Safeguard by Quinn D.K.
Chapter 3: Unspoken
From: Rowan <rwatson@torontopubliclibrary.ca>
To: Neil <nburroughs@torontopubliclibrary.ca>
Subject: Home Library Services driver assignment
Hi Neil,
I was wondering how HLS decides which driver gets what delivery route? And also
how do you become a delivery driver? And also can drivers select their own
routes?
P.S. A woman has been staring daggers at me for the past five minutes because I
wont "let her" read Bridget Jones' Diary.
***
From: Neil
To: Rowan
Subject: Re: Home Library Services driver assignment
Is this about the sexy lumberjack?
***
From: Rowan
To: Neil
Subject: Re: Home Library Services driver assignment
This is not about "the sexy lumberjack".
Please don't make me type things like "the sexy lumberjack".
Gah, you made me do it twice.
P.S. The woman is convinced that I'm lying about the last copy of Bridget being
on loan and she's threatening to come to your office.
***
From: Neil
To: Rowan
Subject: Re: Home Library Services driver assignment
If you haven't already submitted the sexy lumberjack's application, give it to
me and I'll attach a request (read: a demand) that you get assigned his route.
There's some insurance something-or-other you'll need to sign, but otherwise
it's as good as yours.
P.S. PLEASE direct that lady to the shrine of Debbie Macomber
that is our Print Fiction MAC-MCK aisle before she stomps (I'm imagining she
stomps)
her way over here.
***
From: Rowan
To: Neil
Subject: Re: Home Library Services driver assignment
You don't have to do that. But... if you want to do that... that would be
really cool.
P.S. She refuses to read Debbie Macomber.
***
From: Neil
To: Rowan
Subject: Re: Vocabulary
"Really cool". There's that articulate young man I hired.
P.S. Keep her away from me. Don't even tell her that "Neil, the senior
librarian" exists. I'm Tony Stark now, as evidenced by my new and legally
binding email signature:
Tony Stark
CEO of Stark Industries
and leader of The Avengers
and kisser of Gwyneth Paltrow
and 100% not Neil Burroughs, M.L.I.S.
***
From: Rowan
To: Neil
Subject: Re: If you're Tony Stark then I'm Wonder Woman
Just because you have the same goatee as him doesn't mean you also have an arc
reactor embedded in your chest.
***
From: Neil
To: Rowan
Subject: Re: You'd look very good in the boots
I dare you to walk the twenty feet from your desk to my office and say that!
***
From: Rowan
To: Neil
Subject: Re: I'll wear them to my next shift
One moment, Mr. Stark, I'm sending Bridget Jones lady to say it for me.
***
From: Neil
To: Rowan
Subject: Re: Junior librarians are evil and I demand they all be fired
That's it. No sexy lumberjack delivery route for you.
"A blind date?"
"A blind date," Rowan's roommate Aarani confirmed.
"Punching me in the face in front of a group of strangers in public would
achieve the same result and you wouldn't even need to buy me dinner."
"You're impossible," Aarani cried from their kitchen down the hall. "I never
understood what it
meant for someone to be impossible until this very moment."
"Love you too," Rowan replied absently. He shut his Macbook and massaged his
eyes. Spending the entire afternoon watching American Sign Language tutorials
on YouTube had the unhappy side effect of making the living room blurry
and distorted.
"You have 'I'm not really listening to you' voice."
"I do not."
Aarani stuck her head into the hall, a great curtain of black hair cascading
down her slim shoulders. "I've already showed this guy your picture. He's
totally
into you. He digs the sexy male librarian look."
Rowan grimaced. "So it would be a blind date where I'm the only one going in
blind? And how exactly does a 'sexy male librarian' look?"
"Like you."
"You're crazy."
"No, I'm hungry. And I'm also the one making dinner, so be nice."
"You're a fantastic roommate."
"There's that voice again."
"Aarani."
She appeared from the kitchen with two plates and an exaggerated sigh reserved
only for her closest friend. As teenagers suffering through high school
together, neither of
them could have predicted they'd be roommates in their late 20s, but the
intense bond of
their friendship all but guaranteed it.
As they grew older, Aarani's social circle blossomed while Rowan's shrank.
Though they remained attached at the hip, he couldn't help but feel like her
pity friend at times - such as when she pitched him ideas like dating a
man sight unseen.
Rowan stared at his plate, stomach
grumbling, but his mind elsewhere. Aarani
nudged him with the blunt end of her fork.
