Off Chance (21 page)

“How would you know?” I snap, because I don’t want him to give me any more reason to hope for something I can never have.

“Because I’ve been there... done that. I was the guy that only wanted to get in the girl’s pants, and then I wanted to kick her out the door as soon as possible. I wanted that with Emily when we first hooked up.”

“Really?” I ask, suspicious he’s feeding me a line.

“Cross my heart. You can ask her. In fact, we agreed on a sex-only, no-emotional-involvement relationship. But it didn’t work out that way. Being with Emily... intimately... it opened up my heart to a whole new level of relationship. It strengthened my friendship with her. It made me want to help her, protect her, and love her even more. Sex doesn’t always kill things. It can strengthen... with the right person.”

“But how do I know Flynn is the right person? I mean, maybe he’s only destined to be a good friend to me.”

“Maybe he’s destined to be so much more,” Nix counters.

Yes... maybe.

I look Nix squarely in the eye. “But it’s not a risk I’m willing to take. Maybe isn’t good enough me.”

When I get back to the apartment, I take Capone on a long walk. Flynn had to go back into work today for another three-day shift and he left a note telling me he did all the laundry for both of us. My heart swells up in gratitude over his simple kindness. For someone that hasn’t been able to rely or count on anyone but herself for the past five years, I find a simple act such as that to be overwhelmingly endearing. I wish he were here so I could hug him, and I smile at the new Rowan.

Old Rowan was most definitely not a hugger.

I feed Capone and change into Flynn’s t-shirt. I have the apartment all to myself so I don’t bother with his gym shorts.

I’m restless, I don’t feel like watching TV, and I’m not much of a reader. So I boot up Flynn’s laptop. He told me I could use it any time, and I rarely take him up on the offer unless I’m scanning the news headlines.

Pulling up Google, I type into the search field “John Cleeden”. Too many results pop up, along with a bazillion ads for Ancestry.com. I clear the search and type in “John Cleeden Lewisville, Texas”. I’m immediately rewarded for what I was looking for.

And I settle in to torture myself.

The first article is entitled “Esteemed Judge Rules In Landmark Trade Dispute”. I don’t bother reading the details because I’ve read it before and have no desire to read it again. Trade disputes just aren’t my thing.

The next result reads “Charity Auction Yields Highest Result With Judge’s Donation”. It’s an older article but I click on the link and stare at the picture before me. It’s of a tall, distinguished man who I know to be currently seventy-one years of age. His hair is dark with silver at the temples, but that is about the only thing that belies his true age. He is fit and looks to be in excellent shape. His arm is around the waist of a petite woman, also with dark hair. I know her to be forty-five.

Hello, Mom and Dad.

The article goes on to extol the virtues of The Honorable John Cleeden, District Court Judge, and how his donation of $50,000 put the Kid Strong Foundation over their million-dollar goal for the year.

My dad is looking serious in the picture, and I believe it’s because he truly doesn’t know how to smile. My mom, however, is showing her pearly whites, eager to be in front of the camera, I’m sure.

I search their faces, trying to see if there is anything lurking there that would indicate how they feel about me. They don’t look like two people that have a missing daughter. While my dad doesn’t look overly thrilled to have his picture taken, they certainly don’t look forlorn or look to be in despair.

It’s as I thought. They don’t think of me at all, and even though I torture myself with this game every now and then, it never diminishes the hurt I feel.

Going back to the Google search field, I type in Anne Marie Cleeden. It returns 178,000,000 hits. I narrow it down... Anne Marie Cleeden, Texas. Three hundred and forty-eight results appear. I scan the first page, searching for the words I long to read.

Parents Search For Missing Daughter

Hope Still Alive For Texas Couple Searching For Daughter

Esteemed Judge Hopeful Daughter Is Alive.

Page after page I search but it yields me nothing. My parents aren’t looking for me. They could care less whether I’m alive or dead.

It’s what I should expect.

When I left home at the tender age of eighteen, withering under my parents’ lack of interest in me, my dad told me. He warned me well.

He said if I left, I would never be welcomed back. He said I’d be as good as dead to them, and apparently, I was.

“Okay... now reach in and start pulling out the guts.”

Rowan looks at me with only a small level of disgust on her face. “It smells horrible.”

“Stop being a baby and start gutting. Pretend those are Juice’s innards,” I tell her, throwing a grin over my clever idea.

She looks beautiful tonight with her hair pulled up in a ponytail and her face scrubbed of all makeup. She’s wearing an old Steely Dan t-shirt and faded jeans with holes in the knees. Casual and sexy at the same time.

Rowan grins back at me and dives in with both hands. Pulling out a huge glop of pumpkin guts, she throws it on the newspaper covering the table and says, “Take that you, bastard!”

I laugh out loud. “You tell him!”

She reaches back in and pulls out another handful. It hits the table hard and splatters on me a bit. “That’s for kidnapping me.”

Rowan pulls a third handful out. “That’s for chaining me to the bed,” she yells with a silly smile on her face.

