Rowe by Jessica Gadziala

CHAPTER ONE

Billie

“I want to make something very clear. You and me, we are never going to be a thing. So you need to stop trying. It’s getting sad.”

“Ugh!” I screamed, the sound echoing off the woods surrounding me, dropping down to my knees from a downward-dog position, pressing my forehead to my yoga mat. “Damnit damnit damnit,” I hissed, banging my head a few times for good measure.

I’d gotten good at fighting off my intrusive thoughts.

People looked at me and saw love and light and my carefree demeanor. What they didn’t see was just how hard I’d needed to fight through my own issues to get to that place.

And I’d fought tooth and nail to overcome a lot of anxiety that had crept up on me in my early teens. It was the root of all the yoga and meditation, the essential oils and the herbal teas.

They were born out of necessity to allow me to be able to control a mind that was naturally inclined to obsess over things that happened, things that could happen, or things that never happened.

I was a world-class overthinker for a little chunk of my life.

So, after spending years working on controlling it, it was beyond frustrating to be plagued with intrusive thoughts again after so long without.

Well, no.

Not intrusive thoughts.

Not the plural.

It was one.

One thought.

One memory.

Four sentences.

Twenty-seven words.

Yes, I’ve counted.

When I was busy, when I was working, or with friends or family, I managed to keep my mind in the moment. Where it belonged.

But in the quiet moments that I held so sacred? When I wanted to reconnect with my soul and spirit and the magnificent world around me?

That was when those words came flooding back to me, ruining what used to be my favorite parts of my day.

It had been months. Months. I shouldn’t have still been dealing with the aftermath of those words, no matter how cruel and cutting they had been.

Sucking in a slow, deep breath, I released it on a scream so loud that the family of red-breasted nuthatches startled in the willow above me and flew away.

“The fuck happened?” a rough, familiar, out of breath voice asked, appearing out of nowhere a moment later.

“Nothing,” I said, sighing as I dropped back onto my ass to look up at the brick wall that dared to call himself a man… and my cousin.

“You screamed,” Malcolm said, taking a hand through his hair. “Did you get stuck or something?”

“Stuck?” I repeated.

“In a, you know, position or whatever they’re called.”

“They’re called asanas,” I reminded him. “And, no, I didn’t get stuck.”

“Then why did you scream?”

“Let’s call it a different form of yoga,” I said, rolling my neck.

“Well, if you’re going to practice screaming yoga, a heads-up would be nice. I ran all the way here,” he said, gesturing to my little special place in the woods surrounding his home.

Sure, I could practice yoga in a studio or in the park or even on the beach, but I never felt as connected to the world around me as I did when I was in the woods, surrounded by massive trees, the sounds of birds, and the soft trickling noise of the creek I set up on the soft grass beside.

This place was my bliss.

And I’d been coming more and more frequently lately.

Ever since…

Well, ever since someone I really cared about made it clear he thought I was needy and pathetic and not worth his time.

“What’s going on?” Malc asked, making it clear my eyes had betrayed me once again.

“Nothing. I just… I needed to get that scream out. Have you ever just had a scream trapped right here?” I asked, pressing a hand at the base of my throat.

“Can’t say I have.”

“It’s kind of like when one of you guys gets so frustrated that you need to pound on a punching bag,” I explained. “Because you all hold your tension in your shoulders. A lot of us, meaning female-identifying persons, we hold it in our throats and hips.”

“Well, how do you get it out of your hi—no, no I don’t want to know,” he said, holding up a hand when my lips started to curve up.

If there was one way to chase away a bad mood, it was by making your loved ones massively uncomfortable with sex talk.

Try it.

It’s cathartic.

“What is it you’re choking on then?” Malc asked, looking down at me with those knowing eyes of his.

I always thought of Malc as an old soul. Like his father before him, he was prone more toward silence, to listening, to communing with nature in his own way. It was also why he’d somehow managed to put up with all of his female cousins even through our—admittedly very obnoxious—teen years.

He just had the patience of a saint.

And the heart of an elephant.

I adored him.

Which only made me even more frustrated because I’d been seeing Malc less because of the whole ‘rejection scenario.’ Since I’d been the rejectee of Malcolm’s best and oldest friend, Rowe.

Even just thinking his name sent a stabbing sensation somewhere in the vicinity of my Manipura chakra.

