I blow out a breath and take a drink.
I can't even begin to make sense of what happened to us back then. Or what happened last night. What was I thinking? Did the dark shadows that hid us from detection dim my brain also?
Or was it Owen who took away my common sense?
Whatever it was, what happened was probably a bad idea. A bad idea that felt so, so good. Not just how Owen made me feel, bringing me a release I'd desperately needed, but having him at all. Being touched by him. Being back in the arms of the man who was my everything. First kiss, first love, first heartbreak, he was all of it.
I sit quietly, finishing my wine and looking out at the darkened sky. The baseball game must be good. Owen hasn't come to find me, something I hate to admit I was hoping for when I came out here. An uncomfortable feeling unfurls inside me. I don't like that I wanted him to notice my absence, to search for me.
Getting up from the love seat, I walk inside, depositing my wine glass on the counter beside the sink and stepping into the living room. Owen, sitting back in my mom's chair, is fast asleep. The TV casts a whitish-yellow glow on his face as I walk closer. His lower lip has pulled away from his upper lip, and a heavy, rhythmic breath slips in and out. A wavy lock of his hair tumbles down over his forehead and I’m entranced by how handsome he is.
Should I let him sleep? I'd hate to wake him. He was exhausted when he arrived and he looks adorable. His broad shoulders take up so much of the chair. He has it reclined; his feet hang off the end. Looking at him now, it's nearly impossible to remember the way his face twisted in an angry mask that day in front of my dorm room.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, so quietly it's almost soundless.
Will he ever know how sorry I am? How deeply I grieved my choice? How much I still do?
I grab a blanket and cover him before clicking off the TV and walking to my room, tears running down my cheeks, my arms wrapped around a womb that once held our baby.
* * *
He’s gonewhen I wake up.
The blanket I laid over him last night is folded, hanging neatly over the arm of the recliner. A note lies on top of the gray knitted wool.
A,
Thank you for letting me sleep. I needed it.
Coffee at ten.
O
"I see you got your note," my mom says, coming up behind me.
I turn to look at her. She's wearing pajamas, the ones I sent her for Mother's Day two years ago. Pale pink, trimmed in ivory lace. They swim on her.
She brings a cup of coffee to her lips and blows across the top, eyebrows lifted, waiting for me to respond.
"Yeah," I say, tucking the note into my palm. "How do you feel?"
"Fine." She inclines her head at my curled palm. "Did he sleep here?"
I knew there was no way she was going to let it go.
I nod. "He fell asleep watching TV and I didn't have the heart to wake him. He was exhausted, and he looked so peaceful."
Mom turns, walking back to the kitchen, and I do too.
She pours coffee into a mug for me and hands it over. "Thanks." I take it, adding a little oat milk from the fridge.
"You know," she says as soon as I lift the cup to my mouth, "last week you wouldn't have let Owen stay and watch TV, let alone allow him to sleep here."
I nod slowly. "Probably not."
But then he fingered me on the side of his dad’s house and suddenly I’m feeling forgiving I guess.
I’m not ready to talk to my mom about Owen yet. I’m still trying to figure it out for myself.
