I was staring at him.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Recipe: Salted Halvah Blondies

From ‘Dessert Person’

My heart didn’t heal quickly.

Some days it felt like it didn’t heal at all. That I was still bleeding out, dripping crimson pain all over my pink, polished bakery floors.

At the beginning, I lived for three seconds of every day. The three seconds just after I woke up, when my brain hadn’t caught up yet, when it still thought everything was okay. When I forgot that Ansel was dead.

Those three seconds were all I got. Then the pain came rushing in, so visceral that I had to bite my lip to stop from crying out.

I might’ve screamed, maybe, if he wasn’t there.

If Rowan’s arms weren’t around me, if his body wasn’t warm and firm against mine, maybe I would’ve screamed.

Or maybe I wouldn’t have. Because maybe if I started screaming, started vocalizing the pain inside of me, I’d never stop.

So, I didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. I sank into Rowan’s warmth, let him turn me onto my back, uncurl me from the ball I’d coiled myself into and make slow, brutal love to me.

His hands on me, him inside of me… nothing provided complete respite from the pain, but it made it hurt a whole lot less.

After the parking lot blowout, I felt different.

Not healed. I’d never be healed.

There would always be an open, bleeding hole inside of me. I wouldn’t ever feel happiness in the same way I had before.

But I also wasn’t going to sink into the pit of despair, despite how damn tempting it was. Then again, I couldn’t have even if I wanted to since I had friends who wouldn’t let me do that.

Rowan wouldn’t let me do that.

He was there. Always. His hands on my body, his mouth on mine, making me feel alive. Making me feel excited to be alive.

I did make a statement about Ronnie’s assault after he was charged. He didn’t make bail since there was no one left in this town to bail him out. He wouldn’t be behind bars forever, and maybe he’d come out angry, ready to blame me. But I didn’t worry much about that. I had Rowan.

We slept at his place often since it still hurt to be at mine. Not because of the memories I had of Ansel there. A place couldn’t hold memories. Only a heart could. Mine was broken. Shattered.

I just liked Rowan’s place because it was full of him. Because I could hear the ocean when we laid in bed at night. Because I could sit out on the patio at five in the morning, wrapped in a blanket, cupping a mug of coffee while smelling the salt from the ocean.

Rowan usually woke up when I got out of bed. The man was hyper-aware of me, but he didn’t try to keep me in bed. Didn’t try to talk to me. He must’ve suspected I needed that time in the morning.