Page 9 of Bend Toward the Sun
Frankie snorted. “Okay, one flub in a history of near-flawless romantic intuition. Oh, god, I can still see my brother’s face when he told me about their first date.”
“Your brother just didn’t want to date someone with the last name ‘Dingle,’” Rowan said.
“No, he didn’t want to date a guy with a TikTok dedicated to his dog in a Dolly Parton wig,” Frankie sniffed.
“How could anyone dislike Dolly Barkin’?”
Frankie nodded solemnly. “Look. If the morose but sexy Dr. Brady and T.J. are anything more than close friends, I’ll shave off my eyebrows. Your people skills are not your strong suit. Stick with the plants, leave the love stuff to me.”
Rowan rolled her eyes. “Are you confident enough to make this a Cheesesteak Friday wager?”
Frankie dipped her chin and dropped her voice in a faux conspiratorial tone. “I’m listening.”
“I say they’re sleeping together, or will be shortly. You say they’re not. Loser pays for Cheesesteak Friday.”
“Meh.” Frankie looked at her nails.
“For a wholemonth,” Rowan added.
“Better.” Frankie lifted a brow. “What kind of time frame are we thinking?”
“We could ask Temperance later tonight. Easy.”
Frankie tapped a manicured nail on the rim of her glass tumbler. “You lost me again. Let’s raise the stakes.”
Rowan snorted. “Was that—a cheesesteak pun?”
“Obviously. And I’m serious, let’s make this more interesting. I propose that not only are Dr. Brady and T.J. not romantically inclined, that man is hot foryou.”
“Sounds like a plan—”
“Addendum,” Frankie interrupted, holding up a finger. “Andyou’re going to be in love with each other by spring.”
Rowan blurted a laugh.
Please.
That word. Love. Unquantifiable, misused, meaningless. For Rowan,lovewas two hands pushed deep into fragrant black earth. In nurturing seedlings, in ankle-deep mud, in scorchingsunshine and lip-numbing autumn chill. Seeing the first bees in springtime. The open air of fieldwork. In books, in research, in the acquisition of knowledge. In solitude.
Music began playing from the direction of a big gazebo in the center lawn. Rowan pulled her braid over her shoulder to remove the elastic. She combed fingers through the curly strands to let her hair hang loose. “Frankie, I’m not even going to see him after this weekend.”
Frankie ignored her. “When I win, you know I prefer Robustelli’s. Something about their cheese is—” She made a chef’s kiss gesture with her fingers, then gave Rowan a sideways squeeze. “I think there’s dancing happening. See you in a bit.”
Rowan watched her friend disappear in the direction of the music. “I didn’t take the bet,” she called after her.
“Coward,” Frankie volleyed back in a singsong voice.
For the first time since she’d squatted in that greenhouse, Rowan was alone. From her vantage, she saw a couple on the steps of the gazebo, illuminated by fairy lights and leading a toast. She’d met them earlier in the night—Patrick Brady and Mercedes Hudson. They were a movie-star sort of couple, impossibly attractive and plainly wild about each other. Newly engaged. Rowan viewed that kind of romance the same way she’d observe a compelling painting—appreciative of the beauty, while acknowledging it as only an approximation of reality.
The problem with marriage was that its ongoing integrity depended on the inherent goodness of the two people entering the union—and not all humans were inherently good.
Rowan had always felt half-good. Built only for transience, never attachment. She’d felt that way even as a child.
Get out, before they discover what’s missing from you. Before they see your not-good half.
She suddenly felt embarrassed to be there. A cynical fraud.Rowan ducked out of the halo of light cast by the paper lanterns, lifted a mostly full bottle of uncorked wine from the minibar at the edge of the party, and headed toward the pond where it was dark.
She didn’t bother to grab a glass.