Chapter 21: Terms Burned

The yellow room smelled of fresh paint and warm wood.

The walls were the soft butter color from the card Rowan had hidden against the glass.

My white cot stood under the east window, built, with the felt stars turning slowly above it.

The last of the drop cloth lay folded on the floor.

In the corner sat a rocking chair I had never seen.

"Margaret," Rowan said.

"Margaret," I agreed.

I walked in and put my hand on the rail of the cot.

It was solid. Someone had tightened every screw.

"Sit with me," I said.

We sat on the floor with our backs against the cot, and our shoulders touching.

"We said we'd talk," I said.

"Yes."

"You first."

He took a breath.

"I left out the biggest fact in my life," he said.

"Yes."

"I left it out in an elevator, and again when you told me about the baby. Each time I told myself I was protecting you."

"Were you?"

"No. I was protecting myself from watching you decide whether I was enough."

I thought about that.

"You were never going to be the one who got to decide that for me," I said.

"I know."

"Here's what I need. If it touches me, you tell me. Whatever it is, however bad. Even if you think it'll hurt."

"Yes."

"You ask before you decide for me. You moved a desk and decided what I would feel about it."

"It was a very good desk," he said, and a smile cracked through the strain.

"It was a terrible desk."

"Noted."

"And I need to say my part."

He turned his head.

"I used you in that restaurant," I said. "I saw a man who was kind, and I used it. I'm sorry."

"Thank you."

"I'm also not sorry I got to know you after."

"I'd have been used a hundred times for this."

"Don't be romantic yet. I'm not finished."

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