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They didn’t see the other side of him. And I know how that sounds. If I said these things to other people, it would sound like I’m making excuses for him—but I’m not.
If people tell you something often enough, especially people in authority, you start to believe it. You’re not smart. You make bad choices. You’re not living up to your potential. That’s what he’s been told his whole life, by pretty much everyone with varying degrees of tact.
How hard would it be to try to live in a world that’s not set up to help you succeed?
Owen didn’t stand a chance.
And tonight, when that stupid guy ran his mouth, I saw the hurt masked as anger behind Owen’s eyes.
And, I don’t know, I just wanted to take that pain away.
Which is why it makes zero sense that the next thing I say is, “Have you seen Lindsay lately? How’s she doing?”
Call it self-preservation. Call it stupidity. Both things are equally true.
His expression shifts. He almost looks confused. Doesn’t he understand that I have to remind myself regularly he is not mine?
“Uh, no,” he says. “Why would I?”
I shrug. “Didn’t know if you guys had, you know, reconnected. When you, uh, were talking the other day, she looked, you know, comfortable, and so I, um didn’t know if there were sparks or. . .whatever. . .”
Mercifully, the waitress is back with our appetizers. She sets them down in the center of the table, asks if we need anything else. When we say no, she vanishes.
I load up my plate with garlic bread and mozzarella sticks and pretend I didn’t just bring up the worst topic in the world.
I plow ahead with the conversational deftness of an eggplant.
“So, what’s going on in sports these days?”
He frowns. “What?” He puts down his fork. “What just happened?”
“Huh?” I’ve made a tightrope out of the mozzarella sticks, with three inches hanging from my mouth to the food in my hand.
“You’re being weird again.”
“No, I’m not.” My mouth is full, and I finally sever the cheese and chew, hoping it’ll get lodged in my throat and I’ll have to be rushed away from here in an ambulance.
But then I remember Owen is a trained firefighter and he’d be the one to save me, and all at once, I’m looking around for all the things that could cause me to need CPR.
I’m about to open my mouth and say whatever pops into my head again when there’s a tapping from outside the window. We both turn and there, standing on the street, wearing a jean jacket, scarf, and the stocking hat I knitted her for Christmas, is Mack.
She motions to both of us and shrugs, as if to say: What’s going on here?
I wave her in and smile awkwardly at Owen.
His expression is idling in neutral, and I’m trying my best not to crash and burn. I think I’m failing.
“Is this like, a date?” Mack now stands at the end of our table.
Owen goes to say something, but I cut him off.
“No!” I say, a little more forcefully than I mean to.
Wait. What was he going to say?
I blather on. “I mean, don’t be crazy. We just bumped into each other again. After the photo shoot. I needed food, and he was here, and I came in, and. . .” I trail off, waving my hand like a drunk queen of a very remote island in Europe.
“Mozzarella stick?” I ask, holding one up.