"Earth to bookworm. Not hungry?"
"Hungry." His hand formed a C-shape
and brushed his chest in a downward swoop.
Aarani peered at him from her end of the couch. "What's that?"
"Sign language for hungry. I've been trying to teach myself."
"That's why you've been hunkered over your laptop all week? I was starting to
worry you became one of those flat Earth truthers."
Rowan smiled ruefully into his plate. He circled a shrimp in a puddle of sauce.
"Huh. Sign language," Aarani said through a mouthful, "Wouldn't French be more
useful?"
"I'm learning so I can help out a patron."
"Which one? The sexy lumberjack?"
"Why is everyone calling him that?"
"Oh! My former manager Sharon, the one who left to take care of her
twins? She's actually a certified interpreter. I could give you her number."
"Really? That would be great. I think I'd retain more information
face-to-face. There's only so many times I can hear 'Remember to subscribe to
my channel!' at the beginning of every damn video..."
There was a sparkle in Aarani's eyes that matched the cinnamon glow of her
skin. "I'll give you her number if you let me set you up on that blind date."
"Please stop calling it a blind date."
"His name is Michiel."
"Tell him I said congratulations."
"He's from the Netherlands and he's not married."
"I'm sure one has nothing to do with the other."
"Rowan!"
"Look, I don't want Sharon's number if it comes with conditions, okay?
I'll stick with the YouTubers - a declaration I never want to make again." He
interrupted her before she could rebut. "My love life is not your
responsibility."
Aarani let her face fall into her hands. "I'm just trying to be a friend."
"We've known each other 15 years," Rowan said, softer this time. "You've got
that part handled pretty well."
"You know you're hot, right? That your self-admitted inability to connect with
another man has nothing to do with your looks?"
Rowan set down his fork, suddenly not so hungry. "I guess we're in the blunt
talk portion of the evening."
"I'm only saying these things because you need to hear them. Because I want you
to figure things out and be happy."
"How do you know I'm not happy by myself?"
"Rowan..." She looked embarrassed and lowered her voice. "When I travel for
work you practically have a panic attack."
"That's not-" He stopped himself. What could he say? That she was lying?
Their creaky old duplex apartment felt haunted whenever
he was by himself. He couldn't sleep those nights when Aarani was traveling or
at her boyfriend's place. But admitting that out loud - as a nearly 28 year old
man - was embarrassing in a way that stopped his breath.
"I worry," Aarani continued. "I can't help it. I know your last relationship
was enough to put you off dating for a lifetime. But at some point, don't you
think it would be healthier to... move on?"
Move on.
Rowan broke off her glance. The tight concern in her eyes was too much to bear.
The mood was darkening much too quickly now, like a blinking light bulb running
out of power.
"Move on to an unmarried Dutchman named Michiel, you mean?" he asked with a
wryness he hoped would brush the darkness aside.
"Fine. You can have Sharon's number without having to meet Michiel. Just
promise me that you won't put off being happy?"
"I'm not putting it off. I promise."
They finished dinner and spent the rest of the evening Netflixing in
amicable
silence. Rowan called it a night after a while. His first Home Library
Service delivery was the next morning. Which meant seeing a certain man
again...
Before entering his bedroom he saw the envelope - Grant's envelope - on his
dresser drawer. He turned on his heel back to the living room.
Aarani's glance narrowed. "You have 'I need advice' face now."
"Say you had something that didn't belong to you, that should really be in the
hands of its owner... but... returning it to them would probably hurt them. A
lot. And holding onto it might only make things worse. What would you do?"
She thought for a long time. "I would return this exam booklet back to my
ethics professor and ask for a different question."
Grant studied himself in the mirror. Seemed weird - and also very wrong - to be
nervous on a Saturday morning.
Last time the librarian was in his home, Grant had been in his dirty sweats.
Probably looked like a slob. He made an effort this time: a shower, a maroon
Henley shirt, a pair of his nicer jeans. Was a Henley too casual? He shaved,
too, for the first time in forever. He went from a beard to stubble, hoping it
would look a little less scary.
It'd been a damn long time since he cared about not looking scary.
The doorbell notification light flashed. That was it. He was here.
Grant ran from the bathroom, down
the hall, through the living room, into his foyer, heavy footsteps practically
shaking the foundation of his house. He steadied himself for a beat before
opening the front door.
"Mr. Wolfe!"
Rowan stepped forward, smiling and fresh-faced, eyes glittering with warmth, a
ray of sunlight in the shadow
of his porch. "It's so nice to see you again."
