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“You’re not going to push me in or anything, are you? Finish off what you started at dinner?”
“Ha ha.” I sit down, begging my nerves to stop bouncing around like they’re playing a game of table tennis inside my rib cage.
One simple night at this very dock, spent in silence with Owen, led to so many subsequent nights of talking.
Once, when I was in tenth grade, I was worried he was starting to suspect my crush on him, so I pretended to like a boy named Wyatt Mark. Owen teased me because Wyatt had two first names, but then he answered all my questions about how to get Wyatt’s attention, which I really didn’t care about at all.
His answers gave me a peek into his own brain, but doing all the things he told me to do didn’t win me the reward of Owen’s affection. By then, he was already interested in Lindsay. Owen had dated a lot, but it had never turned into anything.
Somehow, even I knew it was different with her.
Maybe that’s why he was so invested in helping me snag Wyatt.
I made a half-hearted attempt, just because it was fun to talk it over with Owen, but in the end, Wyatt barely gave me the time of day.
The way Owen tried to console me was sweet, but I quickly learned that being a pitiful reject did nothing to make me more appealing.
Now, sitting here next to him again, I’m filled with that same teenage angst.
I’m just shy of thirty-years-old! How about taking a mature approach to all of this?!
What would The Hopeful Romantic tell me to do?
Probably to wake up and see Owen for who he really is. He’s not hiding it from me. He’s Three-Date Owen. He’s the guy who left without a word. He’s moody and brooding and hardly ever talks. And not at all what I’m looking for in a relationship.
So, why can’t I stop looking for the rest of the story where he’s concerned?
The silence isn’t as exciting as it was when we were kids. Now, it’s just awkward.
“Dinner was. . .uh. . .interesting,” Owen finally says.
I cover my face with my hands. “I’m so sorry, I’m clumsy, and I. . .”
“It’s no big deal. I changed. It’s all good.”
I search his face for forgiveness, and it’s right there. Like it always has been.
No judgment. No prejudice.
“It was good,” he continues. “It was nice of your mom to invite us.”
“Oh, she loves to entertain,” I muse.
The dreaded silence returns.
Time to be an adult and have an adult conversation. Running away from him isn’t going to work. Harvest Hollow isn’t that big.
“You tried to talk to me yesterday.”
“Yeah,” he says, matter-of-factly. “You got weird.”
“Me? Weird? Really?” My laugh is nervous.
I’m terrible at this.
I wince. “I’m a weirdo.”
He looks at me. “Not with me, you aren’t. Or. . .weren’t.”
