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“I’m looking at the ceiling. Annie?”
Huffing out a breath, I set down the prettiest shoes I’ve ever seen. I prop my phone against the gift box.
“Flowers,” I say, holding up the vase of yellow roses. “And”—my mouth quirks with a grin I can’t hold back—“shoes.” I hold up the hand-painted heels for Kayla to see.
“Wow. Someone knows you.”
I swallow. “Yes, he does.” Knows me andlovesme.
“Well, don’t just stand there gawking at your shoes. Text the man. Accept his date.” There’s a small crash in the background, and all at once, Kayla is gone from my view. When she returns, I see only her forehead. “Gotta go! Let me know what he says.”
“I’ve already agreed to do this,” I say to myself. “And Owen promised me we’d still be friends in the end. Owen always keeps his promises.Always.” My heart pounds—it’s a falling heart. A lost cause. I can feel it. Then, I pull up Owen’s name and message him.
Me: I accept your invitation.
He responds mega quick.
Owen: Through a text message? My favorite advice columnist taught me that this is unacceptable. Try again.
I can’t help but laugh. I bite my inner cheek and attempt to forget that I am a little bit cursed when it comes to love and relationships.
Me: Meet me at Elsie’s for breakfast?
Isit with a plate of pancakes in front of me and a waffle for Owen across from me. He isn’t here yet, but he will be.
“Why are you so nervous?” Grammy says. She reaches out and smooths down my hair—my hair that does not need to be smoothed.
“I’m not nervous.” But I am. Why did I suggest Elsie’s? Grammy is the one who told me to leave Owen alone or to marry him. And Owen hopped on board the marriage train way too fast.
How could he say that?
“Is Owen dating again? You found him a nice girl?” My five-foot-one grandmother waits for the gossip. But she won’t read the paper, not even my column. She says the news is all a conspiracy. Still, she wants the down-low on what I’m doing for Owen. Because, like Kayla, she likes him.
Of course, they do. Who wouldn’t like Owen?
I like Owen.
That isn’t the problem.
The problem is he’s fallen—which might make me fall—and then we all know I’ll end up doing something to make him…unfall.
“Ahh.” My brows knit, thinking over Grammy’s question. I’m a nice girl—right? “Yeah. I think so.”
Grammy wets her finger with her tongue and attempts toreturn to my hair. But I duck and scoot as far back in this booth as I possibly can.
“I’m good,” I tell her.
“You’ve got one hair. One hair that wants to stand on end.” She reaches out, leaning over the length of the booth, but thankfully my grandmother is a tiny little woman. She can’t reach me, not from back here.
I finger the top of my head, snag the hair, and pull it from my scalp. “There. Got it.”
Grammy stands straight, hands on hips. “No. You missed. Wrong hair.”
Grammy’s front door jingles, and Owen walks in thirty minutes before the opened sign will turn over.
“Owen,” I yip, hoping to redirect my grandmother’s attention.
“Aww. Owen,” Grammy says, her arms out wide. But Grammy doesn’t hug, she pats until you’re bruised and you know through those wounds that she loves you.
