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“How many, Annie?”
I back up until my hip hits the porcelain sink. “What does it matter?” I try to act cool. “Believe me, I am not going to try and kiss you again. I lost my mind for a minute and—”
He steps closer, and this little room turns into a sauna. “How many?”
I grind my teeth. “Owen,” I say, but I have nothing. Nothing but the truth and silence. I choose silence. What will telling him help?
“More than ten?”
My neck cricks. I clamp my teeth down on my bottom lip and peer up at him. Then, I nod.
“More than twenty?” he asks, his brows pinching.
“More than twenty, less than a hundred. Okay?” I blow out a breath and muster my courage. I don’t cower in the corner. I never have.
Reaching past Owen, I breathe in the musk and pine from his body, unlatch the door, and tug it open, holding it for him to exit.
“I’m not losing it,” I tell him. “It’s not a big deal. Go ask your meaningful questions and let me pee.” When he doesn’t move, I shove him out of the room.
At the end of the longest forty-minute dinner of my life, I offer Owen up for taking DJ home and I make some lame excuse about having to babysit for my sister.
I catch an Uber out of there with barely a goodbye to Owen or my date. I end up in Post Falls, at my sister’s house. I’m not sure if I go so that I’m not completely lying to Owen or if I go to spill my guts to Kayla. Either way, I’m here.
I knock on the locked door, wishing I’d brought the spare key Kayla gave me and I could just slip right inside, undetected. Instead, I lean my forehead against the front door and wait…
Almost falling on my face with the opening of the door, Itrip one step forward and peer up into the face of my brother-in-law.
“Annie?”
“I need darkness and alcohol, please.”
“Ahh…” Tim steps aside and allows me into the house. “Steve’s room is open. He and Kayla ran to the store to pick out a birthday gift for his friend.”
Perfect. There’s my dark room. “Alcohol,” I repeat, walking past him.
Tim hums, a motory sound from his throat. “Kayla got rid of all the wine bottles once Bucky made it his mission to open every closed bottle in the house. Sorry.”
I trudge past him and find my nephew’s room littered with dangerous things like Legos and plastic dinosaurs. I push my way through, not bothering to turn on a light, kick off my heels, and plop onto Steve’s bed.
A minute later, the door to Steve’s room creaks open. “I brought you some lemonade. There’s no liquor in it, but it’s strong.”
“Tim,” I say, “is Kayla your friend?”
“Um—she’s my, well, she’s my wife. But—”
“But is she also your friend? You know, like you enjoy hanging out with her?”
My incredibly uncomfortable brother-in-law clears his throat and inches toward the door. “Yes. Kayla is my friend. Is this about me taking Jerry to the game instead of her? She said she didn’t want to go.”
“Go away, Tim.”
“You bet,” he says, escaping into the hall as fast as humanly possible.
I have assured Owen that I won’t try to kiss him again—that it was some spastic, crazy thing that never should have happened. I tried not to make the letters awkward for him—though he kept making them pretty awkward for me!
I’ve done all I can. I’ve made sure my best friend knows we’re good. We’re right where we’ve always been. Right where we belong.
So, why can’t I stop thinking about those letters, or about an appropriate response to them, or about thatalmostkiss?
