Page 28

ROWAN CAN’T get last night out of his head: Mal’s birthday. The opening up and sharing, yeah. The grinding and the near-choking with Mal’s necklace, definitely. The risky fuck in the bathroom, most of all. He knows they crossed a line by fucking like that. Keeps telling himself that, but somehow it still doesn’t seem like it was a bad idea.

Only… he can’t get over how Mal reacted when Rowan had asked him for his safewords. He’d seemed… surprised? While everything else is becoming grainy and hazy, Rowan remembers that moment clear as crystal. Mal’s hands had fumbled on Rowan’s zipper, and his voice before he answered hadn’t been as steady as Rowan would normally require from a typical scene.

All that leads him to believe that Mal was expecting a normal hookup and not a Dom/sub scene. And while their fucking was closer to the former, they still had that aspect of power imbalance; the thing that they both crave and seek out from one another week after week. So Rowan didn’t do anything wrong, right?

What was he supposed to do? Not ask about it and have Mal think that if something went wrong, he didn’t have a say in stopping? Even as the thought crosses Rowan’s mind, he knows it’s not true. Mal would say if something bothered him or if he didn’t like something. Would probably put a dent in Rowan’s face with those knuckle tats, honestly. If there’s one thing he’s learned about Mal in the time they’ve spent together, it’s that he’s a scrappy fucker with a razor-sharp tongue and the muscles to put his money where his mouth is.

He’s never heard Mal safeword before—not even a yellow—so truth be told, he doesn’t know how he would actually react in that scenario.

But hell, Mal probably should have told Rowan straight-up that he didn’t want to do a scene if that was the case, and Rowan would have been perfectly fine with that and adjusted accordingly. Wouldn’t have pushed as much, maybe. Been so rough. Not that it was a particularly hard-core scene in the slightest, but still.

The only thing that Rowan can think of to explain Mal’s confusion is simple: Mal was expecting a regular hookup and did a mental double take when he thought Rowan wanted to do a scene. Which means… would Mal be open to regular hookups outside the confines of the Menagerie? Outside their Dom/sub arrangement? Fuck, Rowan would love that. For months now he’s been lamenting the fact that he can’t see Mal more often. That he can’t fuck him more often—every goddamn day like he wants to. Like Mal deserves.

And he’d finally thought the perfect opportunity came up to be more than what they are, and Rowan unknowingly screwed the pooch and slid them back down the hill of intimacy they’ve been steadily climbing.

But Mal had seemed so normal after they fucked. Rowan’s body can’t forget the way Mal had rested his forehead on his shoulder, caressed his hip. The way he’d been all smiles when they’d returned to the group. The warm feeling of his arms around him after Rowan gave him his present. The texting afterward. The planning for the future, a full year in advance.

So now he’s all confused again. Hates feeling like this more than anything. So unsure when he’s used to being in control or, at the very least, having a decent understanding of what the hell’s going on in his life. But now…. It’s nothing short of emotional whiplash, and Rowan does not know how to handle it.

The next thing he knows, Rowan’s in his car and driving aimlessly, hoping to find something like an answer to his confusion somewhere on the pavement of Boston’s rigid streets. Twenty minutes later, he finds himself staring up at the unlit marquee lights of the Menagerie. It’s undoubtedly closed now, but the thought of going inside makes his head spin, and he knows it wouldn’t have helped him.

So he turns around, intending to go back and sulk at home like he should have been doing all along, when the smell of bacon wafts in through his open window and another familiar sight comes into view.

Sheila’s diner.

Fuck it. He pulls into an empty spot that thankfully doesn’t require him to parallel park and makes his way into the all-too-familiar diner with the jingling of a bell.

There’s nothing unexpected about the diner—not anymore—but he’s not expecting to see Sheila herself front and center, pouring a cup of steaming hot coffee for one of the patrons at the countertop. For a second, his brain tells him that she’s some kind of ghost that’s doomed to be here forever.

“Rowan!” She beams when she sees him walking up. “I’m surprised to see you in the daylight.”

“Could say the same for you,” he says. “I thought you worked nights.”

She laughs. “Oh no. Just Saturday nights. I’m here during the day the rest of the week.”

Well, that makes much more sense than her being a disgruntled spirit or whatever tall tale Rowan was concocting. Though he does wonder if it has anything to do with that being the night that Mal comes here after he goes to the club.

“What brings you here?” she asks.

“Just in the area.” It’s not a complete lie, after all. “Thought I should finally try your coffee.”

She places a fresh white mug in front of him and fills it to the brim, then places a miniature pitcher of milk down next to it. He normally takes it black, but today he decides to treat himself by adding two sugars and a generous splash of milk.

“Anything else I can get ya? I’m out of apple pie, but I have some lemon squares that are killer. Go right to your thighs, though you look like you can spare the bulk.”

“Sure, that sounds great. And can I get a veggie egg-white omelet, please? Wheat toast?”

