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R OWAN

Shit. Miles isn’t going away. Three times last week, I spotted him near my car at the end of my shift. I ended up taking the T home, which was a blessing in disguise. I didn’t have to deal with Boston traffic and I could zone out for forty minutes.

Not that I zoned out. My brain hasn’t shut off since discovering Miles is Adam. I’ve managed to dodge him for over a week and returned to my apartment this weekend, knowing he was away for a game.

Jackson, bless his heart, didn’t meddle. He loves all things gossip, but he works a ridiculous number of hours, and by the time he got home at night, I was already tucked away in the guest room. Normally, I would have loved to hang out with him and Taylor, but they’d see through my facade and drill me on the real reason I was hiding in their spare room.

I figured a week was enough time for Miles to forget about me. It’s not like we’d been dating for very long. We’ve actually been broken up—if that’s what we’re calling it—longer than we were together. At least in my book.

Now that I’ve had a week to come to terms with the lies, I’m not as angry as I was when I first made the discovery. Hurt, yes. Feeling betrayed, absolutely. I’m so confused as to why he would do that. Create a fake persona and string me along. For a hot minute, I thought maybe he wasn’t aware who Elizabeth77 was until it was too late, but then I remembered telling him about the app and my handle when we were at Kendall and Nash’s summer party on my birthday.

He knew. He coaxed information from me—personal, private, intimate information—and used it to get close to me.

Flu season has kicked in, so the office is busy, which keeps me mostly distracted throughout the day. When I cautiously make my way to my car at six, I sigh in relief when I don’t see a hunky man lurking nearby. No, not hunky.

Well, fine. Miles may be an ass, but he’s still hunky, and I kinda don’t like him for that.

It’s so not fair. My heart betrays me every time I think about him. I don’t want to miss him. I don’t want to want him. But I do, despite how humiliated I am.

As I get closer to my car, I notice an envelope tucked under the wiper. I yank it out and am tempted to leave it on the ground, but I’m not a litterer. I chuck it on my passenger seat and ignore it while I drive home.

At least, I try to ignore it. The damn envelope taunts me the entire commute. Leaving it on the seat, I gather my things and close the car door with my hip. Double-checking that my door is locked, I keep my head held high and refuse to look through the window at the cream envelope that has my name written across the front.

Much later, after I’ve had dinner, showered, pretended to read, and tossed and turned in bed, I throw back my covers and shove my feet into my slides. “Freaking letter,” I grumble on my way down the apartment stairs and out to my car. Yanking the door open, I grab the letter, slam the door, then march back to my apartment.

I’m fuming. Enraged. Okay, maybe not that extreme, but I’m annoyed at how much head space Miles takes up. Since sleep evades me, I boil some water and make myself a cup of mint tea.

The envelope stares at me while I wait for the water to heat up. When my tea is made, I carry my mug and the letter back to my bed and climb under the covers. I shouldn’t be this worked up over a silly letter. It’s probably short and sweet and has some joke or would you rather question.

Because that’s Miles. Funny. Childish. Incapable of holding a serious conversation.

Lies. That’s what I used to think. But after spending so much time with him, I discovered the many layers to Miles Buckingham. Layers he keeps hidden from everyone. But me.

I suppose you could say the same about me. Not even Riley or Kendall know my family’s dysfunction or how lonely I’ve been lately.

I take a sip of my tea then set it on my nightstand. Picking up the envelope, I turn it over and slide my finger under the flap. The letter is written on basic lined notebook paper and is long.

Taking in a deep breath, I settle into my pillows and read.

Rowan,

Thank you for not burning this letter and taking the time to read it. Granted, you may stop now and burn it before you get to the next line, and I can’t say I blame you. I was an ass. I was stupid. I was an idiot.

Correction. I AM an ass. I AM stupid. I AM an idiot. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me and I screwed it up. Royally. And I keep screwing it up by stalking you. Well, I’m not really stalking. I haven’t installed cameras to watch your every move or anything like that. I haven’t caved and bought a long distance lens to snap pictures. I don’t have a wall in my apartment filled with hundreds of pictures of you. But that would be pretty cool. A Rowan collage.

Sorry. That sounds creepy. Swear I’m not a creep. I’m just an oaf who is obsessed with you. Scratch that. Sounds too stalkerish, doesn’t it? I swear I respect your boundaries, hence the letter. Shit. I don’t think I’ve ever used the word hence before. See? You bring out the best in me. Sometimes I even sound less dumb when I’m with you.

