Page 7 of Almost Enough

“Gonna grab a shower,” he says against her mouth, then straightens and nods at me. “Whitley.”

I smirk. “Rowan.”

He disappears down the hall, and I exhale quietly, stealing a glance at Violet, who’s still got that dreamy look on her face.

I nudge her knee with mine. “Earth to Violet.” I wave a hand in front of her face. “Your fiancé leaves the room, and your brain goes with him.”

She blinks, cheeks pink with a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Where were we?”

“You were explaining how I’m about to be trapped in Colorado with a brick wall for days before your wedding.”

Violet doesn’t take the bait. She just slides a glossy brochure across the table. “It’s a beautiful resort. Mountain views, hot springs, hiking trails. You’ll love it.”

I flip through the pages, trying not to be won over by the rustic cabins and the ridiculous panoramic vistas. It looks like one of those slow living, deep breathing places. It’s absolutely the kind of place you go with someone you actually…connect with.

Too bad my assigned travel buddy thinks emotional intimacy is an infectious disease. But this is for Violet, so I’ll grit, smile, and make it work.

I stay for one more cup of coffee, then flee before domestic bliss can smother me to death. There’s a voicemail waiting when I pull into my driveway—a reminder about the next Art for Healing workshop I’m running at the community center. I give kids a place to paint and pound clay and figure out how to live with their hurts.

When we were young, my sister, Harper, moved through the world with bullet points and color-coded planners. She was the one all the teachers leaned toward, saying things like you’re going places.

I was the afterthought. The Whitley, please.

The only time my brain ever shut up was when I was painting. Color bleeding into color, my hands finally busy enough to keep my thoughts from ricocheting. I didn’t have to explain myself there. I didn’t have to be palatable. I could just…exist.

Somewhere along the way, I realized there were other people who needed that, too. People who had never been given permission to take up space without apologizing for it.

So I spend the rest of the afternoon knocking out emails and shuffling sticky notes around my desk, trying not to think about Beau. I fail. Maybe he’s not brooding…maybe he’s just shy. Maybe he’s got a secret heart of gold tucked inside that sullen exterior. Maybe I just caught him on an off day, or month, or year.

I redirect. Laundry. Dishes. The graveyard of unmatched socks. But my hands move on autopilot while my brain loops the same reel. The clipped way he says goodbye, the hard set of his jaw, the way his eyes always linger like he’s bracing for a punch.

I don’t really know him, but still, something itches at me.

By the time the sun slides lower, and the sky turns a bruised gold, I find myself wondering who he might be beyond the clipped answers and willful silence.

three

. . .

Beau

People always say flying feels like freedom.

To me, it feels like pressure. Too many people packed too close, nowhere to run, no escape from conversation if someone decides to talk.

Especially her.

I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder, double-check my wallet, phone, keys, and shut the truck door with a loud thud. Morning air bites at my neck, but I welcome the sting.

I rub a hand over my stubbled jaw, already bracing myself as I make my way into the airport. Whitley’s not careless or cruel. But she’s curious. About people. About me. About everything.

People like her ask questions I don’t have answers for. They dig without meaning to. Laugh too loud, speak too freely, and wear every emotion on their face because the world has never given them a reason to hide it.

But Rowan asked me to be there for him. And when Rowan needs you, you show up, because he’s never been one to need much.

He’s the closest thing I’ve got to a brother. And Violet… Hell, she’s good for him. Those two have the type of relationship I stopped believing in a long time ago. So, yeah, I’m going, even though I’ll be subjected to Whitley’s nonstop commentary and firecracker energy.

It took more planning than I’d care to admit just to leave town for a week. Jake’s holding down the shop. He’ll probably spend half the time trying to convince customers they need chrome rims they absolutely don’t, but he knows his way around an engine. He’s been with me long enough to know exactly how I like things done, even if he insists on doing them while talking someone’s ear off.