“You got it, hon.”

As Sheila leaves to put in his order, Rowan sits at the counter and takes in his surroundings. It’s definitely weird being here in the light of day rather than nearly midnight, when the only sources of light are neon signs and fluorescent lights. The natural sunlight from the large wall of windows streams in, illuminating the bright red stools and benches, the subtle sparkle of the material making them shine. The retro-looking photo frames gleam and reveal old fifties-style posters that Rowan’s never really taken the time to notice before, his attention usually solely on Mal.

It really is amazing how comfortable he’s gotten here, the sights and sounds and smells making him feel at home. What’s sad is how much he misses having Mal here with him. How empty it feels when he’s not here, despite there being many more patrons than every other time they’ve come here.

But the breakfast rush thins out while Rowan waits for his food, and he finds himself once again in a nearly empty diner, much closer to what he’s used to. And when Sheila brings him his lemon square, he finally finds the opportunity to ask her something he’s been wondering about the past few months.

“So I’ve been meaning to ask, but how did you know Hank?”

She scoffs and leans against the counter, one hip cocked to the side. “Bah, that old drunk wandered in here one night high as a kite, lookin’ for handouts.”

Rowan snorts. “Sounds about right.”

“He took one look at my name tag and got all sentimental about some ex-girlfriend of his. Then asked if I was gonna shove anything inside him. I didn’t bother asking, and he didn’t bother explaining.”

Rowan winces, also not wanting to know what the hell Hank was talking about, though he figures it had to do with Sheila Mapleton, who Hank lived with when Rowan was a kid.

Sheila continues her story. “I took pity on him and gave him some coffee and a sandwich, and the next thing I know, he’s out the door with his food and my tip money. Swindled me outta food a couple more times throughout the years.”

“Shit, seriously? I’m sorry, Sheila.”

Fucking Hank.

“Not your fault. Besides, it was years ago, and I’d already emptied the tip jar when my bussers and waiters went home, so there was only a few dollars in there.”

“He died a few years ago, and somehow I’m surprised to still keep finding people he’s screwed over.”

Her face is pitying, but her tone is anything but. “Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s fine. He’d been drinking himself to death since before I was born, so he had it coming.”

She hums thoughtfully and leaves to help other patrons.

Rowan takes his first sip of coffee, and it really is delicious. Hot and fresh, with a hint of sweetness. He wishes he and Mal could come here during the day. Maybe now that they’ve broken that invisible barrier once, it’ll happen more often.

He can’t deny how weird it is being here without him, in this place that Mal had introduced to him. Already in his everyday life, more or less everything reminds him of Mal. Bottles of antiseptic at work with a bright caramel label? Same shade as Mal’s eyes in the sunlight. Shorter-than-average guy with dark hair walking down the street? Could be Mal. Someone curses out the cashier at the grocery store? Mal would have chewed that guy the fuck out.

He’s everywhere. Go figure that Rowan would try to solve his problems with Mal in a place that practically smells like him. Like cinnamon and worn leather.

Taking a deep breath, followed by a deeper sip of coffee, Rowan weighs his options. He could tell Jay about Mal. He trusts his older brother more than anybody on the planet, but…. But he knows Jay would respond with a snarky Jesus Christ, Rowan , or something similar, and tell him to either nut up and tell Mal how he feels or quit seeing him, cold turkey. Band-Aid approach.

The rest of his family wouldn’t really give him much better advice. Aubrey would probably tell him something similar to Jay, her long string of exes hardly making her a helpless romantic. His younger siblings might be worse. Clara would probably swoon a bit and say he should go after him, assuming he could get her to listen to someone else’s problems for five minutes to explain the situation. Rory would probably ask if he has any priors now that he’s turned traitor and become a full-blown cop. And Marc…? Well, Marc would probably actually give him some good advice. But he’s already had to suffer the embarrassment of asking him how to set up a Grindr profile in the past, and some wounds cut a little too deep.

He hadn’t even realized he’d started eating the lemon square that Sheila brought him when she stops by and drops off his food, the pastry nothing but crumbs on the tiny dessert plate.

“Anything else I can getcha?” she asks.

“I’m good, but… can I ask you somethin’ else, Sheila?”

She cocks one round hip against the counter, half leaning on it. “Shoot.”

“It’s kinda… personal, I guess. I wouldn’t bring it up normally, but I kinda don’t want my family to know ’cause they’d give me shit for it.”

“Family’s like that,” Sheila laughs. “You won’t find no judgment from me, honey. Whatever it is, I’ve either been through it myself or know someone who has.”

“I uh… sorta like this guy. A lot. But we’re not really… we’re friends, I guess. But I don’t know if he actually likes me back or if I’m just makin’ shit up. And if he doesn’t, I don’t wanna fuck anything up by telling him.”

He feels like a teenager asking his parents for advice on his crush, but something about the woman seems so caring and nonjudgmental that Rowan isn’t bothered by it.

“How long have ya known him?”