Although you might have a strong argument against that by now. My English teacher in high school used to tell me I rambled too much in my essays. I don’t think I ever earned higher than a C on a paper even though I wrote more than anyone in my class. Useless words, Mrs. Gregory would tell me. Be more direct and get to the point.

Fifteen years later, and I still haven’t learned that valuable lesson. Although I feel if I got right to the point, I would lose my charm. Right? Aren’t you charmed right now?

Sorry. That’s stupid Miles speaking. I don’t blame you for not wanting to give me the time of day, and I’d avoid my ass if I could as well. And here I am blowing it by rambling a bunch of nonsense in a letter to you. Honestly, I don’t know what to say, hence the ramble. Ah! Hence again. See? You’re good for me, doc. But am I good for you? I really don’t know. I want to be, but the shit I pulled proves that you’re too good for me.

You’re pure and sweet and honest and smart and funny and gorgeous. So fucking gorgeous. So fucking everything.

I flip the paper over and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. The tears are partly from laughing and partly from the emotions tumbling out of his pen. The letter is one hundred percent authentic Miles.

He’s right. If he got straight to the point, I wouldn’t be emotionally vested in reading the rest of the letter. Needing to give my heart a few minutes to slow down, I pick up my tea and wait until it’s half gone before picking up the letter again.

Okay. I’m totally impressed you’re still reading. If it was me, I would have crumpled the letter after the first paragraph. Unless it was from you. Hell, I’d have the letter framed. Your words tattooed on my chest, even if they’re spitting venom my way. That’s how badly I need you in my life. Even if your words weren’t kind, I’d still cherish them because it would mean you were talking to me.

The silence between us is deafening. I never knew how quiet and lonely my world was until I had you in it and then lost you.

Shit, Row. I can’t give you this letter. I sound like an overly obsessed desperate psycho. I barely had you in my life before I lost you, yet you left a mark so deep, I can’t sleep without you by my side, and I’ve never before needed a warm body next to me at night.

Not that you’re a warm body.

You’re Rowan. Sweet, beautiful, wonderful Rowan, who I hurt with my deceit. You can’t fathom how I could be such a fool because you would never do something so foolish. Which I guess finally gets me to my point.

First, thank you for reading this far. It’s more than I deserve. If you’re reading this, it gives me hope that maybe we can be friends again. If only I had a clue if you’re reading the letter. You’re smart, so you probably shredded it, which is why I’m rambling. If you’re not reading this, I can keep barfing out my heart to you. Mrs. Gregory used to call this verbal diareeah but I don’t know how to spell diarreah (or is it diareah?) without looking it up and if I pick up my phone to look up the word, I’ll get distracted staring at the few pictures I have of us together.

Word vomit. That’s what this is. Charming, ain’t I?

Okay, I said I was going to get to my point. Here it is. I’m an ass (redundant, but needs repeating) and I screwed up. I betrayed you with my dishonesty and I more than pinky promise never ever ever ever to do anything like this again. To ever lie to you again (hence my over-sharing here–three times now for hence!).

I promise if you ever talk to me in person, or let me talk to you, I won’t be so long winded. I’ll be tongue-tied by your beauty. These aren’t lines. If they were, I wouldn’t have used diarreah (spelling? Why is this word so hard to spell?), barf, or vomit in this letter. It’s me being raw and putting my heart on the line, because my heart is in your hands, Rowan. I don’t say that to guilt you, but so you can know how much you mean to me.

I’d rather have your friendship than nothing. And I promise if you offer me your friendship and don’t want me to pressure you to take me back, I won’t. I can’t promise I won’t hit on you or compliment how beautiful your eyes are or how scrumptious you smell (have I ever told you you smell like carrot cake? I crave that healthy-ish cake all the time now, but refuse to eat it out of punishment to myself) because that’s in my nature. I’m a flirt. Scratch that. I WAS a flirt with anyone and everyone, and it never meant anything, but I can’t imagine flirting with anyone else ever again.

Dramatic much? Yeah, but that’s what you liked about me. I think.

There are only a few lines left on this page so I have to wrap it up. Rowan, please don’t shut me out of your life. Please let me apologize in person. But I respect you enough to never speak to you again if that’s what you want. Don’t stay away from our friends because of me. They deserve you more than I do. I would love to apologize in person, if you’d allow that.

