Page 85 of Stolen Harmony

He pointed to a flat boulder at the water’s edge, worn smooth by time and contemplation. I could picture him there—sharp-edged, trying to look tough, Elaine beside him, equal parts steel and comfort.

“She found me here that day. Told me I looked like I hated everything and everyone, especially myself. She wasn’t wrong.” His laugh was quiet, a little embarrassed.

“She had a way of saying exactly what you didn’t want to hear,” I said, smiling.

Rowan huffed out a breath, almost a laugh. “That was her specialty. She told me anger was just sadness in disguise. Said I could carry it around as long as I wanted, but maybe I should ask myself if it was helping, or just making things worse.” He smiled, lost in the memory. “Then she just…sat with me. Didn’t say another word for, like, twenty minutes. Just let me sulk until I wasn’t so angry anymore.”

We stood side by side at the edge of the pool, cool spray on our faces, the noise of the falls pressing the rest of the world to the edges. Max found a stick and was gnawing it with heroic focus, flopping onto the pebbles as if he’d just discovered the greatest treasure in the world.

I glanced at Rowan, saw the tension start to bleed out of his jaw. “You know, you’re a lot like her.”

He gave me a sideways look. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

“It’s a compliment if you want it to be. She was one of the best people I’ve ever met.”

Rowan looked away, embarrassed. “Yeah, well. Still working on the whole ‘being a person’ thing.”

“That’s half the job,” I said. “No one tells you adulthood is just pretending to know what you’re doing while quietly panicking and hoping nobody notices.”

He snorted, a real laugh bubbling up. “That’s not what they put on the brochures.”

“They should. Honest advertising.”

We lapsed into comfortable silence, broken only by Max’senthusiastic stick murder and the sound of the falls. I looked down at my shoes, feeling uncharacteristically hopeful.

Rowan broke the quiet first. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About getting help. Not trying to handle everything alone.”

My heart did something funny—like a chord resolving after too much dissonance. “Yeah?”

He nodded, tracing the outline of a stone with the tip of his shoe. “I think I’m ready. Or, I want to be. Ready to try, anyway. Ready to stop pretending self-destruction is the same as healing.”

I grinned so wide my cheeks hurt. “I know someone who can help. Dr. Fields. She’s the best at seeing through people’s bullshit. Including mine.”

He gave me a skeptical look, but I could see a smile threatening at the corners of his mouth. “She manage to fix you?”

“Oh, absolutely not. I’m completely unfixable. But she’s taught me how to keep my plants alive, so I call that progress.”

Rowan snorted. “You do not have plants.”

“I have three. Well, two and a half. One is basically just a stick now, but I’m told it’s still alive.”

He laughed, finally. “Should I be worried if my therapist’s therapist can’t keep a fern alive?”

“She’s not the plant whisperer, she’s just good at talking me off the ledge of buying more. Therapy, you see, is about learning to live with your mistakes. Including your houseplants.”

Rowan shook his head, but he was still smiling. “Is she going to make me talk about my childhood?”

“Only if you want to. She’s more of a ‘let’s figure out why you want to punch the wall and maybe see if we can get you to try yoga instead’ type.”

He groaned. “Oh god. Not yoga.”

I gave him my most serious face. “It’s either that or interpretive dance.”

“I take it all back,” he said. “I’m fine. Totally cured.”

I grinned, nudging his shoulder. “Give her a chance. If you hate it, I’ll buy you dinner after. Or whiskey. Your choice.”

He looked at me then, really looked, and there was something in his eyes—something like hope, tentative and flickering, but there. “Okay. Deal. But only if you promise not to tell her about the yoga thing.”