.

But late into the night, I reach out again.I couldn’t help it, Rowan. You have no idea what you do to me. Please say I didn’t ruin us. Please say something.

Her silence is as telling as her kiss.

Twenty-Four

Rowan

Earlyafternoonthenextday, Sara and I drive to the county jail. Traffic through the city makes our journey slow and irritating—not that we need anything added to our nervousness. Neither of us has visited someone in jail before, and though Sara assures me she’s cool with it, her knee bounces incessantly, and she fiddles with the ends of her lavender hair like she’s weaving a purple blanket.

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