When I was seven, I tried out for and earned the role of Wendy in my school’s production ofPeter Pan.I learned every line, practiced my facial expressions endlessly in the mirror, and drove my mom crazy with all the songs even before the first rehearsal. And when rehearsal time came, it was my dad whodropped me off, telling me how proud he was of me. How he couldn’t wait to see my performance and that he knew I’d steal the show.
He smiled, slipped a little diecast collectible VW van—mint and cream and brand new—into my pocket, then hugged me like he might never let me go. I can still remember the way he smelled like his beer of choice and the old truck he spent so much time restoring. Like warm, worn leather and the grease his hands seemed to always be stained with.
When rehearsal ended, though, he never came back for me. And later that night, he never came home. Though Mama assured me time and again throughout the years that nothing I could have done that night, or ever, would have kept him around a little longer, I have always regretted rushing into rehearsal and not holding on to his hug for as long as he would allow.
And it may be childish, but I feel like that right now.
Like if I let go of Owen, I’ll lose him. He’ll walk out of this bar, and even though he might love me, it won’t be enough. My eyes sting with tears, and my dumb best friend with his dumb intuitive nature makes gentle shushing sounds in my ear.
“It’s okay, Babe. We’ll talk through it. We’re okay.”
But we aren’t.
Because all at once, the entire place explodes in celebration. The rowdy crowd at Tots, Collaborate & Listen don’t see a twenty-five-year-old woman having a minor emotional breakdown in her best friend’s arms. Nope. They’re seeing an acceptance to a very important question. One she waited an agonizingly long time to answer.
Breezy, Titan, Drew, and Brennan surround us when Owen pulls away, hand still firmly grasping mine.
“Guys”—Breezy drapes an arm over Owen and me—“I can’t believe this.”
Neither can I, my dude.
We’re quickly pulled from our seats and separated in a firestorm of congratulatory hugs.
Titan quietly sobs into Owen’s good side, the old—but deeply mistaken—softie, while Drew and Breezy playfully fight over who gets to be best man. I think I hear them say they’ll “play for it.” Which means the bridal party in my imaginary wedding will come down to a fight between Donkey Kong and Yoshi. So, that’s fun.
Mom squeals, sloshing the drink in her hands onto the floor as she rushes towards us. She grabs Owen first, who, bless him, looks absolutely mortified by what’s happening. I don’t see how we’ll talk our way out of this one, but I’m certain I’ll be using this moment as blackmail for years to come.
“You cad!” Mom slaps him playfully on the chest but, then, kisses his cheek. “I knew you’d be the one to take care of my girl.”
“I will,” he says like it’s a solemn vow. Against my explicit wishes, good ol’ Gretchen does a tap dance in my belly. “But I am sorry I didn’t speak with you first, Ms. Beth.”
“Oh, honey, you call me Mama now, okay?”
Owen doesn’t get a chance to try out the new moniker as Mom turns to me and grabs my hand, looking at the lack of significant jewelry on my finger. “Where’s the ring?” Her eyes transform from absolute glee toangry mama bearin mere seconds. “Did you not have a ring, Owen Jones?”
“I do.” Owen runs his good hand through his hair, before he takes my hand from Mama’s and runs his thumb across my fingers. “I have a ring.”
My good, green friend, Gretchen, does the Harlem Shake.
Jerry, mom’s future husband number six, suddenly slur-yells, “Drinks on the father of the bride!”
Which I wish I could laugh off, but I’m finding my sense of humor rapidly dwindling in direct relation to the amount of people congratulating us and the number of dates my motherhas begun to holler as if she is ready to plan my wedding here. In a tater tot bar. While a guy who famously plays a rogue pirate in box office blockbusters sings “Let it Go” like he’s a Disney princess with magic problems.
No. I don’t think this is funny, at all. I might actually be crying again.
Owen wraps his arm around my waist and rolls me into himself, half caging me into his chest. And, yeah, his T-shirt is quickly damp, so tears are present. To the crowdcooingandawingaround us, he looks like a blissful, newly engaged man, but we both know what this really is. Owen’s my safe space. A holding dock just for me. A security blanket wrapping me as close as only he can.
“I’m gonna get my girl home,” he announces. The place cheers again, and I curl in all the more. He puts up a hand in the air, only mildly pacifying the crowd. “Not what I meant, y’all. Get your minds outta the gutter.”
He grabs my purse, putting it over my shoulder, and I figure I have to be brave if he’s doing the hard work of getting us out of here, so I reluctantly loosen my Velcro hold to his body, and face the music, so to speak.
“First, a toast!” Brennan announces, holding a beer out for Owen.
Breezy slides into the space, all too graciously taking the offered beer from his hands. “Jones doesn’t drink during ball season.”
“Surely, he can now.” Brennan points a look of faux pity at Owen that I can’t say wins him any points in the mental tally book of worthy friends I keep for him. “He’s not playing this season.”
“No,” Titan fires back. “Jones never drinks. Not even when we were in college.”
