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Me: And Mom wanted to invite you over for Thanksgiving—if you don’t have plans.
48
Annie
Adate. I should have realized that’s what he meant.
“You agreed to this, Annie,” Kayla says over my shoulder.
I hug my phone to my chest. “I know that, Kayla. I don’t need you to remind me.”
“So,” she says, “stop fretting. I can see your fretting lines. Just embrace it. He’s asked you on a date. Go.Happily.” She gives me one stern nod. “But you’re coming to my house for Thanksgiving.” She waves a hand at me. “Tell him.”
Me: I’m spending the holiday with Kayla’s family.
That’s an easy text. But then, for some reason, as if someone else has possessed my typing fingers, I add:
Me: I’m guessing I could make it over in time for pie.
“Acceptable,” Kayla says from behind me.
“Hey! I told you to stop reading over my shoulder.”
“Someone has to make sure you don’t spoil things with Owen.” She walks across the room to where her basket of folded laundry sits. She hoists it up and starts for the hall that leads to the boys’ bedrooms.
“Why weren’t you this annoying with James?”
“Because James wasn’t right for you. Owen is.”
My sister’s words are like a bad tattoo, one that isn’t inked to my behind but across my forehead. Every time I look in the mirror, it’s there. I can’t get rid of it.
Or maybe it’s a bullseye, marked on Owen’s chest. Hidden away–but taunting me just the same.
Kayla’sOwen rootinghas doubled since he confessed. Margo isn’t much better. She ate up the short article about Owen’s letter and our boat ride. I even added our ruse about being married. And she thought it was—and I quote—adorable. I have never in my life heard Margo use that word before.
So, here I am, bagged coffee grounds in hand—because I was not going to bring alcohol and inhibit my senses to this shin-dig—standing on Owen’s front porch.
How many times have I walked into this house without warning? But tonight? I stand on the porch, staring at the wooden door—which needs sanding—notgoing in.
I swallow and peer down at my painted heels, the ones Owen gave me. I can’t help but smile when I see them. They make me think of my friend. My thoughtful, loving friend.
“This is O.” I pull in a breath and push it out, then set my fist to the door.
Just like the shoes, I can’t help but smile when I see Owen.
He smirks. “You knocked.”
I lift one shoulder. “I don’t know the rules to dating you, Owen, just the ones to being your bestie.”
With a hand on each side of the entrance, he leans his head outside, his cheek and beard bristles brushing faintly against my jaw. “They’re the same rules,” he whispers in my ear as if he’s telling me a secret.
My heart races and my head shifts—without permission. The corner of my lips brush Owen’s stubble. I swallow and rein back the urge to kiss the man I’ve called best friend for fifteen years.
But he’s making it difficult.
Thankfully, Owen pulls back, standing straight and moving to the side to let me in.
Instead, I choose to make things extra awkward and bring up kissing—in a roundabout way. Yep, that’s me, Annie the Awkward. The girl skilled at ending all relationships quickly. “Your letter was pretty obvious this week, Owen. You’re losing your touch.”
