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My editor’s eyes don’t waver from my face. Her smile never shrinks. “Figure it out. He surely isn’talwaysvolunteering.”One of Margo’s dark, manicured brows rises. “He needs to be there.”
I nod once and start for the door.
Ugh. Owen is going to hate this.
“Annie,” Margo says, and I pause.
“Is your—” Her brows furrow. “Do you have a rainbow on your foot?”
“Oh.” I peer down. I should have worn socks and tennis shoes rather than heels. I scrubbed my dumb foot in the tub for an hour—until the water turned every possible color and eventually black. I feared if I didn’t get out soon, my entire body would end up tinted blue. “Um, yes. My nephew—”
She shakes her head, cutting me off. “I don’t need to know.”
“Right. I’m going—”
“Call Sid.”
34
Owen
All eyes in this room seem to trail back to me. Mom is busy cooking. Coco’s feeding her baby. Meredith and Levi are talking at the table. Miles and Coop scroll through their phones, showing one another whatever it is they’ve found. Jude and Alice sit at the table, a coloring book opened in front of them. But everyone’s eyes end up on me.
I’m attempting to help Mom with dinner. She doesn’t need it. But I can stand here, pretend to help, pretend I don’t see the glances coming my way, or I can go hide in my old bedroom—the one Miles and I shared for years.
I offer to transfer Mom’s dishes from the busy kitchen to the currently empty dining room. Maybe then, I’ll be able to breathe. I’m assuming everyone read Annie’s letter reply. They read those fatal words:It never has been, and it never will be.
And no one knows what to say to me.
I don’t blame them. I don’t know what to say to me. I’ve been serving, complimenting, and touching her like crazy. And I thought it was working. Annie almost kissed me. Her idea. Not mine—and yet always mine.
I linger in the dining room for a minute,maybe more. The salad is on the table, and I just stand there. Breathing. When I head back into the kitchen, the chatter comes to an abrupt halt. Well, that’s one way to know your entire family is talking about you.
I’m tempted to pull Alice to the side. She’d tell me what was being said.
Instead, I snag the next bowl Mom has ready to go and charge it into the dining room. Next, I grab dishes and set the table, always ignoring the hush that comes over the room when I enter.
After two more trips, I decide I can’t go back into that room. I’ll just wait for everyone here. I sit down at the table and stare into the clear crystal salad bowl.
There’s a tug on my shirt sleeve. “Uncle Owen?” Alice says.
“Oh, hey.” I blink away from the apparently mesmerizing salad bowl to look at my niece.
“I just want you to know that even if Annie doesn’t love you, I do.” She pats a hand to my cheek and reaches on tiptoes to kiss my nose.
“Well, thanks.”
“I always thought boys were the dumbest, but I guess it depends. Sometimes it’s the girls who are the dumbest.”
“Annie isn’t dumb, sweetie. And she does love me.”
Her lips screw up into a fat purse and twist to the side. “I think you have been given some wrong information.”
“Thanks, Alice.” I swallow and turn back to my salad bowl—it’s more soothing than the affirmation from a seven-year-old that I’m in an unrequited love story.
My family files into the room, quieter than normal. I know they’ve been talking. We might as well have it out.
“Okay—say what you want to say,” I tell them. “I know you all read Annie’s letters and article today and you’ve got some opinion on the matter.”
