Yeah, right, and show how much I care he is here in the first place?
No way.
“I’m totally fine.” I tip my chin high and blow a stray hair out of my face.
"Alright, well, I'm going to wash up for dinner," my mom says, leaving the kitchen.
This is fine. I can handle this. Everything is fine. Taking a deep breath, I stare up at the ceiling. I knew I was going to see him. But so soon? I'm not sure I’m ready.
"Autumn?"
His voice reaches out, swirling around me like smoke, curling up my legs, my torso, over my shoulders. For three years, my sun rose and set on the owner of that voice. Slowly, I turn toward him, knowing we have to do this.
Owen stands there, arms crossed. It's a defensive stance, but his expression doesn't match. It's hard to describe his expression, except that it's not angry or hateful like I expected.
That was how he looked the last time I saw him and I expected it to be the same.
But now? I see concern. Apprehension. Nervousness.
Too bad I don't feel the same. Too bad he could drop dead right now and I wouldn't even attempt CPR. Ten years ago, Owen stood in my dorm room in Santa Clara and told me exactly what he thought of me. I’d stayed quiet, absorbing everything he said, believing each ugly word. I thought I deserved it.
The worst part? A part of me still believes what he said. It's funny how a person can know something is ridiculous on the outside, but on the inside anything is possible. Emotions can turn something around and make it believable, acceptable. This is how we believe lies about ourselves, even when we know they are lies.
He takes a step into the room. Two more. I watch him like a lion watches her prey.
He pauses a few feet from me. “I—"
I raise a stiff palm and he stops. I realize in that moment that I’m not ready to do this, I’m not sure my heart can go back in time right now. Not with my mother sick and all of my worry on her.
"I don't know what you're going to say, but I don't want to hear it. I don't even understand why you're here." My insides are shaking. My whole body feels like a snow globe violently shaken by a toddler on a sugar high.
The corner of Owen's mouth quirks up, just like it always did. I hate that he still does that. I hate that I remember it. "Your mom's prescription," he explains.
I push a hand to my hip, willing the shaking to stop. "Do you hand deliver medicine to all your patients, Owen?"
He squeezes his eyes shut, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. "You aren't going to make this easy, are you?" He reopens his eyes and studies me and I see pain there, just behind the eyes. And just like that I’m taken back to that day … the day that broke us. The day that stained my soul—the sterile room, the smell of antiseptic, the way we held hands so tightly I thought my fingers would break.
Shaking my head to remove thoughts of the past, I turn back to the food, flipping over the chicken. I'm not sure what there is that I have the power to make easy, and I don't want to ask.
I feel it the second he disappears from the room. I'm reaching for three plates and the intensity evaporates.
Well,good.
He can go to the living room and wait for dinner. I don't have anything more to say to him right now. Owen Miller doesn’t deserve my grace. I am going to make this as hard on him as possible because he made things hard on me ten years ago and payback is a bitch.
But even as I think it, I feel my resolve softening. What we went through … it tore us both in two and maybe he deserves a little tiny bit of understanding…
"Where is Owen going?" my mother asks, coming back into the kitchen.
Guilt suddenly gnaws at my gut. "I didn't know he left."
"He just walked out the front door, Autumn." My mother looks at me like I’ve done something wrong.
"Okay." What does she want me to say? It’s not my fault he left, though I do feel bad that any guest would feel unwelcome in my mother’s home on my account.
She points to the door. "Go get him please."
"What? No." She had no idea what she was asking me to do.
