"I'm glad Coach remembered you," Owen says, filling the silence I've let stretch too long. "See? You're not as invisible as you think."
"Maybe not to Coach Patterson."
"Or to me." His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. "Ivy, I meant what I said. I'm not expecting anything from you. I just wanted you to know where I stand."
"I know." My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
"Okay." He smiles, but there's something in his eyes that looks like disappointment. Or maybe resignation. "Want to walk around? See who else is here?"
He's giving me an out. A way to move past this moment, to pretend he didn't just lay his heart at my feet. I should take it. Should let us go back to the easy conversation, the gentle flirting, the safe distance of getting to know each other.
But I also know that if I do, if I let this moment pass, I might never get the courage again.
"Owen, I—" I start, but then the DJ's voice booms through the speakers.
"Alright, Blackwater Falls Class of 2010! It's time for our class photo! Everyone to the front steps in five minutes!"
The room erupts in movement. People standing, grabbing their drinks, heading toward the exit. Owen's hand slips from mine as someone jostles our table.
"We should probably go," he says. "For the photo."
"Right. Yeah." I stand up, smoothing down my cardigan even though it's hopeless. I'm still in jeans and an old sweater. Still completely underdressed for this.
Owen must see something in my face because he steps closer. "Hey. You look perfect. Stop worrying."
"I'm not worrying."
"You're biting your lip. You always bite your lip when you're worrying."
The fact that he's noticed this, that he's been paying attention enough to know my nervous habits, makes me happy.
We follow the crowd outside. The rain has stopped, leaving everything wet and glistening under the inn's exterior lights. The photographer is setting up on the front steps, arranging people into rows. Tall people in back, shorter people in front. The same formation we used for every class photo since kindergarten.
Owen and I get separated in the shuffle. He ends up in the back row with the other tall people, and I'm pushed toward the middle, wedged between two women I vaguely recognize but can't name.
I can see Owen scanning the crowd, looking for me. When our eyes meet, he smiles, and it's like everything else fades away for a second.
"Okay, everyone squeeze in!" the photographer shouts. "On three, say 'Blackwater!'"
We squeeze. We smile. We say "Blackwater" in a chorus of voices that ranges from enthusiastic to deeply sarcastic.
The flash goes off once, twice, three times.
"Great! Got it!" The photographer waves us off, and immediately people start breaking apart, heading back inside or toward the parking lot.
I'm trying to navigate through the crowd when I feel a hand on my elbow. Owen.
"There you are," he says. "I lost you for a second."
"I'm right here."
"Good." He doesn't let go of my elbow. "Want to get some air? Actual air, not crowd air?"
I nod, and he leads me around the side of the building, away from the main entrance. There's a small garden here, just a bench and some rose bushes, but it's quiet. Private.
We sit down on the bench, and for a moment neither of us says anything. I can hear music still playing inside, muffled through the walls. Someone laughs loudly. A car engine starts in the parking lot.
"This is nice," Owen says.