“Hey,” Malcolm said, squatting down in front of me, lowering his head, and giving me the kind of unwavering eye contact that told me he wasn’t going to let it drop. “You’ve been off for months,” he told me, tearing up the script I’d written for myself that said I’d been hiding things pretty well. “I know you are always the one of the group who helps everyone else with their issues and emotions, but who’s got you?” he asked. “Someone’s gotta have you, Billie. You can’t take on all their shit, and have no one to turn to yourself.”

I wish it was their shit.

It was always so much easier to handle someone else’s big emotions than learn to process and heal from your own.

The problem was, I had the toolkit for my friends and family and clients. I knew what to hand them to help them build up or break down, whichever suited them most at that time.

I didn’t have my own toolkit.

Because I’d gotten to a point where very little stuck to and in me. It had been a mantra of my life that I needed to let everything pass through me.

People, places, hopes, expectations, situations, conversations. They all just passed right through me.

I believed when you let them get stuck was when they started to wreak havoc on you, making you anxious and depressed and unsure of yourself.

But because that had been my way of approaching life, I had no defenses up to block something from hitting me because I’d naively believed nothing could.

Until it did.

“I’m okay,” I assured Malcolm.

“But not good,” he said.

“No,” I agreed. “Not good. But that’s okay. Everything has its season. Good will come back.”

“Not sure life is like the changing of seasons, Billie,” Malc reasoned. As he would. Because he was a rational sort of person.

“Then you aren’t looking closely enough,” I told him, giving him what I hoped was a soft, serene smile.

I wanted him to drop it.

Because I was only so good at covering up my feelings, since I generally didn’t believe in doing that. If he pressed, he was eventually going to make me spill all the details. That couldn’t happen. I didn’t want to drive a wedge between Malc and Rowe.

Sure, they were old friends. But Malc and I were, in everything but actual blood, family. He would feel the need to side with me. I didn’t want to be the reason for a rift.

“I have to get going. I have a reiki session in a couple hours,” I told him, hopping up, and leaning down to roll up my yoga mat.

“Reiki. Is that more of the sex shit?”

“Sex shit?” I repeated with a smirk. “No. It’s like… energy healing.”

“Oh, okay. Good. Clothes stay on.”

“Malc, have you met me? Clothes never have to stay on,” I teased, enjoying the look of horror on his face.

I left him with that, walking back to my van through the woods, frustrated that my mind was in a dark place, so I couldn’t take in the beauty of Malcolm’s property.

I hoped one day to have a plot of land of my own like his. Somewhere that I could get lost in nature, grow wildflowers and native plants to feed the birds and bees, where I could meditate without neighbors’ misogynistic music thumping against the walls, where I could maybe even host my own outdoor yoga sessions or wellness retreats.

That was the dream.

And to one day get that dream to come true, I busted my butt with my dozen or so side hustles, socking away as much as possible for the future while not negatively impacting my enjoyment of the present.

Hence the last-moment reiki session when I already had a day packed full of classes.

It was a good thing I loved my work.

It took from me, yes, but it also fed me. If that made any sense.

“4A!” a familiar voice called as I climbed out of my van after parking at my building. “4A!” she called again, making me close my eyes and pull in a grounding breath. Because I knew what was going to follow.

“Yes, Mrs. Barnard?” I asked. “What is it?” I added, knowing she had a problem. She always did. With literally everything, but especially with me. Ever since that one time she walked past my window and saw me walking around my own apartment naked. Apparently, I’d scarred her and her dog for life.

Ever since then, it had been her mission to take issue with my very existence.

“You know what,” she insisted, jerking her chin up.

She was only maybe in her mid-forties, but a lifetime of frowning and grimacing had etched their marks deeply into her face. If she relaxed once and a while, she would be really pretty with her bright blue eyes and rounded face. But she’d dedicated her life to misery. People who did that tended to have that ugliness seep outward like a shield.

“As I typically do five things a day you disapprove of, I am going to need you to specify,” I invited, grabbing my messenger bag from my back seat.

“So you admit it?”

“Admit what?” I asked, smiling down at her feet at the fluff ball of a dog there, her pristine white fur shaped weekly by the groomer. Her little nails were even painted. I swear I once saw the dog sidestepping dirt on the sidewalk. “Hey, sweetie pie.”

