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Slytherin4ever: Kind of got tainted, I guess.
OD: Well, in football, there’s something called a Hail Mary. Ever heard of it?
I can almost see her rolling her eyes, but her response pops up a few seconds later.
Slytherin4ever: Yes, I know what a Hail Mary is.
OD: Then you know what it means. It’s a long forward pass toward the end zone as a last-ditch effort at the end of the game where the completion is unlikely.
Slytherin4ever: What’s your point, Wikipedia?
OD: My point is that even though we can’t change our pasts, I’m coming for her. I’m throwing a Hail Mary pass, and I won’t go home empty-handed.
Slytherin4ever: Why are you telling me this?
OD: Because you deserve to know that one day, someone will throw a Hail Mary your way to give you what slipped through your fingers. Be ready for it.
Slytherin4ever: It’s getting late. I should probably get some sleep.
I smile as I press send.
OD: Me too. Goodnight, Slytherin4ever.
Slytherin4ever: Night, Owen.
10
Saylor
“Don’t hate me, but I can’t make it to the meeting today,” Skye informs me, her face scrunching up in shame as we head to our cars in the parking lot on Thursday afternoon.
“Why the hell not?” I demand.
“Because Sway needs me to check on her cats while she and Anthony are away.”
“Come on, Skye, we’ll do it after––”
“Nope. Their grumpy cat is on some medication that needs to be given at the same time each evening, or he’ll be in a lot of pain and will puke up his dinner. No one wants to clean up that mess, Say. Trust me.” Her nose wrinkles as if she’s smelled something rancid. “It’ll be fine, though. I’m sure lots of other volunteers signed up.”
“But what if”––my gaze darts over to Owen’s car parked a few stalls away from us––“he shows up.”
“Then he shows up, and you face him like a big girl.”
“But––”
“You’ll be fine, Say. Besides, it might be good for you two to connect in a way that doesn’t involve fake identities.”
With a scowl, I argue, “First of all, that was your idea. And second, you don’t understand. Owen and I were talking and….” My voice trails off as I toss my bag of to-be-graded assignments into the passenger side of my car.
“And what?” she prods.
I pop my head back out of the car, close the driver’s side door, and lean my butt against it. “And he said he’s going to make a move.”
“So?”
I glare back at her. “You’re kidding, right?”
“It’s been years, Say. And he seems genuine enough, doesn’t he? What if you give him another chance?”