Grant nodded, relieved he hadn't opened the door to some other library delivery
driver, and humbled by someone so handsome being so effortlessly friendly to
him.
Rowan tugged the hem of his jacket. "I was in a bit of rush to get here on
time. I hope I don't look like too much
of a mess."
That seemed hard to believe. His soft, chocolate brown hair fell in perfectly
rumpled waves - he must have run his
fingers through it moments before activating the doorbell. Grant found himself
resisting the urge to reach out and feel for himself.
"No. You look fine." He hadn't spoken aloud since last Saturday and
the words took longer than usual to come out. Should've
practiced
more,
you
big
dolt. You
knew you'd be talking to
a hearing person again.
Rowan's inquisitive eyes scanned him. "And
you shaved! I can actually see your face now."
Grant's hand reflexively went to his jawline. Felt like sandpaper. A closer
shave was one of the few things he missed about his military
service. The barbers on base had been experts with a straight razor.
"Don't worry, Mr. Wolfe, that's not a bad thing."
"Oh. Okay."
Urgh. Get better at the small talk.
Rowan lifted the bright red tote bag by his side. The Toronto
Public Library's
logo was stitched into it. "So, I come bearing books. There's
about ten paperbacks and five hardcovers in there. I'm supposed to warn
you about how heavy the bag is but I think that only applies to our
elderly or infirm
patrons."
Grant accepted the tote bag and negotiated the weight in his hand. "Don't think
this will give me too much trouble. I've carried sandbags heavier than this."
"Sandbags?"
"Yes. It was part of my tr- truh-"
My training. The word stilled in his
mouth. He remembered how to say it, how the mouth shape was formed. But he
moved to Canada to get away from those words and
memories, not to rush headlong back into them.
"Part of your? Training?" A knowing look crossed Rowan's boyish face. "Let me
guess, baseball player. No, rugby player. Definitely rugby, right? You've got
the build."
Grant's eyes darted to the ground and back up again. Cold pinpricks shuddered
up his massive arms. "Rowan. Can I speak to you about something?"
"Of course. Did you want more books for next month's delivery? You can request
up to
fifty items."
"No, no. Do you think we can talk inside?"
Rowan's posture shifted, tightened. "Inside?"
"If you're comfortable."
"I am. I mean, okay. I mean, I'm not uncomfortable-"
His
lips
started
moving
at
a
nervous
speed.
Grant's
ability
to
read
him
dropped
sharply.
"Wait. Please, slower. Remember?" He gestured the sign for slower, an echo from their first meeting.
Rowan's chest grew then shrank. "I'm sorry. I keep forgetting."
They stepped into the foyer, halving the distance between their bodies. Grant
inhaled the
scent of lavender shampoo off the younger man. An uncertain blush of desire
roared through his body.
"Is something wrong?"
"I need to explain something to you." This sudden need surprised even him, but
if they were going to see each other on a semi-regular basis, Grant thought it
was important to divulge. "Last week, when we met. You may have noticed there
were a couple of times when it looked liked I had... checked out."
"Well, let me apologize for that. I don't always enunciate as well I could."
"No, that's not what I meant. This isn't about me being deaf."
The librarian shifted again. He started to brush his bangs away - a nervous
habit, it seemed - but for once they weren't in his face. "Okay, I'm listening."
"Sometimes, I..." Grant started, and hoped against hope that he would put the
right words together, that he wouldn't come off as crazy or strange or someone
that this incredibly gentle young man should fear. "I have these... I suppose
they could be called episodes. I have these episodes. They make me confused.
Make me think... that I'm somewhere else, in certain points of my past. I was
in the military. Navy SEAL. Don't like thinking or talking about it too much.
Every once in a while it just... it floods me."
Shame flared in his chest, hot and unwelcome. He didn't like admitting these
things to anyone and yet a dam wall had broken wide open, forcing the words to
surge forth.
"So if you're around me and I ever seem lost, or angry, or even scared,
it's not because of you. I just need space and time to breathe. Then it's over
after a few moments. I just want you know that it's... it's okay to be with me
when I get like that. I won't hurt you." The next sentence was the
hardest for him to get out. "I don't want you to be afraid of me."
"I'm not," Rowan said immediately. He'd been listening attentively, nodding,
taking it in. Though his brow was knit with concern there was no trace of pity
in his expression. "I really appreciate you telling me that, Mr. Wolfe."
"Call me Grant. Don't really like the formal stuff, if that's alright."
