Page 48 of Yes No Maybe

Rowan’s face shows up whenever I close my eyes like she’s a virus fucking with my normal programming.

Keeping my eyes open isn’t better, because I can’t pretend I’m with the girl next door.

So, I keep them closed and let my head go wherever it wants. I imagine Rowan’s hands and mouth all over me, my lips devouring her, my fingers exploring her warmest places. We don’t even make it to the stairs before she’s naked and quivering.

“Holy shit, Jack. What’s got into you, huh?”

I answer by making her come, and her question is lost in her outcry. Then, I take her against the kitchen island, hard and fast. It’s the best sex I’ve had in ages.

Still, I’m glad when she leaves. I feel empty. Pissed, though I don’t get why. Since when is amazing sex not enough for me?

A long shower washes Jennifer away but does little for my irritation. So, I return to what’s been going well. I’m 47,323 words in, but still missing a crucial element—the inciting incident. Incredible scenes with complex, wounded characters have cued up in no particular order, but not what sets off the string of events in the first place. I need the original domino.

Harper Lee meows and hops onto my desk, sauntering across my keyboard and notebooks in a not-so-subtle plea for attention. I pick her up, rubbing her back as she hooks over my shoulder. Her paws knead into me as she purrs. I breathe into her fluffy orange fur, and that’s when it comes to me.

Caleb, the boy with the shockingly red hair, and my version of Rowan searching for him wherever she goes…

Harper Lee protests with a sharp meow when I release her for my keyboard, but it’s okay. She lives a lovely cat life and understands that my books are partially responsible. Pencil tucked against my ear, I switch on a random playlist, volume relatively low, and invert my hands over my keyboard, cracking them, before I start typing. The scene plays in my head with striking clarity—a late-night hospital emergency room and two injured teenagers who don’t want to go home.

I don’t look up until the sky is gray, and I hear Rowan’s front door shutting as she goes on her morning run. I watch her from my front window—it’s not stalking if you live next door. I consider texting her something funny about her always running away from the neighborhood or a random good morning. She opened up to me yesterday in ways she rarely does with anyone, however shitty it made me feel after. I want to reach out. Assure her. Thank her, even.

But as soon as my eyes drift from her face to her tight running outfit, I turn away.

Distance, asshole. Distance.

Sixteen

Rowan

Dean’sapologyfeelshalf-hearted,but I accept it anyway. He vents about long hours, the discomforts of sharing an RV with three other guys, and the stress of being a grunt on set—it’s unusual to hear him complain. But, of course, everything between us is unusual these days, like my botched answer was an iceberg, knocking our ship off course, and we’re struggling to set it right again.

Or at least, I am.

I do all the hopeful fiancée things—I listen, validate his troubles, and offer encouragement. But he doesn’t return the favor when I finally tell him about Sara. Rather, he huffs and says, “Don’t you get enough of other people’s kids at school?”

“If you can’t be supportive, then maybe you shouldn’t call. Whenever we talk, you make me feel horrible, and I don’t deserve it.”

“Well, that’s how I’ve felt all summer,” he retorts before ending the call.

“You and me both,” I breathe out.

I knew I shouldn’t have answered. But Jack was insistent. I consider marching over there, asking him what went wrong. I even step out to my front porch, armed with an innate desire to fixsomething.

But when I see the busty brunette at his door, I stop. His Amazonian princess is another version of perfect, reminding me of my place and proving exactly what I tried to explain—I’m not his type. Envy ripples through me when his hand hooks into her cleavage to pull her inside—my toes curlforher.

I retreat, feeling hurt all the way around without completely understanding why.

Days pass. Dean goes silent.

I don’t hear from Jack, either.

That conversation should’ve drawn us closer. Mom and Mira nearly exploded from shock when I told them I opened up about Trent. Now regret grows with his silence. There’s one obvious conclusion—he got what he needed.

Home upkeep keeps me busy. Maintaining the grass monopolizes several grueling hours a week with the rough push mower in life-draining heat and humidity. The overrun beds, front yard and back, grow more unruly, and I don’t have the energy or know-how to tackle them. So, they become visible to-dos, mocking me.

More problems arise—neglected gutters cause drainage issues, the smoke alarm in my bedroom needs replacing, and one of the skylights in the living room leaks in heavy rain. Cleaning the gutters and replacing the alarm I do myself—a comical but effective enterprise that brings Vernon over to supervise. He has a keen sense of home repairs, like a Jedi noticing disruptions in the force, but I don’t mind his help. But I fear the roof leak and ignore it for the same reason I ignore Jack’s tree—money.

Meanwhile, I stick to a routine for my sake and Sara’s. Routines are comforting, and I want to give her stability if nothing else. I’m up early and running by six. My morning coffee is usually combined with FaceTiming Mom or project work. When Sara emerges, I suggest things we can do together. Shopping. Library. The aquarium. Putt-putt. The beach.

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