Page 110 of Breakaway Hearts

He looks at me, uncertain.

“Cooking for me, Madison?”

“I’ll deny it if you tell anyone.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he assures me, then reluctantly goes to the living room when I shoo him.

I feel him watching me as I get to work, heating up the pan and noticing he’s put apples and bacon inside his artisanal bread, with what smells like fancy cheeses.

When it’s done, I plate his grilled cheese and slice it in half, then carry it over with an ice pack I find in the freezer. Not that it was hard, as there’s an assortment of every possible size and format in there. Perks of a house of athletes.

I hand Owen the plate and gently put the wrapped ice pack on his wound without thinking, not even aware that I’m doing it until he puts his warm hand on my cold one. My breath catches, but he’s waiting for me to look at him.

“Thank you,” he says, and it hits me straight in the chest.

I need to get out of here.

“Your friends will be home soon, right?” I say, getting up and pulling my hand away as if I don’t feel the sparks.

“Not for a few more hours,” he argues. I don’t think he’s trying to make me feel guilty for leaving, but he looks up at me and says, “You could stay.”

“I—”

Every excuse sounds flimsy, but staying feels dangerous.

“We can be friends, can’t we?” He says it teasingly, but he looks so fucking vulnerable. “I’ll even let you choose the movie.”

“One TV show,” I bargain, but the boundary doesn’t feel like the victory I want it to be. “Have you seen the Suttons?” I ask, texting Jason to say I’ll be later than expected.

Owen starts the first episode of season one, then puts half his grilled cheese on a napkin, and gives me the plate with the other half.

“We do grilled cheese nights sometimes when we all get together, and my cousin-person is a chef, so he’s always introducing us to jam pairings and weird cheeses,” he shares, refusing when I try to give him back his plate. The smell has been taunting me, so I take a tiny bite, and it somehow tastes even better than it smells.

“Haylie’s brother?” I cover my mouth as I swallow, noticing that Owen smiles when he nods, which could be from his story, or because I’m paying attention and remembering his family tree.

“Jared always stuffs his with as much meat as he possibly can, and Tab likes to slip in jalapenos, which I personally think is so she doesn’t have to share, but mine always have apples in them, no matter what else I put.”

“Are they your favorite fruit?” I fully intend to stop the conversation as soon as the opening credits are done, even if I’ve seen the entire series before.

“Definitely the most versatile, but….maybe strawberries? Covered in chocolate and whipped cream.”

I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry.

I get up with the empty plate so I can grab a sip of water from my bag, but Owen calls out, “Would you mind grabbing me a coconut water from the fridge while you’re up? And whatever you want? I’d do it myself, but you seem to have decided a bruised stomach means I’m at death’s door, and I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“Good Boy,” I say without thinking, and his eyes darken. “You’re looking like you’d try again,” I warn, shaking my head while Owen raises his hands, palms forward, looking anything but innocent.

I grab his coconut water from the fridge, not planning to drink anything other than my water from my bag, but there’s an assortment of sealed beverages, including fancy carbonated drinks in glass bottles, which are sealed with stickers, and require a bottle opener, so I take a mango one.

I sit on a separate couch when I get back, because Owen is looking at me like stabbing pain isn’t enough of a deterrent.

I was teasing when I suggested the Suttons, figuring he would be on board with me leaving after the first one, but he seems to be enjoying it, not just as a ploy to get me to stay. Owen made the mistake – after both of us commented on the historical easter eggs – of telling me the actress playing Frances is Canadian, not British as I always thought her to be, which turns into a full-on director’s commentary, only it’s Owen telling me about the actors as human beings rather than BTS of the making of. And it doesn’t feel like gossip, more like a glimpse into his childhood, which I can’t even imagine. The money part I can sort of see, but visiting his dad on set, watching his mom build an empire…and as much as he talks about only living with one of his older siblings and the huge age gaps, he sounds incredibly close to all of them. Even his nieces and nephews, cousins and cousin-persons, aunts and uncles…it’s like everything I didn’t want to know about him comes pouring out, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it, I just keep asking questions because I want more.

When I come back from putting Owen’s ice pack in the freezer, I sit beside him, opposite side from the bruise, and while I keep my distance, we both have a hand resting on the empty seat cushion between us, and I swear they’re closer every time I look down, like I’m back in junior high, too nervous to tell a boy I like him. Which I don’t, I tell myself for the thousandth time tonight. I do not like Owen. Or at least not like like. I can’t.

I’m on a boat. Or something that’s rocking slightly, in the warmest, comfiest bed that feels like a hug. A hammock, maybe?

Then I open my eyes and see I’m still at Owen’s, and the rocking is him carrying me up a staircase. My entire body tenses, and I don’t think I’m breathing. I want to let him know I’m awake, to scream so he puts me down, but my body isn’t listening.