“Her name is Chanel. I’ve told you a million times.”

“And I’ve told you a million times that Coco Chanel was a literal Nazi, so I’m not going to call her that.”

She scoffed at that, but plowed on. “Your curtains.”

“My curtains,” I repeated, brows wrinkling. “I thought you wanted me to put up curtains. So you don’t accidentally see my nipples again.”

Maybe reminding her of that incident wasn’t the best idea, because a low growl moved out of her at it.

“I didn’t mean those kinds of curtains.”

I’d put up the actual, material ones she’d requested. But a couple days ago, I went ahead and lined them with twinkle lights and pretty mermaid’s toenails I’d collected at the beach after the last big storm.

“Can I suggest possibly just not looking in my apartment?” I asked.

“No, you can not,” she hissed.

“Or possibly a couple orgasms,” I said, knowing I was only instigating her, but also very aware that when you were getting the nether region flutters on a regular basis, you generally weren’t grumpy enough to bitch about a neighbor’s curtains.

“How dare you!” she griped, face going beet red.

“I’m a sexual educator,” I informed her. “And orgasms are an important proponent to a healthy life. I’d be happy to give you or your husband my card to—“

“You stay away from my husband! You… you… slut!” she shrieked, storming away, pulling the poor dog named after a white supremacist behind her.

I had no interest in her husband, of course. And I genuinely did think that if they just discovered tantric sex or even just a position other than missionary, it would make them both much happier individuals.

Regardless of how she wanted to take what I had to say, at least it got her to leave me alone about the curtains. For a day or so.

“Good… goddess!” I shrieked, my hand flying to my chest when I opened my door to find a body sprawled over my royal purple velvet couch.

“Your apartment is too easy to break into, Bills,” Violet declared, shaking her head at me.

“You didn’t need to break in. I gave you a key,” I reminded her.

“We have like thirty or something cousins. I can’t carry the keys to everyone’s houses on me all the time. I’d need a giant janitor’s ring or something,” she told me, reaching down to undo the laces of her beaten-up combat boots. She’d already taken off her trademark leather jacket, leaving it draped over the back of the couch, leaving her in a pair of black acid wash jeans that somehow managed to make her already long legs seem longer, and a black tank top that, while it wasn’t form-fitting, did nothing to hide the fact that she had the best rack of anyone I knew.

“When did you get back into town?” I asked, hanging up my bag and putting my mat in the basket by the door.

“This morning. Dropped in to see my parents, then headed over here. I need to crash,” she added.

“You’re always welcome,” I told her, waving to the couch that had been like a second home to her.

“You’re not planning to have any naked friends over again, are you?” she asked, her honey brown eyes wide.

“Don’t be silly. It’s not a full moon,” I told her, breezing past the living area and toward the kitchen to the side of the room.

It wasn’t a huge apartment by any means. And, admittedly, I liked to jam it full of things I liked. Secondhand furniture, art, plants, statues, candles, tapestries, anything that made the space that had once been gray walls and cheap carpet floors seem more cozy.

Billie doesn’t believe in minimalism,Hope had once explained to a mutual acquaintance. And she’d been right. I was a maximalist in every way. There wasn’t more than a couple inches of wall space that wasn’t covered with some print or canvas from a local artist, some cool tapestry I’d bought at a metaphysical store, or hanging dried flowers or herbs I’d sourced from family members’ back yards or the farmer’s market.

Crystals of every shape, size, and color scattered across the scuffed coffee table, the side tables, the dining room table, my nightstands, the bathroom counter.

I’d covered the ugly carpet with various rugs I’d come across over the years in vivid, mismatched colors. Blankets were folded across the back of every chair.

I’d even taken my hand to the basic kitchen the unit had come with, putting colorful peel & stick tile over the floor and backsplash, and peel & stick wallpaper over the cabinets in a bright green color that made the space feel warmer.

Violet climbed off the couch, following me into the kitchen where I turned on the kettle, then pulled out the drip coffee set because I knew Violet would rather drink raw sewage than any of my herbal tea blends.

“Do I want to know?” she asked, grabbing one of the penis candles off of my dining room table.

“Oh, I got an order for a coming out party,” I told her.

My online shop was a relatively new addition to my already long list of jobs, but one I’d had a lot of fun with. I sold candles, bath salts and fizzies, tonics, body butters, really anything that I had fun making.