“Few months.”

“Hmm…,” she muses, setting her sole focus on Rowan. It’s a little unnerving being the center of attention of her small but alert hazel eyes. “How often do you see each other?”

“Usually once a week for a few hours.” He pushes the home fries around on his plate, adding, “But we text pretty much every day.”

“And do your conversations ever turn romantic, or are they strictly platonic?”

Rowan feels like he should be leaning back against a chaise lounge in a therapist’s office.

“They’re all over the place, I guess. Honestly most of the time they’re a little… uh… not-safe-for-work, if you catch my drift. But then other times it’ll be completely ordinary stuff.”

“Well, that changes everything,” she says, finally pulling up a stool from somewhere under the counter and taking a seat opposite him. “You’re sleeping with this friend?”

Rowan’s cheeks are undoubtedly as bright as the cherry-red seat cushions. “Yeah. That’s… kind of how we started becoming friends.”

Mercifully, Sheila’s soft huff of a laugh is nothing but kind. “No need to get embarrassed, honey. I’m old, not dead.”

“Sorry. I know, just… not something I make a habit of shouting off the rooftops, y’know?”

Her response is an affirmative hum.

“So you’ve been sleepin’ with this guy for a few months, developed a friendship, talk every day even if you only see each other once a week—which, keep in mind, hon, is a miracle as you get older, even at your age. And now you caught feelings but don’t know if he did too?”

The bite of omelet that Rowan had shoved in his mouth while she was talking is burning hot, but he manages to swallow with most of his taste buds intact. “That sums it up, yeah.”

“How’s the sex been? Different?”

He wishes he could blame the new wave of redness on the heat of his food.

“Yeah? Kinda…. I mean, I don’t want to call it intimate , but it’s definitely closer to that than it was before. But we don’t….” He shakes his head. She’s heard it all , he reminds himself. And he trusts that she won’t judge him for sounding like an awkward teenager. “We don’t even kiss or anything. Well, we kinda did once, but it was an accident and hasn’t happened since.” He doesn’t bring up their almost kiss on the dance floor last night. “So it all still feels a little….”

“Impersonal?”

“Yeah, exactly. And I don’t want to risk losing what we have by trying to make us become more. Especially if he doesn’t want that.”

She nods in understanding. “’Cause if he doesn’t, it’s never gonna be the same between you two.”

Rowan sighs, nodding. He is glad that Sheila gets it, even if it makes the ache in his chest throb at hearing someone else say the words out loud.

“Seems to me like you’re at a crossroads, Rowan. You have to decide if he’s worth pursuing and potentially losing completely. From the looks of it, and don’t take this the wrong way, you look like you’ve been beatin’ yourself up over this for a while now.”

The ketchup he’d doused his omelet with helps soothe the burn of her words, but only barely.

“I feel fucking stupid, is all. For wanting more. But like… I know I’ll be pissed at myself if I don’t try. There’s been all these little moments the past couple months that make me think I’m not way off track here, but I can’t gear myself up to potentially lose him.”

“My opinion? If you’re wonderin’ about it this much, he probably is too.”

Hope surges in Rowan’s chest, dampening the ache.

“You think?”

“There’s gonna be times when these things are completely one-sided, but if there’s been signs that make you think you’ve got a shot, I say trust your gut.” There’s a sparkle in her eye as she points to his plate. “Finish that first, though. You never want to confuse a gut instinct with hunger. Made that mistake with two ex-husbands.”

Rowan erupts in genuine laughter, the first time he’s done so since Mal’s birthday last night.

“Thanks, Sheila.”

She rips his bill off of her pad and slips it under the lip of his now-empty plate. “Anytime, sweets. I’m not even gonna try to fight you on this anymore,” she adds and laughs, tapping the check.

“I think Hank got enough handouts for the rest of the Campbells combined,” he tells her.

“And Rowan?” Sheila says as he stands to leave.

“Yeah?”

There’s a knowing smile on her face that has Rowan’s stomach doing preemptive somersaults.

“When you’re ready, tell him. In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen Mal so happy.”

For the umpteenth time this morning, Rowan’s cheeks flame. But this time, he can feel the telltale pitter-patter of butterflies throwing a rave in his belly and a tingle all the way down to his fucking toes. He wishes he weren’t so transparent, but well… who the hell else would he have been talking about?

When he leaves, he tips her extra. Both for the advice and to make up for what Hank did years ago. Not that it means much now, but it makes him feel better.

THREE WEEKS have passed since Mal’s birthday. Since Rowan talked to Sheila. The crisp, cool September air is a welcome relief from the blistering heat outside and the heat inside Mal’s body that stays with him week after week, long after they’ve parted.

Rowan’s gonna tell him.

Ask him?

Tell him.

He needs to find the right time. The right words.

I think we should—

The past couple months, I’ve been feeling—

What if we—

When I’m around you, I feel—

I know you feel it, too—

I like you, I like you, I l—