"Hey, can I ask you something?"
Owen’s voice snaps me back to reality. I glance over and lower my Kindle on my lap.
"Sure,” I reply. “What’s up?”
He twists toward me, one hand shielding his sunglasses from the brutal glare.
"Were your parents hardcore Sopranos fans?"
I arch a brow.
"Meadow," he clarifies, lips quirking up. “Like Tony Soprano's daughter?"
I know exactly where this is going.
When you’re named Meadow, it’s just a right of passage.
"Not that I’m aware of,” I chuckle lightly. “Zero mafia connections in my family tree. They just fell in love with the name and thought it was unique."
“Hmm,” he gives a playful grunt. "I always wondered—I’d never met a Meadow until you.”
"Yep,” I sigh. “No interesting lore behind my name, unfortunately. My parents just liked it.”
To his point, I’ve never met a Meadow either. I’ve always kind of liked having a unique name.
“And for the record,” I add against the rim of my glass, “I've probably answered that question five million times."
"I’m sure you have," Owen chuckles as his expression softens. "It really is a beautiful name—suits you perfectly."
"Thanks," I mutter as my pulse stutters against my neck.
I shift, angling myself closer to fully face him.
"What about you?" I ask. "Is there a story behind your name?"
My heart drops as Owen’s entire expression transforms in less than a second.
His carefree demeanor vanishes into mist, his muscles tensing as his focus drifts toward the waves.
Oh no.
Did I say something wrong?
“I’m, uh... I’m named after my father's little brother," he finally responds, voice flat. "My uncle."
“He was only twenty-five,” he adds weakly. “He died in a car wreck. He was hit by a drunk driver and was killed instantly.”
Oh my God.
Twenty-five years old?
That’s heartbreaking.
I reach my hand across the space between us and wrap my fingers around his wrist.
“Owen… I’m so sorry.”
He shrugs like he’s unfortunately had this conversation a million times.
