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That actually makes sense. I would have a hard time pinning my top five movies down. . .but if I had an extra one that made it into the mix, that makes it somehow easier.
Top Six. Practical. I’ll have to remember that.
I stare at the screen. “Pride and Prejudice for sure.”
He scrolls over to it and hovers. “This one?”
I nod. “Unpopular opinion, but I prefer the Keira Knightley version to the BBC miniseries with Colin Firth.”
“I have no idea who any of those people are, but do you want to watch this?”
“You’re going to sit through Pride and Prejudice?” I’m back to my lazy-eyed peering at him.
“If it’s one of your favorites, sure,” he says, then clicks the remote to select the movie. “I want to know what things you like.”
I want to ask him why, but I don’t. I’m in a dreamy bubble right now and I don’t want it to pop.
The familiar soundtrack begins to play, and I sink a little deeper into the couch. By the time Lizzie is shunned by Mr. Darcy at the party, I’m fully invested and have completely forgotten to feel awkward or self-conscious about how I’m watching my beloved favorite romance movie with Owen.
And then he reaches over and takes my feet and puts them on the pillow on his lap.
I freeze.
Every muscle in my body tenses.
I forget to awww over the way Mr. Bingley looks at Jane, like she’s the only person in the room. Also, why doesn’t Mr. Bingley get more love? Mr. Darcy is all brooding and serious and secretly kind, but Bingley is adorable!
But that’s not what I’m thinking about. Not when Owen is rubbing small circles into the centers of my feet.
Owen is massaging my feet.
I zero in on the way his thumbs press with the exact right amount of force, and the screen in front of me becomes a blur. I wonder how it would feel to do this every night, to have Owen’s hands at my disposal, to be able to rope him in to watching You’ve Got Mail and The Proposal and Sense and Sensibility and When Harry Met Sally. To reenact my favorite moments from those movies from the meet-cutes, to the grand gestures, to the long awaited, much anticipated kisses. . .
“Wait, did her cousin just propose to her?”
The words startle me from my runaway imagination, and I pull my feet away and sit up.
“You okay? You need something?”
“Definitely,” I say. “Hungry now, I think.” I’m not hungry. But if I don’t put some distance between me and Owen, I’m done for. A goner. A dead woman.
My phone buzzes on the table to Owen’s left. I pause the movie, and he picks it up and hands it to me, doing his best not to look at it, but fully seeing that it’s Chad calling.
I stare at the screen, as if I’m trying to decide whether or not to answer when really all I’m thinking is: Strike three. He’s a phone talker.
Everyone knows phones are exclusively for texting.
I click it off and set the phone down, eyes drifting to the flowers.
Owen doesn’t say anything. Instead, he stands and walks out of the room. I hear him click on the stove, and my heart warms like it’s on the burner.
When he returns, he’s carrying a tray with a bowl and a piece of bread next to it. “I really hope this doesn’t make your stomach worse.”
“It’ll be good,” I say, taking the tray. “Thank you.”
He nods, but he doesn’t sit back down. Instead, he stuffs his hands in his pockets and puts on his version of a smile. Which is to say, not really a smile at all.
“You okay?” I ask.
