And I let him.
I’m holding hands with Owen Miller. What kind of alternate universe is this?
We request a table on the patio in the corner, under an orange umbrella. Our table. When we sit, I adjust the wicker chair, dragging it closer to the table.
"It hasn't changed a bit," I remark, one finger bumping over the terra cotta tiled tabletop. Even the plants in the planter boxes along the gated patio look the same, deep green and waxy.
"No," Owen agrees. "But we have." His gaze, which is on the menu he holds in his hands, lifts to meet mine.
I don't know what to say to that, and so I choose to say nothing at all.
It’s true.
Our server comes, and we place an order for two prickly pear margaritas.
I smile at Owen when the waiter walks away, feeling a bit like I've done something naughty. "That's the first time I've ever ordered a real margarita here."
He grins. "Not for lack of trying," he reminds me.
"Oh gosh," I laugh, my eyes half-rolling. "That was embarrassing."
"It was funny," Owen corrects.
"Maybe for you," I say, picking up my menu but still peering at him above it. "I hope that server didn't get into too much trouble for serving me alcohol. I felt terrible."
It was silly, just a bet between Owen and me. He didn't think I had the guts to order a margarita and not say the word non-alcoholic while doing so. I showed him just how wrong he was. The flaw in the plan was that I didn't account for a gullible server. I assumed the server would take one look at my seventeen-year-old face and call bullshit. But no. So I decided to roll with it. The manager, however, was not as gullible as the server, and he came over before I could take a drink, apologizing profusely for their error in serving a minor who most certainly had not intended to order a real margarita. By his thirdI'm so sorry, which was accompanied by his over-the-top acceptance that the mistake was their fault, I realized his tone was more sarcastic than apologetic. And that he knew exactly what the seventeen-year-old girl in his restaurant had been trying to pull.
Despite the embarrassment of the night, we returned over and over. Can't keep a couple teenagers from their beloved chimichangas. We never saw that manager again.
Our drinks are dropped off. They are hot pink and sugar-rimmed. Owen lifts his, waiting for me to do the same. As I reach for mine, I get a swipe of sugar on my finger in the process.
"To old times and favorite tables."
I echo him and carefully clink my glass against his, then bring it to my mouth. It's cold and sweet. Refreshing. "This," I say, keeping the drink in the air so he knows what I'm talking about, "was worth waiting for."
"Yes," he responds, his tone gruff. "It was."
Something tells me he is not referring to the margarita.
Instantly, the empty third seat at our table is filled. Not by an uninvited person, but by a ghost. The shadow of our failed relationship sinks down into the wicker, uninvited but nonetheless expected. Did we really think we could get through a night at our old spot without it?
Chapter 14
Autumn
For most of dinner,we've managed to ignore the phantom at our table. Our conversation leans toward the basic, giving any possibly touchy subject a wide berth.
But our time is running out. I can feel it. And by the shift of his torso in his seat and the changing of positions of his legs, Owen can too.
"Thank you." I smile graciously at our server as she drops off my wine. A Spanish red. Owen has opted for a second margarita. Classic this time, not pre-made prickly pear. He said he was only allowed one hot pink cocktail a week, and had therefore reached his limit.
Our plates are cleared and we've declined dessert. There is nothing left but us, our drinks, and a conversation that, for all its meandering, has been headed in the one direction since I climbed into his car.
Owen picks up the straw from his drink, pinching it between his thumb and pointer finger before suddenly dropping it back into the glass. He looks at me, intensity burning in his gaze. "Why did we break up, Autumn?"
And here we are. The rest of the shit we haven’t hashed out has arrived.
I squirm. "You know why. We discussed it at coffee." I know it’s not possible to move on without talking about this, but a girl can dream.
