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I shake my head abruptly. “No, even when I thought you dumped me, I didn’t regret that time with you. It’s sacred.”
He gets up suddenly, folds his towel into his chair and stalks off. Okay. I guess that’s the end of that conversation. Except, no, no it fucking isn’t. I collect all of my stuff, and head back to the house to drop it so I can continue this chat because I was sad, but anger is seeping in, and he’s going to hear me out.
CHAPTER 20
WE GOT OUTLANDERED
OWEN NOW
What the actual fuck? I’m beyond pissed and yet it seems silly to be angry about something that happened so long ago. A summer fling that didn’t last—how cliché. Maybe I’m being a big baby, storming off, but my anger felt overwhelming and I don’t want to take it out on Mollie.
Except it wasn’t like that. She and I had made plans to see each other on weekends as much as we could get away, every summer here as guards until we graduated. Our schools weren’t that far apart. She went to Rutgers and I was at the University of Connecticut (UConn).
We had plans to see each other but the week before she was supposed to drive up to see me, I was blocked. My roommate said I should go down there and even offered his car, but it felt so desperate. I should have fought for us, but I was young and stupid. Easily swayed by a fucking letter from her mom, I should’ve known better.
I remember feeling desperate though, desperate to go see her face to face, make her see that we could work it out. My pride wouldn’t let me though, I was terrified to hear that it was all a lie. When she told me today that it wasn’t, I’m ashamed to say how happy that made me.
There’s a loud knock on my door and I feel like an idiot for leaving her like that. I couldn’t get a hold of my emotions. Of course, it’s her.
“Did you really just storm off like a moody teenager?” she asks as she pushes past me to the kitchen. She opens my fridge and takes a beer out for herself, pops the can and takes a long swig.
“Yep,” I say because I’m afraid of what I’ll say if I elaborate.
“Are you mad?” she asks like I shouldn’t be angry.
“Yep.”
“At me?” she asks and there’s so much vulnerability there that I want to reach out and pull her to me. I don’t.
“Nope.”
She takes another gulp of beer as tears run down her face. I step towards her, I can’t help it. My thumb reaches out and I wipe a few tears from her soft cheek. When she looks up at me, I cradle her cheek and I have zero control over what happens next.
I dive in.
Her body is flush to mine as I consume her. It’s not just a kiss, it’s a story untold. All the times I thought of her, of kissing her perfect lips, of how our life would have been together. My lips tell her all my thoughts, feelings, and frustration about the past 17 years. Her hands are at my shoulders, and she is kissing me back, but I feel her pushing too, like she’s not sure.
Eventually, she shoves me back.
“Why are you angry? I’m the one who should be angry,” she says, now pacing back and forth. “I got fucking married and thought I was happy, but I wasn’t. Man, I’m furious.”
I hold back a laugh because she’s adorable in her fury. She’s transitioned from her previous sad acceptance to being all the way pissed off. I get it.
“I’m angry because your mom Outlander-ed us, or maybe it was more like a Notebook situation, regardless, the whole thing makes me want to scream.”
“Me too, and I wish she was still here so I could yell at her about it. My mom was obsessed with The Notebook when it came out. Also, I love that you’re such a nerd still that you know what Outlander is.” I smile, thinking about reading those books that summer. My aunt had the first five books and was obsessed. She convinced me and Mollie to read them and we did. When the show came out, I wondered if she watched it.
“I mean, there’s no time travel, or war, or indentured servitude, but it’s still a shitty situation.”
“Not to mention no prison stay,” she adds.
I shrug. “Who am I to assume?”
“Do I look like I spent time in prison?” she asks, smiling.
I look her up and down and she shoves me again. This time I take her hand and pull her back to me. “Hatchet,” I say resurrecting the old nickname, pressing my forehead to hers, “you called me cute.”
“I did,” she says on a sigh and my heart beats a little faster with the overwhelming need to have my lips on hers again. I cradle her face in my hands and touch my lips to hers. This time her hands circle my neck, her hands threading into my long hair, sinking into the kiss. My hands rest at her hips, pulling her closer.
