Chapter Eight
Don’t Tell Nash
Rowan
Nash said the rose was from Nadine, but what if he was wrong? All I could think about was Conor. Think about it, Ro. Roses aren’t Conor’s thing. He wouldn’t leave a flower. No, a flower was definitely not Conor’s M.O. Murder was more his style. God, what have I gotten myself into? I paced back and forth across my bedroom floor and tried to wrap my brain around the past twenty-four hours. The goal was to disappear. I honestly thought I’d accomplished that. So why did I suddenly feel so exposed? My gut was screaming for me to run. But where would I go? Who would I become next? How many times would I have to lose myself before I truly lost myself? This endless worry was going to give me an ulcer if I wasn’t careful. I thought back to the time just after Gavin’s death, when I was laying low in Alabama.
After two, horribly miserable nights in Alabama, I pulled myself together and started thinking with my head and not my heart. First, I needed a new name. Rowan was my mother’s middle name. I’d always loved it. While trying to come up with a last name I spotted a pack of matches on the bedside table. Rowan Matches, Rowan Flame, Rowan Fire, Rowan Spark, Rowan Burn. Rowan Burn had a certain ring to it. What about Rowan Burns? That’s it.
Once I had a name, I formed a rudimentary plan: get rid of the car and the cards. The cards were easy. Pull out cash, cut them up, and get the hell out of dodge. Before doing that, though, I needed to sell my car. The cash would help until I could find a job. The only place I knew to do this was a dealership. The first two laughed in my face, but the third took pity on me and pointed me to a little auto shop on the outskirts of town, where a man named Jerry offered me five hundred dollars. I probably should have negotiated, but I was too scared to call any more attention to myself than I already had.
That afternoon I purchased a pair of scissors and a box of black hair dye. Just the thought of cutting off my auburn hair that reminded me so much of my mother brought tears to my eyes. With each passing day I found a new reason to despise Conor O’Brien. My list was getting longer by the minute.
That night, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror in a motel in nowhere Alabama with tears streaming down my face as I cut a large piece of my past from my life. Once the deed was done and the dye had fully processed, I stared at my reflection. Green eyes filled with heartache and regret were the only thing that remained of Gillian Gallagher. Nothing could touch the loss of Gavin, but this was a close second.
The next morning, I was on a bus heading to New Mexico with my bag on my shoulder, cash in my wallet, and a horrible looking dime store hair-do.
“Rowan, the doorbell is ringing!” Maeve called from downstairs.
“Got it!” I called back as I stared at my reflection in the bedroom mirror. Nothing had changed. I was still that broken hearted girl. I just had a better haircut and had gotten better at hiding it. Get it together, Ro, I thought as I exited the room and headed down the stairs. Per Nash’s instructions, I lifted up onto my tiptoes and peered through the peep hole. At first glance, I didn’t see anything but the front porch and walkway, both of which were empty.
“Who is it?” Maeve asked from behind me.
“No one.”
“Are you sure? The bell rang three times.”
“No one’s there. Look.” I stepped back and gave her room to look.
“That’s strange. No one’s there,” she stated.
Neither of us thought anything of it until later that night when the back door alarm was triggered. We were watching television when it happened. Even though the cameras didn’t show anything, we decided to let the police search the property. They felt it was most likely an animal, but Maeve and I thought different. Animals don’t have opposable thumbs. The only way that alarm was triggered was if someone was trying to get inside the house.
Marcel called right as the police were leaving. Evidently, the alarm company had called him as well. While I ushered the police to the door, Maeve explained what had happened. We were spooked, but Marcel talked us off of the ledge. When it came down to it, he was probably right. We didn’t have proof of anything. The person at the door could have gotten tired of waiting and given up. The alarm could have been triggered by something hitting the door. To tell Nash would only make him worry. He would insist on coming home, so we decided against it.