Splat! The guts hit the table again and a few pumpkin seeds fall to the floor. Capone walks over and sniffs them with interest.

“Rock on, girl,” I encourage her.

She plunges back in, pulling out a huge pile and slams it on the newspaper. “And that’s for having your thugs attack my bestie, Flynn.”

I chuckle over her antics, happy to see that she can find something to laugh about. “That was probably the best therapy you could ever do to move past Juice.”

We both share a secret smile over that, continuing to work on our pumpkins. Then our chuckles die down and we work in silence for a while.

Rowan had brought these stupid pumpkins home and said she wanted to carve them for Halloween, which is less than a week away. I didn’t particularly care to do it, because I think it’s a useless holiday, but her enthusiasm was infectious and here we now stand, shoulder to shoulder, mutilating these poor cucurbits.

Stepping back to survey our now empty pumpkin shells, I ask, “What do we do with all the innards?”

“Well, I read online that we can roast them.”

We stare at the huge pile of pulp and seeds on the table, then look at each other. At the same time, we both shake our head, and say, “Nah.”

“I’m too lazy to do it,” Rowan says.

“Me too.”

I gather all the corners of the newspapers, rounding the entire pumpkiny mess up, and toss it in the garbage. Rowan lays fresh newspaper under our shells and we both give our hands a scrubbing in the sink.

“So… now what?”

She hands me back my knife, holding the blade and presenting me with the handle. “Now we carve.”

I’m not much of an artist and I don’t have the patience to skillfully chip away at the pumpkin, so I opt for the classic triangle eyes and nose. Glancing over at Rowan, I see she’s trying something a bit more exotic. Her pumpkin’s eyes have a cat-like slant to them with delicately arched eyebrows.

I’m impressed.

“Nix told me what your tattoos mean.”

The statement comes out of left field and for a second, I have no clue what she’s talking about. Then I understand.

“Always faithful,” I confirm.

“He told me you did it to honor him.”

I nod, jabbing my pumpkin in the left eye. “In hindsight, it’s kind of silly. I mean, how do you ever really honor someone like Nix for what he did, right?”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s silly at all. I think having those words inked on you is beautiful. I think the words also fit you perfectly.”

Surprised, my eyes fly upward to meet hers. They are gray pools of warm mercury, swirling with tenderness and affection, and the look hits me hard. I’ve been spending weeks with Rowan, vacillating between wanting to fuck her and wanting to cultivate this friendship that she puts such stock in.

But this look she’s giving me now? It makes me want it all... badly. It makes me ache with desire to just hold her, not in a friendly fashion, but not in a sexual fashion. I want to hold her intimately, and have her pour out all of her pain to me. I want to take care of her, covet her, and make everything in her life better. Not because I think she’s broken, but because she makes me a better person and I want to honor that.

“So what else did you and Nix talk about?” I ask, averting my eyes so hopefully this overwhelming need to sink into her goes away.

She’s silent for a moment but then she says, “He said you were in love with me?”

My eyes fly up to hers again, and there is the sadness and the fear I saw before. “And what did you think about that?”

“I told him you were just in lust with me,” she says with a bitter smile on her face.

“Hmmm,” I muse. “Is there a difference?”

Rowan shrugs her shoulders. “Nix doesn’t seem to think so. He says it’s a man-thing.”

I watch as Rowan continues to push her knife into the pumpkin, twisting it slightly to chip small pieces out. She looks strong and vulnerable all at the same time and I have no control over what I do next.

Reaching a hand out, I smooth it along her face and cup her behind her head. She’s surprised by the touch, and instinctively turns to look at me, allowing me to grip her neck. “I want to kiss you, Rowan.”

I pull her closer and she doesn’t fight me... at first.

But as soon as my mouth is just inches from hers, her hands sneak up to push against my chest. “Stop, Flynn.”

My chest constricts painfully over her denial but I don’t release her. She doesn’t push me farther away either.

I look at her... deeply... intently. “Rowan... why? There’s a connection here. You feel it, right?”

She quickly nods her head to assure me. “Yes... I feel it like the sun... it’s warm and encompassing. But I’m too afraid. I just can’t.”

I release her suddenly, needing the physical distance. Taking a few steps back, I lean against the counter, placing my hands on the edge by my hips. “Then explain it to me... again. Let’s talk about it. Let’s see if we can figure something out.”

I think she’s going to balk for just a second, because Rowan isn’t exactly known for her openness. However, she pulls the kitchen chair out from the table and sits down with a sigh, laying her carving knife down in front of her.

“My dad is a judge—very well known, highly respected. My mom is a socialite, also well known, probably not as respected since she was a trophy wife for him. He’s twenty-six years her senior.”

I don’t say anything but walk up and pull the other chair out, sitting down across from her. She continues.

“My dad was, I think, like around forty-eight when they had me, and frankly, I don’t think he was interested in having kids. He was well on his way to a successful career on the bench and his career was everything. But my mom was young and wanted them, so he gave in.”