Thinking of you always.

Miles the fucking idiot who will continue to grovel until the day he dies.

My heart pounds in my chest as I clutch the letter to my chest and scoot down farther under the covers. The moisture in my eyes trails down my cheeks, forming a little puddle on my pillow.

His letter is as authentic as Miles is. I believe everything he said, but I’m still embarrassed. If he expects me to be as open and honest as him, well, we’ll never work. I’m not him. I can’t speak from the heart. Or rather, I don’t. I don’t know how. It’s not as easy as it sounds, at least for me it isn’t.

There will always be the elephant in the room between us. He knows I’m curious about exploring in the bedroom but am afraid to voice my desires. He’s read some of them but how long until he tires of me? How long until he gets frustrated that I don’t open my heart like he does?

I wish I could. I’ve longed to be in an open and honest relationship with a man. I told him as much when he was a virtual stranger. My issues lie deep, and just because Miles wears his heart on his sleeve doesn’t make it any easier for me.

Whatever my issues are, he doesn’t deserve the silent treatment I’ve been giving him. Next week, my days are going to be busy from early morning until late at night. If I’m going to give him a chance to reconcile, I’ll need to do it now.

Sleep comes more easily, and when I wake at six the next morning, I lie in bed longer than usual, contemplating my decision to contact Miles. If I don’t do it now, there won’t be another opportunity for quite some time. Weeks, possibly months. My life is about to get bat shit crazy—thank you, dysfunctional family—and I can’t leave Miles in limbo any longer.

Before I can change my mind, I send Miles a text. It’s unfair of me to expect him to meet me this early in the morning, especially since I doubt he’ll even hear the text alert. If he doesn’t get the message in time, I can say at least I attempted to meet up with him.

It’s cowardly of me, I know.

Ten minutes later, I’m jogging out my door in my leggings, sneakers, and hoodie. I put in my earbuds and keep my music relatively low so I’m still aware of my surroundings. The sun is barely up and my breath makes little clouds in the cool November air.

Running isn’t my choice of exercise. Walking, Pilates, maybe a dance class here or there, but if I’m running, I can use the lack of oxygen to my lungs as an excuse not to talk.

Like I said, I’m a big, fat coward.

The park isn’t too far from my apartment, but it’s a solid twenty-minute drive from Miles’s place. Even if he got my message when I sent it and he left right away, it will still be another fifteen minutes before he shows up. That is, if he can even find me along the running trails. I didn’t set a meeting place, just told him I’d be jogging along Storrow Drive.

Only three songs in, and I feel a giant presence to my left. Because it’s the city and I’m a woman, my first instinct is to run faster, but then I remember I’m not a runner, so I slow my pace and side-step to my right.

“So this is what I’m missing by sleeping in every day?” Miles gives me his signature wink and lopsided grin as he jogs next to me.

It’s not fair how effortless he makes running look. He’s probably been running around the entire park trying to find me, yet, in his gray joggers, navy zip-up hoodie, and backwards hat, he looks more like he stepped off a sports magazine fashion shoot for casualwear.

“Early bird catches the worm,” I reply stupidly. Way to sound like a moron. Who even says that anymore?

“I’m not into worms, but I don’t mind chasing something else. Some one else.” His grin quickly falters. “Hell. I can’t go two seconds without flirting with you, and I promised I wouldn’t. At least, I meant to put that promise in my letter. I was so nervous writing it, I don’t even know what I actually wrote.”

It’s hard to picture Miles nervous. Although, with the random tangents he went off on, I suppose I could read that as his nerves getting in the way of cohesive writing.

I don’t respond because I don’t know what to say. The old me—the current me—would apologize or tell him it’s fine. But the new me—or the me I want to be—doesn’t want to be a doormat anymore. Not that Miles ever treated me like one.

“Mind if we slow down a bit? I haven’t slept in over a week and I have practice in a few hours.”

This is one request I don’t have to think twice about. I hadn’t realized I’d picked up my pace. Running from my problems, I guess. We slow to a brisk walk and I keep my attention straight ahead. I’m not strong enough to be this close to Miles and not cave. To not bend my backbone and tell him I don’t care about the deceit as long as he keeps giving me the attention I’ve unknowingly longed for.

