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.
"This is my house and he is a guest. I don't know what you said to make him leave, but I want him here. So, go get him. Now." Her tone is no-nonsense. She is not to be argued with, not that I want to. I want to make her happy, but if she knew what happened between Owen and I, she wouldn’t ask this of me. “Autumn, I raised you better than this.”
Dammit, that got me.
I put the plates on the counter and hurry out of the house, making it outside just in time to catch Owen climbing into his car. He sees me and pauses, one leg in and one leg out. He leans one arm on the top of the doorframe, the other on the roof. He doesn’t say a word, just looks at me and waits for me to speak. Smart man.
"Where are you going?" The attitude in my tone is heavy. I want to pick up a handful of dirt and throw it in his face, or egg his car, or something immature that I never got to do when I was eighteen.
"It's highly likely my dinner is poisoned. I don't think I should stay."
I have to hold back a chuckle. Owen always had a good sense of humor, but I’m not in the mood. I stare at him for a second, then decide to play nice, for my mother's sake, because she raised a good hostess. I pat my pockets and tell him, "I misplaced my poison. Tonight's dinner is safe."
A smile tugs up one corner of his mouth.
I wish time had been unkind to him, but the opposite is true. He's only grown better looking. His hair is longer than he used to wear it. It has the slightest wave to it. I hate to admit, even to myself, that it's cute. Fuck Owen Miller and his dashing good looks. Meanwhile, homeless Autumn is over here single and pushing thirty.
I tug at my sweatpants and pin him with a glare. “You coming or not?”
He steps away from his car and closes the door. Tucking his hands into his pockets, he walks closer to me, squinting as he approaches, the setting sun in his eyes. "Are you going to stab me with a kitchen knife?"
I didn’t even realize I still had the small knife in my hand and now I pretend to consider it. "Probably not. You better be on your best behavior though."
He stops beside me and I hate the zinging sensation in my body. All of me is at attention because he is near. How, after ten years apart, can I remember him so flawlessly? How can he still make my body come alive?
"Probably not?" One eyebrow lifts. "You're making one of my favorites, so I'll take those odds." He smiles.
I turn away. There is too much energy between us. I need to cut it off.
"Come on in, before it gets cold."
Owen follows me inside and I wonder what the hell can of worms I’ve just opened.
Two weeks ago, I was in my apartment in Manhattan. I ate in front of my laptop, working at night after working all day.
Now I was face to face with my past.
Funny how a phone call can change everything.
Dinner was … awkward.
I don't think my mom could've tried any harder to make conversation flow. I tried, I really did, but I just couldn't make it happen. A block formed in my brain.
A block made up of memories and pain and judgments. Every time I looked at Owen, every time he opened his mouth, all I could see, feel, and think of was our past. The good and the bad. Everything from the way he kissed, to the way he called me a monster and slammed a door in my face.