"This is my house and he is a guest. I don't know what you said to make him leave, but I want him here. So, go get him. Now." Her tone is no-nonsense. She is not to be argued with, not that I want to. I want to make her happy, but if she knew what happened between Owen and I, she wouldn’t ask this of me. “Autumn, I raised you better than this.”
Dammit, that got me.
I put the plates on the counter and hurry out of the house, making it outside just in time to catch Owen climbing into his car. He sees me and pauses, one leg in and one leg out. He leans one arm on the top of the doorframe, the other on the roof. He doesn’t say a word, just looks at me and waits for me to speak. Smart man.
"Where are you going?" The attitude in my tone is heavy. I want to pick up a handful of dirt and throw it in his face, or egg his car, or something immature that I never got to do when I was eighteen.
"It's highly likely my dinner is poisoned. I don't think I should stay."
I have to hold back a chuckle. Owen always had a good sense of humor, but I’m not in the mood. I stare at him for a second, then decide to play nice, for my mother's sake, because she raised a good hostess. I pat my pockets and tell him, "I misplaced my poison. Tonight's dinner is safe."
A smile tugs up one corner of his mouth.
I wish time had been unkind to him, but the opposite is true. He's only grown better looking. His hair is longer than he used to wear it. It has the slightest wave to it. I hate to admit, even to myself, that it's cute. Fuck Owen Miller and his dashing good looks. Meanwhile, homeless Autumn is over here single and pushing thirty.
I tug at my sweatpants and pin him with a glare. “You coming or not?”
He steps away from his car and closes the door. Tucking his hands into his pockets, he walks closer to me, squinting as he approaches, the setting sun in his eyes. "Are you going to stab me with a kitchen knife?"
I didn’t even realize I still had the small knife in my hand and now I pretend to consider it. "Probably not. You better be on your best behavior though."
He stops beside me and I hate the zinging sensation in my body. All of me is at attention because he is near. How, after ten years apart, can I remember him so flawlessly? How can he still make my body come alive?
"Probablynot?" One eyebrow lifts. "You're making one of my favorites, so I'll take those odds." He smiles.
I turn away. There is too much energy between us. I need to cut it off.
"Come on in, before it gets cold."
Owen follows me inside and I wonder what the hell can of worms I’ve just opened.
Two weeks ago, I was in my apartment in Manhattan. I ate in front of my laptop, working at night after working all day.
Now I was face to face with my past.
Funny how a phone call can change everything.
* * *
Dinner was… awkward.
I don't think my mom could've tried any harder to make conversation flow. I tried, I really did, but I just couldn't make it happen. A block formed in my brain.
A block made up of memories and pain and judgments. Every time I looked at Owen, every time he opened his mouth, all I could see, feel, and think of was our past. The good and the bad. Everything from the way he kissed, to the way he called me a monster and slammed a door in my face.
I had managed to excuse myself to the bathroom just as we walked in from his car. I ran upstairs to put on skinny jeans, blush and run a brush through my hair.
After we ate, Owen did the dishes. He sent my mom and I to the couch, claiming it was his turn to put in some of the work.
"Dish duty," my mom sang, and they shared a knowing smile.
My chest tightened as I watched the familiarity between them. It made me angry. Owen has been here, spending time with my mom, and I didn't even know it. I was in New York, grinding away, chasing my career dreams. Funny how reality sets in once the shine wears off. I went to New York with my shiny new marketing degree, ready to work at an advertising firm and use my creativity. And I did. It just didn't feel as good as it sounded when I was in college. Not that any of that matters anymore. I'm back in my hometown, ready to take care of my mom and help her win her third battle.
I've been sitting beside her on the couch for the past ten minutes, silent, as some inane show with canned laughter plays loudly on the television.
The irritation at her obvious closeness with Owen beats a rhythm in my chest, until I feel it building up, up, up and it feels impossible to avoid. "How often do you see Owen?" My voice bursts into the silence, and I feel my mom startle against my shoulder.
I scoot back on the couch so I can look at her. She leans forward, grabbing the remote from where it lays on the ottoman, and mutes the TV.
