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She forced a smile. “Oh, just a few friends, Aunt Jane...The Palmers.”
“Are you kidding me?” I don’t even know if Owen realized that he dropped my hand like a hot potato when he added, “Maybe you should have mentioned that in your message.”
“Owen.” She shook her head as if to tell him, a grown man, that he was behaving badly.
Palmer, I would soon come to find out, is Ava’s last name, and the two families aren’t just old friends, as Owen described them, but are more like extended family. The moms are best friends, the dads went to law school together, and Owen’s two sisters think of Ava as a beloved big sis. But not, you know, in an Owen and Ava incest weird sorta way.
I did my best, I really did. I smiled when I was introduced, attempted small talk even though I felt like I had a stone lodged in my throat, and I’m pretty sure I managed to keep my very nervous hands from shaking.
But after choking down an extra spicyvirginbloody Mary—seriously, what’s the point?—and a few nibbles of the yummy frittata I normally would have devoured, I wanted out.
Owen stayed by my side as his sisters fussed over him and made polite, forced chitchat with me, he ran interference when his aunt started asking intrusive questions about my background, and he held my hand when Ava’s mother made a show of looking me over from head to toe.
Did I mention that brunch was a smart-casual affair, and I was dressed one hundred percent casual, complete with wrinkles? Me, the queen of the sundress? Well, today I was wearing unwashed jeans, my last pair of clean underwear, and a t-shirt that I managed to spill tomato juice on when I took my first sip of that crappy drink.
At one point poor Owen had to use the bathroom, and when he left it was an uncomfortable five minutes before I heard raised voices coming from the backyard. Owen’s mother moved closer so that she could overhear, but that proved unnecessary. When Owen turned and started to walk back towards the house, everyone within a mile probably heard Ava shout after him, “I think I’m pregnant!”
With my heart beating out of my chest, I put my glass on the marble countertop—I really hope I left a permanent tomato juice stain on that bad boy—then walked out the door, grabbed my bags from Owen’s car and headed down their street, my free hand trembling as I cued up the ride share app on my phone.
I didn’t pick up when my phone rang a few minutes later and I didn’t open his texts.
One long hour and seventy-five dollars later, I was back home.
Safe and sound and alone.
Chapter Thirty
Owen
I round on her, pointing my finger in her face. “You’re not pregnant, so let’s just cut the shit, ok?”
“How could you, Owen?”
“How could I what?”
“Bring some random girlhere, home with you?”
“Grace isn’t some random girl, and last I checked, this ismyhouse.”
I let out a weary breath, angry at myself for making this any harder on Ava than it has to be. I remind myself that she’s not an evil person, and that even though she had it coming, I did hurt her when I broke it off.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I make the effort to be civil. “I didn’t mean to yell at you. I’m sorry.” When she goes to plead her case, I shake my head to stop her. “I have to get back inside.”
My plan is to whisk Grace the hell out of this shitshow and drive her back home. Figure I’ll deal with my family later on. But when I don’t find her in the kitchen or the living room, and my mother meets me at the front door saying, “I think your friend left,” I unleash on her.
“You were rude. I’m ashamed of you, of dad, and of you two little bitches.”
My mother gasps and then looks around to see if anyone else heard that, while my sisters stand there shocked. I’ve never spoken to anyone in my family like this before. Up until today they’ve never given me reason to.
“I’m serious. If you did anything to screw this up for me, any one of you,” I add, looking directly at my two sisters, “I will never forgive you.”
I’m hoping against hope that she’s waiting for me out in the car, even though I know in my gut that she’s long gone. I drive down the street, searching the side streets for her with no luck, and then pull over to call her phone. I’m not surprised when it goes straight to voicemail.
She only answers when I text:Just let me know that you’re ok.
And her response a full hour later leaves no doubt as to how fucked I am.
I’m fine. Just got home. Please DO NOT come here.
