He chuckles. “Yeah. Like you’ve been kissed.”
“I have been. Thoroughly. Good… um…” I have an unfortunately timed crackle in my voice. “Good job, buddy.”
He laughs again and croons, “It was truly my pleasure, pal,” before he shuts the door. His shadow passes in front of the car on the short journey to the passenger seat where we will share air for the next six minutes, give or take the wonky traffic light at the end of Peach Street that always seems to pause on red for unreasonably long frames of time on Saturday nights. I saya prayer that time is on my side tonight—the good Lord knows I need this—and when Owen slides into his seat, I put the car in drive, counting down the seconds until we pull into his driveway.
When we finally arrive, five minutes and forty-eight seconds later, I put the car in park and wait.
Owen taps his hands on his knees, just as quiet as me.
“Owen,” I say like I have full autonomy of my voice and mind at the moment. “Why don’t you drink alcohol?”
I’m not sure why, after everything that’s happened on this very interesting evening, this is the question I need answered first.
“Come on, Brooke… let’s get inside.” He grabs the handle.
“I keep thinking through all our years of friendship. All the parties and Badger events. You never drink. Not one drink. Why didn’t I know that?” I finally look at him for the first time since leaving the bar. Though I’m perplexed and maybe spiraling a smidge, I still can’t help but want to be closer to him. He broke the no contact seal, and now I can’t seem to shake it. I stuff my hands under my legs so I don’t do something crazy like reach out and trace the shadow along his jaw, and, instead, focus on the matter at hand. “It’s because of… him… isn’t it…? My dad.”
He nods.
“I have no interest in doing anything that will make you ever doubt that you are the most important person in my life, Brooke.” The air grows thick between us. “Alcohol… money, fame, baseball, sex… It’s all nothing when I already have everything.”
My stomach sinks, but Gretchen doesn’t get the memo. The little hussy. She’ll likely never recover after tonight, growing fartoo big for her britches and making much of Owen’s declarations that can’t go any further than this time and place.
“You are… the best man I know, Owen Jones.” My hands physically hurt holding back from him. “The absolute best, Babe.”
Even in the dark, I see both dimples pop with his pleased smile. “Ready to go in, Ruth?”
“Ready.”
Or not… Here we go.
Owen’s two bedroom farmhouse sits on a small plot of land just outside the city. Much like his family home has done for all the years of our friendship, Owen’s place takes me in like my own personal refuge. I helped him househunt when he received his first signing bonus with the Badgers two years ago and decided to keep his permanent residence in Honey Hill, despite the travel schedule involved. We both agreed that the little house on Nectarine Drive framed by dogwoods, a picket fence, and a charming Christmas tree planted square in the front yard was the cozy homebase he’d been dreaming of, and admittedly, I had too.
Knowing that the spare bedroom waits just beyond the door—with my favorite mattress, and the softest sheets, and the most fluffy of comforters—has me anxious to rush the conversation that’s awaiting me inside just so that I might shelter in the safety of that neutral-toned, perfectly minimalist-styled room—I pretend is just for me—and forget about the world for a while.
It’s the thought of cuddling under those perfect sheets that has me leaving the bombshell he just dropped in the car, trudging silently up the front door steps, slipping my shoes off at the entrance, and heading straight for the couch where Owen and I will surely decide how to lovingly break the bad news of our misunderstood engagement to the town, then settle this nonsense between us once and for all.
He’s long overdue for meds, so I grab the bottle and glass of water sitting on the kitchen counter on the way to the couch and offer them to him before he even shuts the front door behind him.
“You can have another in four hours. I’ll set a timer and wake you up for them.” Just like I have every night since his injury. I hand over the goods and pat the seat beside me. “Let’s chat.”
After popping the meds in his mouth and taking the most luxuriously long gulp of water to wash it down—thank you very much—Owen slowly takes his seat, exhaling deeply when his back connects with the couch frame.
“O, you’re hurting. We should have left a long time ago.”
“I was”—he smirks, eyes closed as he settles into the couch, visibly uncomfortable—“distracted.”
“Yeah. Proposing marriage will do that to a guy.”
“Meh.” He shrugs, eyes still pinched tight. “One of us had to do it, and we both know you never would have.”
“Owen, we’re not getting married.”
His eyes finally open. “I really think we should.”
“No.” I roll my eyes. We’re on borrowed time here. Once those pills start working their magic, Owen won’t be able to hold his head up straight, let alone hold an important conversation. “It’s a game show, Owen. A reality show… It doesn’t really matter. But our friendship… It’s everything, ya know?”
“I know.” He sits up, slowly scooting a bit closer before inching his hand across the small stretch of fabric that separates us and letting it rest on mine. “This okay?”
