19. Zane

19

ZANE

Owen is already sitting in the back corner booth at Cam's.

The same booth I sat in with Aiden and Mira yesterday morning. The booth where—if I hadn't been painfully aware of my son sitting next to me and the risk of sending the elderly patrons into heart failure—I would have thrown Mira on the table and saw her little performance through to its natural, sweaty, sticky, sexy conclusion.

It would have been a mistake—but fuck, it would have felt nice. Better than sitting with a steel pipe between my legs for the entire meal.

Owen inclines his head when he sees me. It's late afternoon, but he's pouring himself what I'm sure is his tenth cup of coffee for today. I swear the bastard's veins are chock full of pure caffeine 24/7.

I grab the carafe and shake it as I sit down just to confirm. "Didn't want to save any for me?"

"Start getting your ass here on time and maybe I will." He claps his hand on the table. "I don't have all fooking day to wait for you."

People learn real fast not to mistake Owen's charming Scottish accent for him being a charming man. He doesn't put up with anyone's shit—not even his own. It's how he dragged himself out of a decade-long addiction and became a sober sponsor with one of the best success records in the Phoenix Narcotics Anonymous program.

"You know I was at practice. We're in preseason training right now so?—"

"Fook yer fookin' hockey." He wrinkles his nose. "All those pads and helmets. It's barely even a sport. Now shinty, that's a sport."

I've spent hours of my life the last four years listening to Owen talk about his days on the shinty pitch. After I fell off the sober wagon, Owen slept on my couch for two days and made me watch old matches he'd taped.

It's essentially field hockey, but he gets belligerent when I point that out.

"As soon as you want to strap into forty pounds of pads and hit the ice with me, we'll see who the real athlete is."

"It wouldn't be fair," he gripes. "My knees are fookin' wrecked from all those years playing a real sport ."

I snort. "Name the time and place, old man. Unless you'd rather keep talking shit you never plan to back up."

He ignores this and pours himself another coffee. "Speaking of talking shite: tell me what's going on with you."

I knew this moment was coming and I still don't know where to start.

But Owen is one of the only people I tell absolutely everything to. He's seen me when I wasn't fit to be seen by a damn soul and he dragged me back from the brink. If he ends up being the only thing standing between me and a relapse, I want him to be armed with all the information he might need to set me straight.

So I start at the beginning.

I tell him about meeting Mira at the coffee shop. About Aiden being all but dumped on my doorstep, the random drop-in from CPS, and the surprise when I opened my door to interview a new nanny and found Mira there instead.

Owen listens, taking a few notes in the notebook he's had since I met him. I'd love to know if he has a different notebook for every mentee or if this book is specifically for me, but I'll probably die not knowing. He doesn't let anyone look at it.

He writes for a few more seconds after I finish, his pen scratching quickly over the paper. Then, he clicks the pen, snaps the notebook closed, and glowers up at me.

"You've been keeping shit from me, lad."

"I'm not keeping anything from you. I just told you?—"

" Days later," he growls. "I'm getting the recap, but I should've been there for the play-by-play. I'm not your sober sponsor so we can drink shite coffee and I can pat you on the back for getting through a hard time. I'm here to fookin' guide you through it. To make sure you don't wind up off yer trolley."

Owen has taught me a lot over the years, but nothing comes close to the many ways he has taught me to say "drunk." If I had my own little notebook, that's all I'd fill it with. Blootered, steamin', steamboated, sloshed. The list never fucking ends.

"I wasn't in danger of falling off any trolleys."

"Everyone says that until the moment they fall off the fooking trolley!" he roars. A waitress glances our direction, but everyone is more or less used to Owen making a scene. "For fook's sake, Zane, you're supposed to contact me with any ‘big life changes.' What would you call having a kid and letting a woman move into your house?"

"She's the nanny. She isn't?—"

"They're big fooking life changes!" he spits.

"I had a handle on things," I tell him evenly. "If I didn't, I would have called you."

I hear Mira's voice over the phone. I'll get in touch with you if anything is wrong.

Hearing her say that didn't make me feel any better about her and Aiden being alone all day. It's why I'm not all that surprised when Owen slaps a twenty on the table and stands up.

"Where are you going?"

"To your house," he barks. "I want to meet your wee ‘un. And the nanny."