OWEN
Nah. I don’t think I could have. Too many memories. Plus once I realized I could convert the garage into a workshop there was no talking me out of it.
When you know you know, huh?
I feel heat creep up my neck for no good reason.
Pretty much.
I guess I feel like I’m living the life I’m meant to be living.
Mostly, anyway.
That’s amazing.
Totally jealous.
. . ·
I have no idea what that would even feel like.
That… I…
I’m trying to figure out what that means exactly or how to respond to it—or if I’m even supposed to acknowledge at all that a man whose life is the envy of millions just maybe implied he’s not happy with it.
Sorry. Don’t listen to me. I’m just stressed because I’m on a deadline.
It sounds like more than that to me, but do I really know the guy well enough to judge that? I definitely don’t know him well enough to call him on it. He clearly doesn’t want to talk about it. I change the subject.
So where are you now? You must be getting close.
Almost to town. I can see the lights up ahead.
Aw. I miss it. Is that weird? I know New York has Christmas up the wazoo, and Moonlake Village just has a little tree in the middle of the green, but…
You think I’m a weirdo, don’t you?
For saying “up the wazoo”? Absolutely. For being homesick? Of course not.
It’s such a matter-of-fact kind of acceptance that all of a sudden, I’m kind of choked up. What thefuck is wrong with me? I redirect with a little friendly teasing.
How do I know you’re even where you say you are? For all I know you’ve booked yourself into a spa in Stowe and are sipping Prosecco in a hot tub.
There’s no response for a couple minutes, and I start to think he’s lost the signal again when an image comes through.
It’s the Moonlake Village Christmas tree, lit up trunk to tip with colorful twinkle lights, and even though it’s midday, the lights pop against the evergreen and the gray sky and goddammit but I am homesick.
Oh wait, sorry. You wanted actual proof…
A minute later, another photo comes through. The tree’s still in the frame, but this one’s a selfie. George’s cheeks are rosy, and I can actually see his breath in the image. Dark waves of hair poke out haphazardly from under a hunting cap. He looks cold, but he’s grinning. I can’t help it. I grin back at him even though he can’t see me.
What do you think? Am I passing for a local yet? Except for the part where I’m wearing a dry-clean only coat I got at Saks, which I realize is all wrong.
Sometimes wrong is right.
It takes a minute for his next text to come through.
Did you just make a Miss Matched reference?
