Off Chance os-5

by Sawyer Bennett

  Reaching a hand out, I smooth it along her face and cup her behind her head. She’s surprised by the touch, and instinctively turns to look at me, allowing me to grip her neck. “I want to kiss you, Rowan.”

  I pull her closer and she doesn’t fight me... at first.

  But as soon as my mouth is just inches from hers, her hands sneak up to push against my chest. “Stop, Flynn.”

  My chest constricts painfully over her denial but I don’t release her. She doesn’t push me farther away either.

  I look at her... deeply... intently. “Rowan... why? There’s a connection here. You feel it, right?”

  She quickly nods her head to assure me. “Yes... I feel it like the sun... it’s warm and encompassing. But I’m too afraid. I just can’t.”

  I release her suddenly, needing the physical distance. Taking a few steps back, I lean against the counter, placing my hands on the edge by my hips. “Then explain it to me... again. Let’s talk about it. Let’s see if we can figure something out.”

  I think she’s going to balk for just a second, because Rowan isn’t exactly known for her openness. However, she pulls the kitchen chair out from the table and sits down with a sigh, laying her carving knife down in front of her.

  “My dad is a judge—very well known, highly respected. My mom is a socialite, also well known, probably not as respected since she was a trophy wife for him. He’s twenty-six years her senior.”

  I don’t say anything but walk up and pull the other chair out, sitting down across from her. She continues.

  “My dad was, I think, like around forty-eight when they had me, and frankly, I don’t think he was interested in having kids. He was well on his way to a successful career on the bench and his career was everything. But my mom was young and wanted them, so he gave in.”

  “So you probably grew up in a pretty posh lifestyle, right?”

  “Yup, although judges don’t make as much as you think they do. My mom is the one that had family money. Her family are ranchers... cattle mostly, but they are very successful at it. At any rate, growing up was okay. My dad paid no attention to me, and while my mom did at first, over the years even that faded away. She was never able to get pregnant again, and she filled her time by playing tennis and having lunch with her lady friends at the country club.”

  Rowan pauses and gives me a sly grin. “Do you know what happens to a teen girl who gets no attention from her parents?”

  “You rebel,” I answer, because that’s an obvious answer.

  “That’s right. And boy, did I rebel. I was drinking and doing drugs by the time I was fifteen. I lost my virginity at that same age. I came home shit-faced that night, and bragged about it to my parents. Told them how Sam Cantor popped my cherry in the back seat of his daddy’s Lexus. I used that exact wording.”

  “What did they do?” I ask, slightly horrified. I couldn’t ever imagine doing something like that and bragging about it to my parents. But then again, my parents doted on Renner and me. We never lacked for their attention.

  “My dad just looked at me... but it was like he was looking right through me, you know? And he said, ‘I’m sorely disappointed, young lady’. Then he turned to my mom and said, ‘You need to handle this outburst, Susan. I can’t have this shit marring my public image’. He walked away and never mentioned the incident to me again.”

  “What did your mom do?”

  Rowan gives out a little laugh, filled with bitter humor. “She at least took a little time with me. She asked me to please behave so I didn’t disappoint my father, and also wanted to make sure I was practicing safe sex.”

  “That was it? You didn’t get in any trouble?” I’m astounded her parents would ignore that. If it were my daughter, she would have been grounded until she was twenty-five at least.

  “That was it.”

  “I take it that didn’t satisfy your need to have your parents pay attention to you?” My words come out hard, because I’m angry as shit at them for driving their daughter to do those things, and not having enough interest to make her take responsibility.

  “No. It didn’t satisfy it. I became even worse, trying to get them to notice me. I started dressing Goth.. died my hair black, wore black lipstick, got an eyebrow ring. Nothing. They didn’t say a word, although my dad wouldn’t take me with them to any functions where cameras were involved. So I became even more removed from them. Then I started really acting out. I would come to the dining table drunk or high. I’d say outrageous things to try to provoke a reaction.”

  “Like what?” I’m genuinely curious how far she would go—how bad she was hurting for their love.

  Rowan actually gives a girlish giggle and I’m glad that her past trauma hasn’t caused her complete bitterness and hate. “Once, while we were eating breakfast, I was pissed because my dad just sat there with the newspaper in front of his face. So I announced to my mom that I was thinking about getting my clit pierced.”

  “Holy fuck. You did not?”

  “I did too,” she says with a huge grin.

  “Holy fuck,” I say again in amazement. “What did your dad do?”

  He didn’t even drop the newspaper. He just said, ‘Susan, please get your daughter under control.’ He didn’t even sound mad. Just annoyed.”

  “His choice of words is interesting... ‘your daughter’.”