“I don’t know how you do it, waking up at the ass crack of dawn and putting in eight to ten hours of work, and on your feet all day. Sorry about lurking outside your apartment at six every morning. I didn’t mean to force you into your Houdini escape plan for a week.”

“I, uh, had apartment issues and stayed with Jackson.” It’s not a complete lie. My apartment issues were that everything reminded me of Miles. Putting separation between any memories was necessary in getting over him.

Not that it worked.

“Oh. That’s good. Not about the apartment issues, but that you stayed with Jackson. Everything okay with your place?”

No . “Yes.”

“Good. Good. When you texted me this morning, I nearly shit myself.” He takes off his hat, scratches his head, then returns it. “That doesn’t paint me in a good light, does it? Nothing says take me back like admitting you shit your pants. Not that I did. It’s a figure of speech. Although, one time when I was in training camp—never mind.”

I turn my head away from him and bite back my laugh. God, this is what I miss most about Miles. His open honesty. His sense of humor. His ability to make me smile, laugh, melt, and swoon by saying the most ridiculous things. They’re never planned or orchestrated. Always unfiltered.

The exact opposite of me.

Our differences outweigh our similarities, and while I thought that worked in our favor—the good old opposites attract trope—that doesn’t make for a healthy relationship in the real world.

If I were open about my thoughts, we’d be the perfect match. But we’re not. I’m closed off and have no idea how to disclose all the thoughts jumbling around in my head. They’re private for a reason.

The one time I voiced them, they were to a stranger who happened to not be a stranger.

“You’re quiet. Not that I blame you. I’m the one who has the groveling to do.” Miles stops and his fingers loosely grip my upper arm. “Rowan. I miss you. I miss our friendship. Our conversations. Our banter. Our playfulness. I get that I fucked things up, but please don’t shut me out completely. I hate that I took so much from you. Can we at least go back to how we used to be?”

I take the risk and lift my chin. His beautiful eyes are more coffee than caramel this morning. Gone is the lightness, the mischief. Instead, they’re laden with sadness.

“You hurt me. You...deceived me,” I whisper, proud I said the words but also regretting them. While they’re the truth, I don’t mean to cause him any more pain that he’s caused himself.

“I know, Wildflower.” He scrunches his eyes closed at the endearment. It’s the first time he’s called me that. Not since Adam did in his messages. “Sorry.”

“Would we have ended up together if...” If I didn’t tell you I wanted dirty sex. If we didn’t get each other off online? I don’t need to say the words. He knows what I’m talking about.

“Rowan.” He squeezes my arm then brushes his knuckles along my jawline. “I’m not defending my behavior in any way, but I never used the information you shared with me—with Adam—as a way to get you to be with me.”

I close my eyes and turn my head away.

“Rowan. Look at me.”

Miles is never demanding, which is why I listen. I turn back and stare into his eyes.

“Think back to every time we made love. If you don’t remember, I can remind you. That's all I think about.”

“I—” Same . It’s all I think about. And the betrayal. The two get tangled up in my head. My body stiffens as I try to push the thoughts away.

“Not once have we acted out any of your desires. Your fantasies. When we touched, how we touched, it was how you vocalized it. It was Rowan and Miles, not Elizabeth and Adam. I never took any of that information and worked it into our relationship. At first, I wanted you to tell me all the things you wanted me to do to your body, but then it didn’t matter. I didn’t even think about our online personas. I didn’t care about them when I was with you. I just wanted you, Rowan. Whatever and however much you could offer me.”

He releases my arm and steps away. I immediately feel the chill in the air.

“I’m making you uncomfortable and that’s the last thing I want. I’ll stay true to my word and not push any more. I’m gonna do my best to treat you like I used to before I—” He clears his throat. “Friends. As much as it’s going to fucking kill me, it’s worth it to keep you in my life. Don’t shut out our friends because you can’t stand to be in the same space as me. If it’s a matter of not attending a party or gathering if I’m there, I’ll leave. I fucked this up and you shouldn’t be the one to suffer. I still want you. I’ll always want you, which is why I’m going to back off. Maybe one day we can start over. I’m going to hold on to that sliver of hope, but if not, I just want you to be happy, Row. I just want you to be happy.”

He wipes his thumb under my eye, and when it comes away damp, I realize I’ve been crying.

“Maybe I’ll see you in the stands tomorrow? At least until halftime. Night games suck, I know.”

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I nod and watch him walk away.

For now or forever.

I have no idea.