A little bit of guilt creeps into his face. "Autumn, she needed you. Not your money."
Oh, this self-righteous asshole.
"Weekly dinners and now you think you know my mom better than I do?” I step closer to him so that he is well within range if I decide to smack him, “She told me to stay there, Owen. She made it clear where she wanted me to be, and I respected her wishes."
His face carries a mixture of hurt and anger, "Fuck that, Autumn. You didn't want to come back because you didn't want to face me. You let her tell you what you wanted to hear."
There is so much anger inside me that my fingers are vibrating. My lips tremble, but there is nothing left inside me to hurl at Owen. This exchange has depleted me. He has touched on the guilt I feel deep inside my soul.
Tears sting my eyes. Owen sees them, and the angry planes of his face soften.
"Autumn…"
"Don't." I point a stiff finger at his chest. "Don't send any sympathy my way. I want nothing from you."
He sighs and backs up. "For the record," he says, walking backwards and then stopping. "This reunion went just about how I expected it to go."
"Good job accurately predicting the future. Do you know what I'm going to say next?"
Owen stares at me, waiting.
"I'll take it from here. Monday night dinners are my responsibility. We'll see you at her appointments." There is clearly too much history for Owen Miller and I to ever be in the same room with each other again.
His face falls. "I want to check on her after her chemo days."
I cross my arms. "No thanks. I've got that covered too."
Owen’s face is a mask of anger as he spins on his heels and walks to his car, pausing when he reaches it. He glances back at me. "Stubborn woman."
"Strength of conviction!" I shout and give him my back.
I don't need to watch him drive away again. This time, he can stare at me as I disappear.
Chapter 4
Owen
Fuck.
That girl drives me crazy. Woman, I mentally correct myself. She's a woman now. And what a woman she has grown into. Feisty as hell, stubborn, more than ready to go toe-to-toe with me. She wasn't always that way. She was never a pushover, but she wasn't always so easy to incite. Is it the person she has turned into or is it me? Does seeing me bring this out in her?
Whichever it is, it’s maddening. I can't figure out if I want to take cover and hide until she decides to leave again, or press my lips to that pretty mouth of hers and shut her up.
If I did the latter, she'd probably knee me in the balls.
The hate rolled off her in waves just now. I could feel it, see it, taste it. The worst part is that I don't blame her. I deserve it.
I had a chance to patch things up, but when she shut down my conversation, I lashed out and went right for her wounds. I was a grade-A asshole. Autumn brought that out of me.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel as I think of her. Mounds of dark hair curling down to the center of her back. She wore it shorter before, but I like it this way. She wasn't dressed in anything special, just baggy sweatpants before changing into tight jeans, but still as gorgeous as the day I met her. Her arms were slender, but her thighs were muscled, probably from all the walking around in the city. She has hips now too, graceful curves she didn't have before. She looked tired, and not just remnants from her redeye. Probably overworked, like me. Different careers, same pressure.
Funny how we've both let our work do that to us. It makes me wonder what else we have in common. Is she in a relationship? Has she been serious with someone? I’d glanced at her left hand and didn’t see a ring. My stomach roils at the idea.
It's not fair. I've dated. Not that I've been serious. The second the girl starts talking about a future, I'm done. It's been hell trying to convince my eighteen-year-old self that Autumn isn't my forever. It's a sad fact that I'm still trying to convince him. Her being back isn't helping the situation either.
I need to blow off some steam, so I reach for my phone and dial Ace.
"What's good, buddy?" he answers.
"You busy?"
"Uh…" He pauses. "Kind of. What's up?"
"Don't worry about it, man." He’s probably with a girl. My best friend is always with a girl.
He clears his throat. "Hang on."
The connection falls silent. I'm pretty sure he put me on mute. After a minute, his voice comes through.
"I'm available now."
"Ace…" I know what he did, and I'm sure it didn't go over well.
"You're more important. When was the last time you called me and sounded like a princess in need of rescuing? No way I'm gonna pass that up."
I groan. Great. The last thing I need is to be indebted to Ace. He'll call in the favor in the form of making me tell some poor girl that he had to rush into surgery and can't take her out on the date he promised her. No need to mention that Ace isn't a surgical oncologist. It'll just be a part of the story he, and by extension, me, will be feeding her.
"Where do you want to meet?" he asks.
"Shoot some hoops?" I suggest.
"For sure, man. Let me stop at home and change. See you in twenty?"
"See you soon." I hang up.
I stop at home too, changing into basketball shorts and shoes, and head back out.
"Girl troubles?" Ace asks as he approaches.
"You're late," I say, watching him walk up, a plastic bag swinging against his thigh.
He plops down on the bench beside me. "I stopped for some much-needed beverages."
I lean over, peeking into the bag. Two forties of beer knock against one another.
"Forties? What are we, eighteen?" I chuckle, tipping up my head to see my best friend. The sun has finally gone down. Some days I'm grateful for the long summer days, but other days the relentless sun can feel oppressive.
Ace pulls the bottles from the bag. The crack of opening the lid fills the air and he hands me one.
“Brother, some days I wish we were eighteen again.”
Yeah, because at eighteen he was sleeping with every girl in a five-mile radius of our dorm room. My eighteenth year was the darkest year of my life and you couldn’t pay me to relive it.
"Probably shouldn't drink these before we play," I warn, but even I don't listen to the warning. Placing the bottle to my lips, I take a sip. It's cool, crisp, refreshing.
"That's why I got the light beer. More like water than beer."
I nod. "True."
Ace takes a long swig and looks at me. "You gonna tell me why you called sounding like someone ran over your dog?"
I make a face. "That's not how I sounded."
"Sure is."
"Stop enjoying it so much."
Ace chuckles. "Cool and calm Dr. Miller? Sorry, no can do. You're just lucky I wasn't recording you, because if I told anybody how you sounded, they'd never believe me. You don't even believe me." He drinks again, and when he's finished, he says, "So, spill it."
My ankle crosses over my knee and I lean against the back of the bench, clenching the muscles in my shoulders until they coil tightly. "She's back."