Owen shrugs. "She's funny. I laugh."
"I'm still getting used to her sense of humor." We reach his car and he follows me around to my side, opening the door for me.
"Thank you," I tell him, sliding in. He’s done that since high school and it still makes my belly warm.
On the drive, Owen peppers me with questions about my job. Old job? Former career? I don't know what to call it.
"It was fun, I guess. Kind of like a puzzle. Figuring out the target demographic for a given product. Working with different clients." I think back to my building, the high-rise I walked to every morning and walked away from every night. It wasn't especially beautiful, not like other buildings Manhattan is known for, but it was a part of the skyline, and it made me feel special.
Owen makes a right, taking us off the black tar road and through a curved entry, his tires now bumping over cobblestones. Giant sycamore trees tower over us. Two-story buildings all around, ivy vines that curl and stretch, covering the thick stucco walls.
"Owen," I breathe, unable to take my eyes off my favorite place.
Tlaquepaque.
Tucked away behind a low stucco wall, it's not so much a hidden gem but one that requires a longer gaze to be discovered. It's not just a place, but a Spanish Colonial village. Tlaquepaque sits high above the bank of Oak Creek.
I know what I will find once we leave Owen's car: columns and arches, intricate ironwork and patterned tiles artfully decorating little spaces here and there. And everything, absolutely everything, built around the sycamores that stretch high throughout the village.
Owen has brought me to my favorite place, the very place we had our first date, back when neither of us could drive and my mom dropped us off here. In the courtyard, under the glow of white lights that wrapped around trees and the balconies of second story shops, Owen pressed his lips to mine for the first time.
I get out of the car, leaning back slightly and gently resting against the frame. If there is any place that could make me feel the word home, this is it.
Owen reaches for me, but only for a moment, the pad of his thumb brushing the inside of my wrist. "I was hoping you hadn't come back here yet."
My head turns and I look at him: at his strong chin, his angular nose, the freckle on his earlobe.
"I didn't bring you here to walk you down memory lane." The words trip from his mouth, his eyes bright with the hurry he feels to justify why we are here. "I just know how much you love the Mexican restaurant."
I'm stunned, trying to catch up to the feeling slipping through me, but Owen takes my silence for something else.
"We don't have to go there," he reassures me. "Other restaurants have opened since you've been here."
"El Rincon," I assert, my eyes still trained on his. It is our place. “I want our table, if possible."
At the words, our table, Owen’s lip peel into a sly grin and he nods swiftly. Gathering one of my hands in his, he leads me away from the car, across the cobbled street, and through an arched hallway. We spill out into the main courtyard. In the center, a stone fountain gurgles. People mill about, stepping over the places where Sycamore roots have pushed against the pavers laid atop them. I look around, drinking in the architectural ingenuity, the sheer beauty of a place capable of transportation. In here, the desert we live in is but a distant memory.
"Walk first?" Owen asks me, pulling my attention from a second-story shop. "Or eat first?"
"Eat," I respond without hesitation. The hike with my mom wasn't strenuous, but the sun still has a way of sneaking in and stealing energy; it made me hungry.
The front door of the restaurant is visible from where we stand. We walk there together, and though he doesn't need to, Owen keeps a firm grasp on my hand.
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 third I'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.