Page 64 of Yes No Maybe

But thinking of what Ican’tdo resurrects my writer’s block. I can’t write anything.

I smash my whiskey glass on the concrete. Breaking glass sounds like strange music, especially as the shards clink and ping against the floor. I grab a wine bottle from another table and break that, too.

Broken glass slithers into the bottom of my foot. Another lightbulb moment—this is a bad idea. Blood dots the pavement underneath. I’m stupid-drunk.

So, when I hear my name, I think it’s my imagination.

Hearing it again, I catch a tremor in her voice. Something’s wrong.

Turning scrapes the glass deeper into my skin, but I don’t care. She’s here. And drunk as I am, I know she needs me.

Twenty-One

Rowan

It’safteronewhenwe return to the little house. The party has ended, leaving a quiet, sleepy street. Sara slugs inside, exhaustion catching up with her.

“Good night, Rowan,” she says before disappearing into her bedroom.

The game face I plastered all night vanishes with the click of her door closing. Deep breaths keep my heart from racing, but I can’t do anything about my shaking fingers or the nervous energy now pulsing through me. A home invasion was nearly the death of me once, and tonight, I almost let it happen again. The two events replay in an endless loop, clashing with each other and all the what-ifs. We were lucky it ended well. It almost didn’t.

What was I thinking?

I try making tea, but the teabag rips apart. My nerves, my body, my head—everything is rattled. I step outside the sliding glass doors, hoping the cool night air might bring some relief.

It doesn’t.

Movement catches my attention through the hedges in Jack’s yard—he’s still awake. I think of how he consoled me after Sara lashed out, and I long for his comfort again. With him, I won’t have to explain unless I want to. I won’t have to worry that he’ll ignore my call. He’ll just let me be with him as long as I need.

My shoulders buck at the sound of breaking glass as I take the path between our houses. Jack stands at the pool’s edge, holding a bottle and stumbling over his feet. He’s drunk and irritated.

I hesitate, but only for a second before saying his name.

He pauses until I call out again. He whips around, nearly falling. “Rowan? You made it.”

His frustration vanishes like butter melting into warm toast. It’s a wild relief, the change in his disposition, and a surprise, given my previous experiences with drunk men. I go to him, stopping short of walking straight into his arms.

Glassy-eyed, he looks me over. “Something’s wrong. What is it? Is it Sara?”

“She’s fine.” My voice trembles with the words. “Just… a rough night.”

“You’re shaking.” With this discovery, he gently pulls me to his chest, and I press my ear against his heartbeat. A trapped breath sputters out as I latch on, and he curls me up—his arms tight around my shoulders and back, his head resting on mine.

His warmth and comfort are exactly what I need.He’sexactly what I need. His tight hold feels like a shield, us against the world. I can’t remember the last time I felt so safe. He says nothing and lets me linger. Secret tears emerge while I clutch him, leaking out with the released tension. He strokes my hair with his fingertips like he knows I’m crying. As drunk as he is, as late as it is, he doesn’t let go, like he might stay this way all night, if that’s what I needed.

A lovely but dangerous idea that I can’t entertain for many reasons.

Still, I retreat slowly, lingering in our collected heat. He hovers over me, his breath in my hair and fingers pressing me to him. It’s like he doesn’t want me to pull away. Or it could be my wishful thinking.

Meeting his eyes, I force a weak smile. “Um, how was the party?”

“Fucking awful.”

“Why?”

“You weren’t here.” He shrugs like it’s obvious.

A weak laugh rumbles out. “Sorry.” I glance at his white button-down, now smeared with damp mascara. “Oh, shit… and for that.” Quick swipes under my eyes remove the leftover evidence of my breakdown. “Guess you were right about me. Iamneedy.”

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