"Of course. Grant, then," Rowan smiled.
The shame in his chest subsided and there was finally enough room in his lungs
to take in a full breath. He stood nearly a foot over the average person, knew
every type of chokehold and palmstrike, and could perform the quickest gun
disarm of anyone in his former Spec Ops team - and yet it was a simple
conversation that had him sweating bullets.
"Would you like a cup of coffee?" Grant offered after his heart rate came back
to Earth.
"I'd love one," Rowan nodded, and together they headed to the kitchen.
Honesty seemed like an important thing to Grant.
That thought clutched Rowan like a vice as he took a seat at the kitchen table,
fiddling with the zipper of his jacket. The note to Tatiana was neatly folded
into the breast pocket. He was dead set on giving it back to Grant and he was
really, truly serious this time.
Except, now? Doubt was creeping back in.
To admit to having spells of confusion, displacement, and even anger must have
taken tremendous effort on Grant's part. He didn't seem like the type of guy
who shared much of himself with anyone. Rowan didn't want to change the mood so
drastically and so soon after his confession.
Perhaps he could put it off just a little while longer.
"Your jacket," Grant motioned to him. "You can take it off."
"Oh. Alright." He unzipped it awkwardly, all too aware of the thin t-shirt he
wore underneath. He hoped it wouldn't get too drafty inside...
Truthfully, he didn't know how long he
could stay, the library would want the delivery van back sooner than later. But
he didn't want to be rude - and he especially didn't want to pass up the
opportunity for them to spend more time with each other.
He watched his host prepare coffee. Grant had an intense, laser-like focus, as
if nothing else existed except the kettle, the mugs, the tray. As the telltale
whistle of the kettle shrieked, a device on the kitchen counter started to
flash. Alerted, Grant lifted the kettle from the stove.
"It's sensitive to noise," Grant said, answering his silent question. "God
knows I need it. I drink a lot of coffee."
"Me too. I'm an addict."
"Cream? Sugar?"
"Yes, please," Rowan signed in
response.
Grant regarded him with surprise. "Did I teach you that?"
"I've been practicing. By myself. A little."
His
signing
still
wasn't
perfect
-
it
probably
wouldn't
ever
be.
But
Rowan
wanted
to
make
an
effort.
"How come?" Grant joined him at the table with their mugs.
The warmth of his nearness made Rowan sit up a little straighter. "It's good to
know another language. And if I can help... you know, someone... or anyone with
it, that's a nice bonus."
Grant nodded. They sipped coffee.
One
of these days I'll get an expression out of him.
That wasn't to say that Rowan didn't like Grant's face. He liked it the moment
they laid eyes on each other. It was a face
carved by a hard, but loving hand.
Then there was the rest of him. God, where to start? When Grant opened the door
and stood there in
his dark red
Henley, beard shorn down to a medium stubble, sleeves pulled up to
reveal those tanned, hairy forearms... well, shit. Even his hair, so thick and
tousled, had been combed off his face. Rowan had
momentarily forgotten how to speak.
Concentrating was difficult even now. The buttons below Grant's
collar were undone, revealing a swirl of dark chest hair. The shirt itself
seemed a size
too small - accentuating his ripped athlete's build instead of hiding it. Oh,
he most certainly differed from the scrawny teens and hunchbacked seniors Rowan
saw on daily basis.
And then he realized he was staring.
Grant was staring back, lips slightly parted.
"Oh!" Rowan exclaimed, to shake himself out of his stupor more than anything,
"I forgot to tell you. I can fingerspell my name now."
"Can you show me?"
He sucked in a small, nervous breath and began what he spent all night
practicing. "My name is R-O-W-A..."
Shit. The 'N' always tripped him up. Going smoothly from the 'A' to 'N'
hand shape was a little confusing since they were so similar. Where was he
supposed to tuck his thumb in again? Between the pinky and ring finger or the
ring and middle finger?
"Here." Grant reached over and guided his signing hand. "N. Like this."
Though his fingers were rough and callused, his touch was gentle, careful. As
if he were handling a treasured object. Rowan's body thrummed with heat.
"So... the thumb... goes between... the ring and the middle finger." He
wondered if Grant
could also read the shakiness of his voice and hoped really, really hard that
he couldn't. He tried again.
"My name is R-O-W-A... N."
"Good," Grant signed back. "Good job."
"Woo!" Rowan clapped his hands together and laughed. "I'll get better at this.
Maybe. I hope."