The penis candles had been my biggest order to date, and I’d had a blast making them.

“They wanted quite a variety,” Violet said, putting down the biggest cock candle with its neat, rounded head, and picking up a teensy, uncircumcised one.

“All cocks are good cocks,” I insisted.

To that, I got a raised brow from Violet who clearly disagreed.

“Fine, in and of themselves they are good cocks. What the owners of them do with them, well, that is debatable,” I conceded, grabbing two stoneware mugs a friend of mine had made for me.

“So, when one of these is lit…” Violet said, lips twitching.

“It looks like come is dripping down it, yep,” I agreed.

“Festive,” she declared, putting the cock candle back down next to its friends.

“That’s almost two-hundred dollars worth of cocks. It’s going to be a fun party.”

“Have you gotten yourself invited?”

“Not yet, but I’m hopeful. So, where are you blowing in from?”

“South Carolina. I still feel sticky from all that humidity.”

“Did you get your guy?”

“It was a chick this time.”

“How refreshing.”

“I know, right? I was glad to get her, too. She was a home health aide and she stole a bunch of shit from this old lady patient of hers who was bedridden, and just had to lay there and watch her steal all her shit. And then she was stuck there in her own filth for two days since this aide was her primary daily caregiver. Thank God a nosy neighbor popped over to check on her.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have been so hard on my very own nosy neighbor.

“That’s terrible,” I said, my stomach sinking for the woman.

“Yeah, the runner may have accidentally rammed her head into the side of my SUV for some reason. Real tragic,” Violet said, smirking.

I loved my cousin. But she, like Hope, was a bit more prone to violence than I was.

“Oh come on with the disapproving frown,” Violet said as I passed her the coffee. “You would have wanted to rough her up a bit too for what she’d done.”

“I would have lectured her about her role as a caregiver. Milk?” I asked.

“It’s not nut milk, is it?” Vi asked, nose wrinkling.

“Uhm, I think I have oat at the moment.”

“Okay then. What the hell do you need three teabags for?” she asked, watching me put them into my mug.

“Red Raspberry Leaf, nettle, and chamomile. For my moontime.”

“Just call it your period,” Violet said, rolling her eyes.

“Moontime sounds better. And it is cyclic.”

“You went and did yoga in the woods when you’re crampy and craving chocolate?”

“Exercise helps.”

“I would rather take your word for that than experiment myself.”

“How long are you in town for?”

“Until someone else skips far away, I guess. No one else likes to do the traveling. If it’s too long, I will bounce around. Hope is never home. She won’t even know I’m there.”

“I like having you here,” I insisted. I just didn’t know why she didn’t want a place of her own. Even if she wasn’t there often, there was nothing like coming home.

“I am… huh,” she said, reaching for her phone when it rang. “It’s Malc,” she added. “Hey, Big Guy, what’s… what?” she asked, stiffening, her smile falling. “Who? Are we in lockdown?”

Not again.

We were just in lockdown a little while ago over that rival MC thing.

“Okay, alright. I’m with Billie. I’ll tell her. Okay. Will do. Keep us updated.”

“What happened? Who’s hurt?”

“They were fucked over at a drop. New client. Tried to renege on the agreement. There was a shooting. Crow took a bullet to the thigh. But, ah…”

“What?” I asked, stomach flopping over. Had my father been on that drop? I didn’t ask about that kind of thing, knowing my father’s belief that it was better for my mom and me to be ignorant of some facts so the cops could never try to charge us with anything. “Is it my dad?”

“It’s Rowe,” she said, and the name was a knife to the gut. But I wasn’t sure if it was because of the issues with us, or the news of him getting hurt. Or both. Because, despite myself, I still cared.

“What happened?” I asked, voice choked.

“He was shot. That sounds superficial. But, ah, he fell off a roof, Bills. He hurt his back.”

“How bad?” I asked, heart feeling like it was getting squeezed in my chest.

“Bad, it seems. Not paralyzed, but not good either,” she said. “Sorry to be the one to tell you,” she added, wincing.

“Why?”

“Because, you know, of how you feel about Rowe.”

“I don’t feel any way about Rowe,” I insisted, shrugging.

“Oh, come on, Bills. This is me.”

“You’ve been away for a while. I don’t feel any which way about Rowe anymore.”

I just wished to hell that could be even halfway true.