The kids at school didn't make it easier. Small towns have long memories. Everyone knew my grandmother, who ran that old B&B, knew the daughter who'd married wrong and drunk herself to death, knew the granddaughter who'd been left behind like something unwanted.
They cornered me behind the gym one afternoon. Four of them, faces I recognized from classes, names I'd never bothered to learn.
"Orphan girl," one of them said. "Lives in that creepy old house."
"I heard her family's cursed. Everyone who lives there dies."
"Maybe her mom killed herself because Grace wasn't worth living for."
The words landed like blows. I stood there, frozen, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to do anything but absorb the impact.
Then Owen appeared.
He didn't yell. Didn't threaten. Didn't puff up the way boys did when they wanted to prove something. He just walked over, put himself between them and me, and said quietly, "That's enough."
Something in his voice made them listen.
I was shaking. My hands wouldn't stop trembling.
Owen just said, "You okay?" and walked me to class.
His presence felt like gravity when everything else was spinning.
Sixteen years of showing up.
I stared at the ceiling, one hand on my belly where the baby fluttered and turned.
Sixteen years.
Pride is just fear wearing a different coat.
Mrs. Patterson was right. I was afraid. Afraid of needing someone. Afraid of what it meant that Owen was the one I needed.
The baby fluttered again.
I reached for my phone.
Grace
I'm sorry about earlier. You didn't deserve that.
The response came quickly.
Owen
Nothing to apologize for.
Grace
There is. I was scared and I took it out on you.
Owen
I know. It's okay.
Three dots. Gone. Back again.
Owen
