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I square my shoulders and huff out a breath. “He wouldn’t kiss her within twenty minutes of meeting her.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes! That isn’t like Owen.” We’ve been friends fifteen years, and he’s never tried to kiss me.
Whoa, I tell my brain.Strike that thought from the record. It has nothing to do with Owen dating.The mini courtroom judge inside of my head slams her gavel, striking the thought away like it never happened…
“I know Owen,” I say to my sister and lift the binoculars back to my face. They fall an inch, and I fumble to put them back in place. I blink, fairly certain I’m seeing things. Because therearearms around Owen, though he isn’t kissing anyone.And those arms aren’t Ang’s. I move my gaze to the petite woman standing to the side of Owen, one hand held out to him. While tan arms wrap around his waist, hands clasping in front at his abs. The owner of said hands is a mystery as they stand behind him. “Kayla!” I bark, but my head isn’t able to form a complete sentence.
“What is it?” She tugs on my elbow. “Let me see.”
But I don’t give her back the binoculars. No, I move up to Owen’s face. It’s red and contorted and quite unhappy.
Crap!
Crap. Crap. Crap.
I drop the heavy binoculars into Kayla’s hands and reach for the door handle.
“Wait. You’re going in there?”
“I think Owen’s having an allergic reaction.”
16
Owen
There’s a light tickle across my forehead. But my eyes are heavy, and I don’t feel the need to open them.
The tickle—almost like a light massage—travels from my head to my ear to my chin. I take it in. I embrace it. I’m comfortable right where I am. Something—a vague, distant memory—tells me it wasn’t the case not that long ago.
“Steve,” I hear a not-so-familiar voice call. “Stop driving your matchbox cars on Owen’s face. Let the man rest.”
Matchbox car?
Steve?
Okay… I may have to open my eyes. If I’m able... Is any of this real?
I try my left eye first… but my right eye is startled to attention and opens wide with the brown-eyed, red-head, and freckled face that’s two inches from my line of sight.
“He’s done w-esting, Mom!”Steve, Annie’s nephew, holds a red dump truck right in front of my eyeballs. Another guess—the very truck he’d just been driving over my face. Then Steve’s face is back, peering down at me. He grins, big and wide, showing off a gap between his two front teeth. What looks like achocolate milk mustache gives him a small Joker vibe when he smiles like that.
“Steve?” a woman scolds.
Then Steve’s eyes, inches from mine, staring down at me, turn to slits. “I am I-won man,” he whispers.
“Annie, don’t ever let your husband choose the names of your children. This is what happens when they think they’re actual superheroes.”
“Steve.”Annie. That’s Annie talking. “Hey Stevey-boy. Go help your dad. He’s in the garage. With tools.Lotsof tools.”
Steve lifts his hovering head, standing upright. He’s got a green cape tied around his neck, and he lifts one arm into the air. “I am I-won man!” he bellows before taking off like a jet.
“Nu-uh!” another boy yells.
I’m slowly putting the pieces together. If my truck-driving masseuse is Steve, this yeller must be Bucky.
“Iron Man doesn’t have a cape, dumb bum!”