  Rowan nods. “That didn’t slip past me. In fact, I actually wondered if maybe my mom had gotten pregnant by someone else, but that’s not something I ever figured out.”

  “So, what caused you to leave? You said you left about five years ago, right?”

  “I finally got my parents’ attention.” Her words come out as a mere whisper and she lowers her gaze to the floor. The hair stands up on the back of my neck.

  I can’t help myself. I lean forward and reach over to grab one of her hands. I hold it gently in between mine, noticing that her skin feels like ice. While my palm tries to warm the outside of her hand, my thumb slowly strokes over the inside, trying to offer her a measure of security.

  She looks up at me, and there are no tears in her eyes. Just pain. Pure, unfiltered pain and I feel like I want to vomit.

  “You can tell me anything, Rowan. Anything.”

  She nods. “A few weeks after I graduated high school, I was out with friends. We were drunk, high... We were out of our minds. And the funny thing was, I really don’t think that night I was even thinking about trying to get my parents’ attention. I just was having fun. At any rate, we decided to break into a house in my neighborhood. I knew the people were out of town because they were friends with my parents. We trashed the house good... I’m talking spray painted the walls, cut up the mattresses, gouged up all the furniture...”

  She trails off and there is a smile on her face as she’s lost in the memory. It’s not a smile that says she’s happy in the memory. It’s actually a shameful smile, one she’s forcing herself to wear.

  “And you got caught?” I guessed.

  “Oh yeah,” she says. “We got caught big time. Neighbors heard the racket and called the cops. We all got arrested. That finally got my dad’s attention. I mean... a judge’s kid getting caught doing that shit?”

  “What did he do?”

  “After he bailed me out? Well, he took me home and sat me down in his study. And for the first time I can ever remember, he lectured me. He talked for probably an hour on what a rotten child I was. How I was an embarrassment—an abomination. That he regretted the day my mom got pregnant with me, because I had been nothing but a thorn in his side. He told me that this behavior was stopping now, or he would disown me... cut me off without a penny. He was finally putting his foot down with me. And at first, I was just happy. Happy that he was paying attention. But then I really started listening to his words, and I started getting angry.”

  “Because they weren’t the words you needed,” I observe. She needed her parents to tell her they loved her and that they were interested in her.

&nbs
p; “No... they weren’t the words I needed. I was so furious. I told him that I didn’t need his money and I didn’t need him, or my mom for that matter. I walked out of his study, went to my room, and packed a bag. I had some money saved up that basically bought me a bus ticket to New York. I walked out and didn’t look back.”

  “Did he try to stop you? Did your mom?”

  Rowan shakes her head. “No. He held the front door open for me. My mom stood there behind him, worrying at the pearls around her throat. I think she wanted to say something, but she never did. Just as I walked out the door, he told me I’d never make it on my own and that I wouldn’t be welcome back. I heard the snick of the lock after he closed the door behind me.” She pauses a second and a ghostly smile appears. “Funny... how loud the sound of the lock turning was... I can still hear it in my head so clearly.”

  I just stare at Rowan, completely heartsick for her. I want to pull her onto my lap and hug the sadness out of her. But she won’t accept it... I can tell. Instead, I pull her hand to my mouth and lay a short kiss on her palm before I release it.

  “But look at you now,” I tell her. “Look how you survived... look how strong you are.”

  She stares at me, almost blankly. “You think?”

  “I don’t think... I know. You’re amazing, Rowan. You proved your dad wrong and you have turned into a hell of a woman. And you did it despite what they did to you.”

  Rowan shakes her head, her beautiful hair glinting as it swings back and forth. “No, Flynn. Don’t you see? I’m not worthy of love. History has proven it. It’s why I can only do a friendship with you. Anything more is going to turn to shit... I just know it.”

  “That’s bullshit, Rowan. You’re smarter than that, and you’re stronger than that. I can’t believe you’re afraid of the risk.”

  She tilts her head to the side and looks at me with curiosity. “Why do you have such faith in me?”

  “Because I know a little something about heartache and how events that happen to us can shape and define us. I know what it’s like to be a little warped by the past, but I also know what it takes to try to overcome it.”

  “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 fi
ne.

  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?”

  “I’ll ask but I know she’ll say ‘don’t bring a thing but yourself’.”

  I laugh over Flynn’s impersonation of his mom’s Irish accent. “In that case, don’t bother asking and I’ll just bring something. Maybe a pie.”

  “You can cook?” Flynn asks with astonishment.

  “Of course I can cook,” I tell him with indignation.

  “Then how come all we ever have is pizza or bologna sandwiches when it’s your turn to cook?”