Page 41 of Stud

Rachel was taken, Gwen was on an asshole break, as she called it, and I was…

Big, fat question mark.

Defeated, the men went to search for other fish in this glittery sea, but Gwen leveled raised eyebrows at me. “Since when do you turn down drinks?”

“I don’t know. Nothing. Whatever.” God, I was pathetic.

Rachel nudged Gwen. “She’s lying to us.”

Gwen lifted her chin, studying me. “I know.”

“Does it have to do with that gay guy?” Rachel asked her.

“Maybe. She was weird on the phone about it.”

“You two suck,” I said, reminding them I was at the table. But we often pulled this stunt, omitting one person from the conversation to make them squirm. It totally worked. “Yes, it’s about that guy. There’s a story. Get me my drink first.”

Gwen saluted me and scurried over to the bar. Rachel grooved on her seat to the smooth R&B tunes. A Rachel groove looked like a giraffe on stilts trying to ice skate. It should have been enough to entertain me while I awaited my liquid courage, but thoughts of bars and flirting and buying drinks had me picking my newly polished nails.

Because Owen, Owen, Owen.

As maniacal as I’d been with him at our park yesterday, pawing at him like it was my job, insecurity had swept over me since. My history with Brandon kept rearing its ugly head, reminding me how painful relationships could be until my anxiety had stretched its wings, flapping fitfully through my belly.

Owen was in D.C., and his life there was a blank crossword with no clues. There could be an ex-girlfriend. He could be out with friends in his own ocean, circling schools of fish, buying drinks.

We hadn’t discussed what we were, or if we were exclusive. We hadn’t even been on a proper date. (Dinner with Gay-Not-Gay Owen didn’t count.) Yet I felt like we were an item. Weeks of talking and laughing had set the stage for a romance that peaked yesterday. If he went out with another woman, it would hurt.

Gwen returned with our drinks. I downed half of mine, then blurted the whole story. Worried I’d impede my wish, I hadn’t told them yet about my volunteering, but needing advice trumped that silly superstition. I finally admitted my Habitat for Humanity work. Meeting Owen. Then Gay Owen. Then Not-Gay Owen. I couldn’t unpack the Anton Bickley situation yet and omitted that particular soap opera, but I bled out the rest.

Rachel spun her wineglass. “You met Owen at the Habitat build?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he tall and fit, with a deep voice and sandy hair? Looks like he belongs at a rodeo?”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Have you been creeping me?”

“Oh my God. Owen!” She smacked her hands together. “This is insane. He’s friends with Jimmy. The one I mentioned volunteered at the build.”

I blinked, dumbfounded. “My Owen is the Habitat guy, and he’s friends with Jimmy?” I’d been reduced to repeating the obvious.

“From when they were teens. They played soccer together. They reconnected when Owen moved back to town. This means we get to double date!”

Gwen shook her head. “That’s actually pretty nuts.”

Absolutely crazy. It also meant Rachel might have intel. “So”—I sat on my hands before I picked my nails to death—“have you guys hung out?”

“A bit, but usually short chats after a soccer match. We did have lunch once.”

“And?”

“And what?”

I rolled my eyes at the ceiling. After six years of gym workouts, drunken nights, and gossip sessions, I shouldn’t have to spell this out. “I need to know all the things. Did he have a serious girlfriend in D.C.? An illegitimate child? Does he run a drug ring or work as a gigolo at night?”

Gwen snickered. “Shouldn’t you know all this? You just said you guys have done nothing but talk for weeks. Why didn’t you ask about his history?”

“Because he was gay.” I needed to apply for new friends.