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“If memory serves, you wanted to either go into psychology or writing,” he says and I nod. “If I had to guess I’d say you went with writing.”
“You’re right, why would you guess that?”
“You don’t seem to be overanalyzing yourself or me. You’re working on things internally instead of talking it out. Therapists are all about talking shit out.”
“Hmm, you sound like you’re not a fan.”
“My ex wanted us to do some couples therapy and I agreed. Turns out the therapist was her other boyfriend. She just wanted me to pay him and live out some twisted fantasy they had about her being with another man.”
“Wow, that sounds like something out of a psychological thriller.”
“Right? Except in the book, I would have killed them both and hidden the bodies.”
I laugh, a little taken aback.
“Sorry, I’ve been reading a lot of those types of books and listening to murder podcasts,” he says. “When I’m working, I like to listen to music or about historical murder stories like serial killers from the early 1900s or gang murders in the 30s.”
“Anything to take your mind off of your own horrors, right?”
“Exactly,” he says as we take a sandy path to a small bay beach. “Do you want to sit for a few minutes?”
I nod and take a seat next to him on a small bench near the water. It’s a mild day with a light breeze so sitting here is quite nice.
“Okay, you’re not a therapist so you’re a writer?”
I nod and he squints at me.
“Fiction?”
I nod again.
“Hmm, either young adult dystopian or erotic fantasy,” he says with the surety of someone who thinks they know me.
“Close,” I say and offer him nothing more.
We sit for a while, a few boats sail in and out of the bay. It’s getting close to the time when people put their boats in dry dock for the winter. I’m afraid of how lonely and sad I’m going to feel down here once it’s cold and the island is practically deserted.
I sneak a look at Owen. He’s so different from when we were kids. He is still so handsome but more manly. The long hair and beard make him feel more mature and masculine. He’s wearing sunglasses but I’ve seen him with regular glasses a few times and that makes him seem more distinguished somehow. Obviously, he’s smart if he was working at a top law firm and almost a partner. The more I think about him here in the present, the more I feel a little bit intimidated. Then I think about how I know things about him that either very few, or no one else knows.
He has something in his hand and I think it’s a small piece of wood. His thumb is smoothing over it as he looks out to the water. I get a flashback to us sitting side by side on our stand, surveying our beach. I’m flooded with memories and they are all good ones.
“We had a good time that summer,” I say and he scoffs.
“We sure did,” he says with a little bitterness in his voice. He stands and starts to walk, headed back in the direction of our houses. I follow, unsure of how to talk to him, so I don’t.
The walk home is silent and the wind picks up so it’s cold. The cold I feel isn’t just from the wind, but from the man next to me.
CHAPTER 12
CINNAMON RAISIN WITH A SIDE OF TRUTH
OWEN NOW
My hand hesitates as I stand in front of Mollie’s door the next morning.
Am I here to apologize with bagels? Yes, I am. I was a total asshole yesterday and I know how much she loves a cinnamon raisin with cream cheese. That summer she had one every day. Thinking of that summer I knock, knowing I owe her at least one bagel and one apology because of the summer we had. She doesn’t deserve to be treated poorly for a decision she made so many years ago as a teenager.
As much as I was hurt by her, I still cherish that time in my life and know she probably had a good reason to blow me off the way she did, or even if she didn’t it was her decision and I have no right to judge her for it.