"You're doing fine."
He gave the moment a chance to breathe before he replied. "You're very kind."
"Not really."
Rowan laughed. "Well, you are to me."
It was sweet, but he had to wonder. Was Grant really so terse with other people
that these little niceties were considered
rare? He had no idea what the man was like when he interacted with anyone other
than him.
Rowan took another sip and cleared his throat. "You said you were new to the
city. How do you like the neighborhood so far?"
"It's fine."
"Are your neighbors nice?"
His great shoulders shrugged. "This one couple introduced themselves to me.
They
kept trying to come over with casseroles, pies. Got annoying. Told them to
stop."
"I'm sure they were just trying to be neighborly..."
"They thought I was a charity case. Weekly invites to their church group and
all that."
"What about your friends? Do they live nearby?"
The corner of Grant's mouth hooked into a humorless half-smirk. A smirk that
said without saying, I know what you're trying to do.
Well, there's that expression you've been
trying so hard to get out of him...
"I keep to myself."
"What do you do for fun, then?" Rowan softly tapped the edge of his mug. He
really didn't know anything about Grant, now that he thought about it. Where he
was from, if he worked, if he had a girlfriend...
"Fun?"
"Yeah. What
does Grant Wolfe do on a beautiful Saturday morning like this?"
"I normally take a walk around the woods before lunch."
"By yourself?"
"I take my coffee and a book to the pond there sometimes."
"A pond? This city has ponds? I haven't seen one since I went camping in grade
eight."
"Would you like to see it?"
"Right now?"
"If you have time."
Rowan tamped down the instinct to check his phone screen. This seemed a
little more important than keeping to some dumb schedule. "Sure, a walk
sounds great."
Moments later they were outside in the brisk morning air. Crothers
Woods was accessible through Grant's backyard and they followed a
beautiful, sun-dappled dirt path through the sea of trees. Autumn had
brushed the leaves with magnificent strokes of gold and red. Rowan
couldn't ever recall seeing Toronto like this. Even the air was
different - cool with a trace of earthiness.
Rowan hugged his arms to his chest, lips curving into a soft smile as
Grant led him off the path to an opening through the trees. Ahead of
him, Grant walked with a long, confident stride, his shoulders wide and
square.
He was a Navy SEAL, after all. Learning that made a lot of sense to
Rowan. The man's physicality, his stoic and powerful presence... even
the sense of danger in his gaze. It all pointed to the steely
confidence of a man who had served his country. (Well, his country, not mine, Rowan reminded
himself.)
They walked until they reached a wide clearing. Further ahead was the
pond, flat and still as a mirror. As they approached the waterline
Grant bent down and skimmed a rock across it, sending waves of perfect
ripples across the surface.
Neither of them had said a word since they left his house. That was quite
alright. Their silence matched their surroundings. Trees cast shadows across
the shoreline like the soft quilt Rowan hid under as a child. It was
comforting. He always did feel safer unseen.
Grant skipped another rock, fleece jacket ruffling in the sudden wind.
He looked like a model in one of those outdoor gear catalogs.
Rowan tapped his arm to get his attention. "How do you sign 'beautiful'?"
After being shown, Rowan mimicked the sign. A sweeping motion across his face. "This place... beautiful."
"Good job," Grant signed back.
"Am I an expert signer yet?"
Grant's half-smirk returned. It actually had a hint of humor to it this time.
"Not yet."
The wind howled again, colder this time. Clouds were encroaching on the sun,
making Grant frown. "Looks like a storm's coming."
Rowan followed his gaze until he spotted a tree, old and low, hovering
over the far edge of the pond. Something about the dry white bark and
the random coil of branches struck him with a vivid familiarity.
"Oh my god. It's my castle."
Grant stared at him, probably thinking he misread his lips.
"That's what I used to call this tree in my backyard when I was a kid.
It looked exactly like the one on the far side of the pond. I mean,
it's uncanny."
He ran to it. Childlike excitement fueled every step. Up close, the
resemblance was even more striking. He swooped his fingers along the
crevices that veined the bark.
"I used to climb that tree every day after school," he said as Grant
caught up with him. "Sometimes I didn't even want to come down, not
even for dinner. My mom would get so mad. Sounds silly, I know. But I
loved being in my castle."
"How come?"
"It made me feel safe."
His hands continued to roam the tree's old, weathered skin. Its long,
thick limbs sagged heavily to the ground. Rowan felt one foot lift,
then the other, and before he knew it he had taken point on the lowest
branch.
