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That almost kiss might haunt me until the day I die. It’s like a time machine threw me all the way back to sophomore year when I had a not-so-teensy crush on Owen. But then, I smartened up. I knew I could never ever lose Owen to a crush. He was too important. Too special. Too precious of a commodity to throw around like one of my many boyfriends.
I was right. I can’t evereverlose Owen.
32
Annie
Iwake to a comforting tickle at my feet. There’s pressure on my left heel and a light softness on my right pad.
Am I getting a foot massage and didn’t realize it?
Wait. Where am I?
“That’smyfoot, Steve.”
There’s a tug on my right foot—it’s not painful, just possessive.
I open one eye to see my nephews at my feet. Steve at my left and Buck at my right. I lift up onto my elbows and blink. When did I fall asleep?
“Hey guys,” I say and my voice sounds groggy. Where’s that lemonade Tim brought me?
Steve yelps and frantically hides his hands behind his back. Buck is currently cleaning between my toes with a baby wipe. The softness I felt earlier.
“Uhhh, you giving Auntie Annie’s toes a rub down?”
Buck nods and continues his work. I flop back onto my back and stare at the ceiling in little Steve’s room—that is where Iended up, right? What time is it anyway? How long have I been in here?
I peek at my nephews again. Steve is still standing like a frozen statue, hands behind his back, eyes unblinking.
“It’s okay, Steve. You can keep on… whatever it is you were doing.” I love my nephews, even if they are a little wack-a-do at times. You would never have caught me anywhere near Aunt Babs’ feet. I shiver at the thought. But I’m sort of enjoying my little foot rub.
“Boys,” my sister says. “Did you wake up Annie?”
“Nah. We’re helping,” Buck says.
I blink my eyes open to see Kayla’s hand fly to her hip. “Steve, what are you doing?”
“She said I could!”
I sigh. “It’s true. I did.”
“You’re all loons. You know that?” She sits on the bed beside me. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Kayla, what’s wrong with me?”
“Other than the fact that you are in a deep, deep hole of denial, nothing.”
“Denial?” But I’m not. “I need to tell you something.” I dart my eyes to the tops of my nephews’ heads. “Alone.”
“Boys, take your wipes and your markers and go play in the other room, okay?”
“But this is my w-oom,” Steve says with a very six-year-old moan.
“Go,” demands my sister. “Give us ten minutes.”
It isn’t until my nephews have trudged out of the room and shut the door behind them that Kayla’s words register.
“Markers?” I say, sitting up on both elbows now. I strain my neck and take a better look at my feet. My right is as clean as a baby’s bottom. And my left—well, it’s a rainbow of color, clear to my ankle. Steve wasn’t washing my foot. He was coloring it with marker.