When Nash called that night and asked about our day, I wanted to tell him. Selfishly, a part of me wanted for him to drop everything and come home. That same part of me wanted to throw caution to the wind, to finish what we’d started the night of Grant and Mallory’s Christmas party. I wanted to hear the end of his song, to taste his lips again, but most of all I wanted to stop being so afraid. I needed to finally start living my life. There was just one problem. I wasn’t a selfish person. So I took what I could get, and I prayed that one day I could have more.
Two days later, Maeve had an Oncology appointment. Afterwards we planned to go to lunch, and if she still felt like it, an afternoon movie.
The appointment was a disaster. While Nash was home, Maeve mentioned on more than one occasion how wonderful she felt. Cancer was a tricky thing. Some days were better than others. She wasn’t feeling as much pain because, per her doctor’s instructions, I’d slowly been upping her pain medication. My job was to make her as comfortable as possible. I wasn’t keeping it from her. In fact, I thought she knew. Her diagnosis was stage four, terminal cancer. As it turned out, she didn’t know. She thought she was getting better, as if maybe she’d been misdiagnosed. The look of betrayal, not to mention horror, on her face when the doctor explained how she wasn’t going to get better, but only worse, shattered her.
The moment we walked out of the doctor’s office, she demanded we go home. No lunch. No movie. No laughter. No nothing, but the sound of silence that accompanied us most of the way there.
Finally, not able to stand it any longer, I said, “I’m sorry, Maeve. I thought you knew.”
“It’s not your fault,” she answered as she stared out the window. I couldn’t see her face. I really wanted to see her face. My job wasn’t easy, but never had it been this hard. This was just another example of how far I’d stepped over the line of professionalism. I knew better than to get emotionally invested. My head knew this, but my heart was a completely different thing.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the movies?” Her eyes hit mine and I had to swallow back the tears. She was empty, defeated, done. “Maeve,” I whispered.
“Just take me home. I’m tired.”
I’d barely placed the car in park, when she was out the door and inside the house. I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I try and talk with her again? Should I call Nash? What should I do?
Before I made a decision, Maeve poked her head out from her bedroom and glared at me. “If you call Nash and tell him what happened today I will fire you so fast it will make your head spin. Do I make myself clear?”
I swallowed down the lump in my throat long enough to answer, “Yes, Ma’am.”
“Good.” She nodded. “Now, I’m taking a nap.” She all but slammed the door in my face, and I tried not to be hurt. I really did. Denial was normal. Depression was normal. I knew this. But still, her lashing out hurt.
I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and made my way upstairs. As I reached my bedroom door, I glanced down the hall and noticed that Nash’s door was open. Nash’s door had been closed since the day he’d left to go back on tour. Yet, there it stood, wide open. I was suddenly engulfed by a hair-raising sense of fear. Someone had been in Nash’s room. Maybe they still were.
“Nash?” I called out. When I got no response, I took a deep breath and tried to shake off some of the fear. My pulse beat a frantic dance through my body as I slowly crept down the hall toward his bedroom. “Are you here?” I called out as I neared his open doorway. The room was empty. It smelled faintly of cleaning agents, and that’s when I remembered. The cleaning lady! Air gushed from my mouth as I collapsed onto Nash’s bed in relief. Today was cleaning day. Duh.
“I’m losing my mind,” I said to the empty room. I’d been inside Nash’s room a million times before, but never alone. Other than a few pictures tacked to a cork board, the room was rather sterile. Guilt washed over me as I glanced around. This was Nash’s house, and I was sleeping in what should have been his room. Something on the floor caught my eye. A picture must have fallen off of the cork board.
With a sigh of regret, I pushed myself off of the bed and snagged the picture from the floor. Nash and Mallory stood in the forefront. I recognized her dress from the Christmas party. Standing off to the side, behind Nash and Mallory, was me. It was only my profile, but clearly it was me. Grant must have given this to Nash. When I went to pin it back on the board, I noticed writing on the back. It said, GOT YOU, in capital letters. The words made me smile.
I pinned the picture back on the board. When I reached Nash’s doorway, I turned back and gave his room one last look before closing his door and escaping back to my room.
A heavy sigh escaped as I flopped onto my bed. I sure wish I had you, Nash Bostwick.