“Tell me,” she whispers, and I have no choice but to bare my soul to her, the way she just did to me.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Then I tell her about Marney. I don’t leave out any detail, including the fact that Marney’s death led me to my career as a firefighter. I’m as honest as I can be, and I even tell her that my hero complex can get in the way some time, that is drives me to fix broken things. I admit to her that my hero complex kicked into overdrive and that is why I sought to help her out originally.
When I finish, she’s looking at me with a look of profound sadness. “Don’t you see, Flynn? You just proved my point. You think I’m broken... that’s the only reason you want to be close to me. You want to fix me, and I’m here to tell you... I can’t be fixed.”
“No,” I deny. “Maybe at first, but not now. You’re the most capable woman I know. There’s not a thing about you I’d fix... except maybe your fear of taking risks. I’m hoping we can work on that though... together.”
Rowan stands from the table and scoots the chair back in. “I’m sorry, Flynn. I can’t do it. I know the pain of rejection and I know what it is like to want someone to love you desperately. So desperately, you slice yourself up in the process of trying to achieve that love. I don’t have it in me to be hurt like that again, and if there’s one thing I know... it’s that you, Flynn... you have the power to destroy me if I had your love and then lost it. I’m just not brave enough to want it the way you do.”
I watch as Rowan walks out of the kitchen but I don’t make a move to stop her. It’s for the best because after what she just said, words are failing me.
17
It’s the first week of November and we are having unseasonably cold weather for this time of the year. I’m waiting for Flynn to finish getting dressed because we’re taking Capone out to the park. I’ve got on a heavy wool coat I just bought last week on sale, along with a pretty, red knit scarf to wrap around my neck. It was a splurge for me, but I wanted to buy something for myself with my recent earnings and a coat seemed practical. Especially since winter was approaching and I didn’t have anything except that beat-up, old leather jacket.
“I’m ready,” Flynn says and I turn around to see him walking toward me.
It never ceases to amaze me the way my pulse thumps like a Texas jackrabbit’s leg when I see him. He looks like he just stepped out of a fashion spread for Ralph Lauren with his dark brown cords, cream, cable-knit sweater, and a caramel-colored, wool coat that he slips on and turns the collar up to ward against the cold. His hair looks like he just got out of bed, but, strangely, it works for him. As he approaches, I catch a whiff of cologne. It’s subtle but I smell sandalwood and citrus, and it suits Flynn to perfection.
“Don’t you have a scarf or something?” I ask.
He gives me a look of horror and scoffs. “Real men don’t wear scarfs.”
“Fine,” I tell him. “But don’t complain when your neck gets cold.”
“Real men never complain,” he counters as he winks at me.
I snicker as I reach over to attach the leash to the New York Jets collar that Flynn had bought for Capone last month.
Figures.
We head over to a small park that is about seven blocks away and we aren’t thirty feet from the apartment when I realize I forgot my gloves.
I hand the leash over to Flynn. “Here... you walk Capone. My hands are freezing.”
He takes the leash from me and I jam my hands in my coat pockets.
“Do you want my gloves?” he asks.
“Nah. Real women don’t wear gloves.”
Flynn bumps his shoulder to mine with a laugh. “There is no doubt—you are a real woman, Miss Page.”
I bump him back and shoot him a playful smile. “Why, thank you, kind sir.”
I find myself loving this new level of companionship that Flynn and I have settled into since our serious talk last month. We both opened ourselves up and let it all hang out.
And while there was plenty of stuff that was probably left unsaid, the important things that needed to be said were voiced. Flynn now understands the root of my fears, and he now understands why I just can’t pursue anything more than a friendship with him. He hasn’t pushed or pressured me in the slightest since our talk, but has managed to be nothing more than a true friend to me.
The friendship has been amazing and we actually hang out together all the time. Since telling Flynn about my parents, a secret I haven’t shared with anyone, I find myself able to tell him just about anything. I can do so without fear of judgment and the most important thing that is happening is that we are building trust with each other.
For example, just the other day, I started my period and asked Flynn to run to the store to grab me some tampons. I had to bite down on my tongue not to giggle over the look on his face. But then he manned up and said he’d be happy to. When he returned from the corner market, he handed them to me and said, “Next time I get myself in a situation, and need condoms... you’re going down to the store to get them for me.”
I laughed and said, “Sure thing”, but there’s no way in hell I’m ever buying him condoms. I must be the world’s most terrible person because while I won’t let Flynn get into my pants, I don’t want him to get in any other woman’s pants either.
I’m twisted, for sure.
“Want some coffee or something?” Flynn asks as we walk toward a street vendor.
“Hot chocolate would be good. My treat.”
“Cool. Make it two.”
See, that is proof right there that the friendship thing is working. Before our talk, Flynn would have insisted on paying, which would have felt more like a date to me and moving squarely out of the friendship scenario. But by Flynn letting me buy him something and that right there proves this friendship is working just fine.
We get our drinks and head toward the park. I choose to wait before drinking mine after I watch Flynn burn the shit out of his tongue when he takes a sip.
“So my mom called today and wanted me to officially invite you to the Caldwell Thanksgiving Day Extravaganza.”
“Oooohhh,” I exclaim. “It sounds magnificent. What all is involved in a Caldwell Extravaganza?”
“Well, let’s see. There’s food... then football... then naps. I think that’s about it.”
I laugh, particularly at the mental image of Flynn, Nix, and their dads passed out in the living room with the football game blaring.
“I don’t want to impose.”
“Rowan,” Flynn says in warning. “Friends don’t let friends eat a microwave turkey dinner on Thanksgiving. Besides... Tim will be there. You know my parents open the door to everyone.”
It’s true. I’ve been over to their house twice with Flynn, and Nick and Nora Caldwell are two of the most gracious and welcoming people I have ever met. They’re the type of people that expect you to come into their house and plop your feet up on the coffee table, or they expect you to feel comfortable enough to get whatever you want from the fridge if you’re hungry or thirsty. They have no walls built around them, and their hearts are filled with generosity.
I can only imagine what Thanksgiving would be like with the Caldwells. There will be plenty of good food, lots of laughter, and probably some naps when it’s all said and done.
“And Capone can come, too,” Flynn throws in to entice me further, but I’d already decided to accept.
“Okay. We’re in. Can you ask your mom what I can bring?”