I nod. She didn't tell me she'd been having dinner with Owen weekly either. It makes sense she'd keep something like Owen having a girlfriend from me. "I see your point."
"So, what if it was a woman on the other end of that phone call?" Livvie’s eyes bore into mine and I suddenly regret sharing.
If Owen had a girlfriend, would I really care? I mean, sure, he was a good-looking doctor who I had history with, but who cares? We both moved on.Right?
"I don't know."
"You don't know? Or you're not being honest with yourself?"
A shadow passes over my soul as my mind goes right back to what Owen and I truly share: three good years together that exploded like a supernova in one day. The memory of the foul things he said to me that day in my dorm floods my mind. How Ace stood by and watched in horror as Owen spewed verbal diarrhea all over me in an effort to mask his own pain.
I grab two more fries, using my fork to scoop up green chili. "He hurt me, Livvie. Badly."
"How badly?" she asks cautiously, clearly noticing the change in my mood.
"Not physically," I assure her. "No, nothing like that. It's just…" My palms come to meet in front of me. "When things went south, it got ugly. He said things, and they left a mark."
I finish my beer and take one more fry.
Livvie must sense I'm done talking, because she doesn't say more. Her second beer arrives and we move on to less emotional topics. We're knee-deep in a discussion about the best cannoli on the Upper East Side when a commotion at the bar stops us mid-sentence.
"You need a new set of eyeballs, friend! I'm just fine!" a man hollers with slurred speech. I look up and see a clearly drunk man with his back to me, swaying on his feet. Another man, bald and wearing a collared shirt, hovers near the drunk. Baldy turns slightly, and I make out the emblem of the restaurant embroidered on his shirt, so he must work here. As he reaches for the drunk man, the old guy shoves him off.
His voice … it’s raised the hairs on my arms.
Where do I know that voice?
That’s when the drunk turns and I get a clear picture of his face. He's older, his hair salt and pepper, but I recognize him immediately.
I bolt up from the booth, heart hammering in my chest, and Livvie follows.
"What are you doing," she asks, right on my heels.
"I know him," I tell her, and walk right up to the two men. The guy with the collared shirt, who is clearly a manager or something, is trying to explain something.
"Sir, we can't serve you any more tonight. Now, if you'll just tell me your name and address, I'll be happy to call a car to drive you home."
"This is ridiculous. I came here to spend my hard-earned money and you’re turning me away?"
"Hey there," I say, stepping up to the two men.
The manager puts a hand on my forearm. "Ma'am, I don't think it's a good idea to get in the middle of this."
I ignore him and focus my attention on Owen's dad. "Mr. Miller?"
He blinks two heavy-lidded eyes at me. "Autumn … is that you?" His face brightens a little and I’m relieved he remembers me in his inebriated state. But now that I’m close, I see how the years have aged him: thick red skin, wrinkles—time hasn’t been good to Mr. Miller, and I don’t think this is his first time getting kicked out of a bar.
I offer a small smile to the manager. "I've got this, sir."
He looks uncertain. "Are you sure?"
"Yes. I'll take him home. I know him."
He nods once, then steps away. Given how quickly he walks away, I'd guess he's grateful he doesn't have to deal with this situation any longer.
"Can we go somewhere and talk, Mr. Miller? I haven't seen you in a long time and I'd love to catch up."
He glances back to the bartender, who's shaking a cocktail in a metal shaker but is still keeping an eye on Owen's dad.