Grant moved closer to him. Stood up straighter. "Careful."
"I've been climbing trees all my life, dude. I'll be fine." He reached
the next highest branch. The thrill of escape that exhilarated him as a
child came racing back into his veins.
"You don't know how sturdy those branches are. It's an old tree."
"Grant, really," he almost laughed, ignoring the creakiness he felt
beneath his shoes, "I'll be okay." He climbed onto the next highest
branch. Then the next.
Grant was tense now, tenser than he really needed to be, in Rowan's
opinion. The view from this height was terrific, though the sight of
heavy clouds rolling across the horizon was slightly worrying.
"Hey, do you think it's going to rai-"
A loud SNAP that only Rowan heard filled the air. His footing
disappeared and all he saw as he tumbled down was the blur of the
surrounding forest. Then he saw Grant, suddenly there like a big dark
wall, arms extended, reaching, catching...
They slammed into the grass. The larger man covered most of him, one of his
hands tucking
Rowan's head protectively into his chest. His other arm was around Rowan's
waist.
Not how I thought this would happen.
All he could hear was the ringing in his ears and the heart thundering in his
ribcage. And he thought, maybe, Grant's lips were pressed against his hair. Or
was it his imagination?
Grant's weight lifted and his hands searched him, gentle but
purposeful.
Looking for injuries. Of the two of them, he seemed way more concerned.
Rowan was simply trying to quiet the storm beneath his chest.
Eventually, Grant's voice started to penetrate the roar of adrenaline.
"Don't move. Are you hurt?"
Rowan tried to push a 'No' through his stampede of breaths, but when it didn't
come, he signed it instead. It was one of the first signs he memorized, and one
of the easiest - the forefinger, middle finger, and thumb clamping together.
Grant exhaled. It sounded like relief. "Told you not to climb it."
"Sorry."
"You're impulsive."
"I'm not. Usually."
"Don't try anything like that again." His admonishment was sharp.
"So much for my professional tree climbing career, huh?"
"You could've broken your arm. You could've..."
Grant trailed off and a distance fogged the intense grey of his eyes.
A fragile silence. The kind that tingled.
Rowan dared to break it. "Hey. I really am sorry."
Grant frowned, shook his head, and snapped back to the present. "Come on, stand
up."
Then Rowan realized things hurt. His shoulder, his hip. Pain shot through his
right ankle.
Grant's ruddy face crinkled with concern. "You're hurt."
"No, I-" Rowan didn't want him to worry but lying was pointless. "A little."
Grant's strong hands helped him to his feet. Rowan put a little pressure on his
ankle. Not broken but definitely too tender to walk on.
"Here." Grant's arm hooked around his waist. "We'll go slow. Lean into me."
Rowan did as he was told. He fit perfectly into the muscular crevasse
between Grant's arm and chest. Since they weren't facing each other,
he signed as he spoke. "Thank you for helping
me."
"You're welcome," Grant signed with
his free hand.
Slow and steady, they started down the path back into the woods. It wasn't
particularly graceful, with Rowan awkwardly relying on his left foot for
forward movement, but Grant remained patient and careful.
At one point, Rowan stole a glance in his direction and saw the taller man was
concentrating entirely on him. His big dark brows had bunched together and his
mouth was a hard, straight line, as if balancing a priceless antique with one
hand.
"I'm okay," Rowan signed with a
chuckle. "I wont break."
Grant looked away. "I shouldn't have brought you here. It was my fault you got
hurt."
"Hey." Rowan tapped his shoulder, drawing their eyes back together. "I got hurt
because I wasn't listening. I was being dumb. I'm glad you brought me here, I
liked seeing the woods with
you."
"You did?"
"Yeah. It's a whole other world. Trees
and secret paths and a pond. Plus you're a really nice guy."
"No I'm not."
"Oh, come on! A nice guy wouldn't let me lean on him."
"I don't always feel like a nice guy."
"What do you feel right now?" Rowan held his breath after the words left his
lips. He knew he was upping the ante.
"I suppose I feel... useful. Right now."
"Useful."
"Yes."
"Do you feel anything else?"
The heavy clouds that had been gathering all morning finally fulfilled
their promise and unleashed a spectacular boom of thunder.
Grant pointed skyward. He looked relieved. "That. I feel that."
"Good save."
They continued on toward the woods as the first drop of rain hit the curve of
Rowan's goosebump-pebbled neck.
End of Chapter 3
To Be Continued
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