Page 31 of Dirty Fighter

Just stop, man. Stop.

At the top of the hill, Rowan returns to her bucket of sticks.

Inside, I change into some dry clothes and throw my wet stuff in the hamper. The shirt belongs to the baby spiders now.

A few texts from the guys have come through.

Wexler and Huska asking if the lawyer sorted everything out. Wexler offered to come back, and if I didn’t know what a good guy he was, I might wonder if it was more about getting a break from Lattner than making sure I was okay.

I catch them up and let them know I’m good. Tell them I’m going to kick their asses for sharing that video of Rowan taking me down.

The light clack of the screen door alerts me that she’s in the cabin now. Moving around, running water, crossing the creaky floorboard in front of the utility room.

Having her here feels like it should be harder than this. More like it was during those painfully awkward months after she moved in or through the few stilted exchanges when I came home for a visit… before I stopped coming home at all.

But it wasn’t that way at all. When she offered to help with the shed, she’d been rubbing her hands together, smiling like she couldn’t wait to get them dirty. It was cute and kind and reminded me of how she was always so eager to help when we were both back home in South Dakota.

I’d thought maybe she had something to prove. Like she didn’t want anyone to think she was lazy or taking advantage… not that anyone had.

But today she brought that same relentless energy and more.

This morning passed in a blur of activities as familiar as snaking the puck off an opposing player’s stick. And no matter what odd job we found ourselves doing, somehow we kept falling into the kind of easy conversation that made me forget that we aren’t actually friends and never really have been.

And in a matter of days, she’s going to be gone from my life for good.

Why does that feel so wrong?

I find Rowan in front of the built-in shelves that serve as the divider between the kitchen and living room. Her weight is shifted to one leg, the other cocked a bit behind her as she surveys the old bottles, oddly shaped jugs, and miscellaneous glassware we’ve been collecting since my great-grandparents built the place.

Her arms are bare. One hanging at her side, a small bouquet of wildflowers within her grasp. The other in a loose fold above her head.

She peers over her shoulder at me, the move so unconsciously sexy, she looks like she should be in a painting or on the cover of some sophisticated photography magazine— grass-stained shorts, graphic tee, and all.

“Just grabbing a vase for these.”

“Knock yourself out.” I cut behind her to where my water glass from this morning is still on the breakfast bar.

She picks a brown jug with a tiny mouth from the second shelf, examines it, and then sets it down again.

I take a drink and read a text from Bruce.

When I look up again, she’s considering the ancient Coke bottle I found with Gramps in his dad’s shed on the other side of the island.

It doesn’t make the cut.

I tell myself to stop staring at her neck and the windblown curls that have escaped her ponytail.

“Bruce texted. Sounds like the lock guy has one more job before us and then he’ll be over. Couple hours, tops.”

She continues studying the shelves in search of the perfect vase. She’s got her eyes on the top one when she answers, “That’s good news.”

“Sure you’ll appreciate having your own space tonight.” And then, because I really need to stop making assumptions, I add, “If you’re still planning on staying.”

She stills, then gives me an apologetic look. “I have to stay. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I understand.” Besides, that relief that was nowhere to be found when I thought she’d be leaving this morning?

It’s decided to join the party. Fucker.