10. Owen

10

OWEN

That settles that. Being alone with me is worse than spinning out on a snowy road. Message received. Loud and clear. So loud, in fact, my head is throbbing. Stretching my arm up, I reach for the throw blanket on the back of the couch, pull it down, and turn the other way.

A rush of warmth fills the room.

Yup, we’re stuck here, and I’m so damn glad I never said a word to River about how I feel.

I rustle, flipping around in my bed. Blinking, I try to orient myself. Is it Monday? Am I late for work?

Shit, I need to get up now.

My eyes fly open.

Wait.

This isn’t my bed.

This isn’t my home.

Ohhhh.

Right.

My shoulders sag, and my chest squeezes with a pang of heartache.

I breathe out hard, scoot up on the couch, sitting now. How long did I sleep? Grabbing my phone from my front pocket, I rub my eyes, peering at the time.

It’s seven.

A text from TJ flashes on the screen.

TJ: You guys coming tonight still? Nisha was asking about you. She’s seriously worried. And she really wants you here.

I tap out a reply.

Owen: Shit. Sorry. Tell her I didn’t mean to freak her out. But we’re stuck here in Markleeville, waiting out the snow. Tell her we’ll try to be there first thing tomorrow, and I have some awesome farm veggies she’ll dig.

TJ : Ohhhhhhhh.

He adds a winking emoji.

Owen: Trust me. There is no ohhhhh happening.

TJ: I have hope, man. Enough hope for both of us. You can do it. Also, Nisha says have fun. I’ll echo that, but there are air quotes around my have fun . And I’m not talking about the vegetables. Maybe your eggplant though.

I send him back a middle finger emoji.

Shutting the message app, I glance around the cabin, my gaze landing on the windows overlooking the hill. A white blanket shines like sugary crystals.

I reach for my glasses on the coffee table and yawn.

Peering at the kitchen, I don’t see River there. Or here in the living room.

He’s probably already retreated to a room for tonight.

This is going to be so fucking fun.

Standing, I stretch, then spot my backpack by the door. Toothpaste and a toothbrush sound perfect right now, so I grab the bag and head to the hallway bathroom. After I take a leak, I wash my hands, brush my teeth, and leave my backpack there.

River probably took the upstairs bedroom anyway.

Rooting around in my bag, I fish out my phone charger, return to the living room, and find a plug. Might as well juice up this bad boy, so I can watch a show or read a book tonight. It’s not like I’m going to be hanging out with River, drinking hot chocolate and cuddling by the fire.

Ugh.

What a pathetic idea anyway.

But it’s a good reminder not to read too much into little moments. There were a few times when he gave off I’m interested vibes. The I’m bossy remark, the way he curled his hand over mine in the store, how he stumbled on words when the conversation turned a little heated.

But clearly that was just me wanting what I can’t have. Good thing I didn’t say a word. I pride myself on knowing when to talk and when to listen—it’s what I do for a living and I’m damn good at it.

I’m more grateful than ever that I listened to my instincts to shut up.

River and I were never going to happen, and this snow is simply slapping me in the face.

Which means I will definitely get on the apps when I return to San Francisco. Boyfriend Material is one I’ve been hearing a lot about, so when I plug in my phone, I go to the App store, download it, and set up a profile real quick. I’ll do the rest when I’m home, but this is the first step in getting over the guy I can’t have. I flop down on the couch when a door whisks open, and River sails in from the back deck.

“Popsicle. It’s official. I am a certifiable popsicle, but there’s a hot tub outside, and I bet if I were in it, I’d be a melted popsicle.” He’s draped in his outgoing bar owner persona again—only it’s not a persona. It’s just who he is. Happy, upbeat, fun.

Maybe he’s over our first big fight.

Sure seems that way, judging from the smile he’s sporting.

“Did you take a dip in it to practice your melting theory?” I ask, even though he’s fully dressed, and his hair is dry.

He shivers dramatically. “No way. It’s too cold on the deck. But I was checking everything out. Rooting around. You know me. I’m like a cat,” he says, walking toward me.

“Curious,” I say, my voice still a little empty, even as we slide back into banter. How does this work? Do we just snap back in place, like a rubber band?

River stops at the chair across from the couch, sits, and tries to catch my eye. But it’s too hard for me to look at him, and I feel so stupid for wanting him with an ache so persistent it won’t go away.

“Owen,” he begins in a gentle, contrite tone I’ve never heard from him before.

It’s enough to make me look up. “Yeah?”

He leans forward, clasps his hands. “I’m really sorry.”

That’s not what I expected to hear, so I take several seconds to process. I’m a thinker by nature. I ponder, and the thing is—we’re not apologizers, River and me. Sure, we’ve said sorry here and there, but only over little things. Forgetting to get tickets for a concert. Missing a coffee meet-up. Saying something dumb about the other person’s favorite singer.

Never something like this.

This feels bigger. More important.

“You are?” I ask carefully.

“I was an ass,” he says, shrugging, but owning it. “I don’t know what got into me.”

But I know what got into me. Desire. Lust. Longing. And I need to do the same thing he’s doing—fix our friendship. “I’m sorry too,” I say, meeting his eyes. “I got all pissy. And I don’t know why I acted that way either.”

I try not to feel guilty for that lie. But he doesn’t need to know everything that’s in my heart.

He clears his throat, soldiers on. “I think I just wanted things to go a certain way today. I had this whole vision of road tripping with you, and listening to podcasts and music, and chatting and eating snacks, and debating anything and everything, and getting to Nisha’s and seeing her and Hailey again, and meeting all your friends, like TJ and everyone else,” River says, with an earnestness in his tone that keeps catching me off-guard. I’m so used to his charm, but this side of him—this open side—is wildly endearing too, as he rattles off a dream day. “I was so caught up in that, and I wanted you to have the Friendsgiving you love with all your buddies, and...” He stops, scrubs a hand across his jaw, his eyes swinging away from me. A few seconds later, they’re back on me, and they flicker with a new vulnerability. “Then things started to change.”

I latch onto those last words, desperate to understand them, and him.

My throat is dry as a desert but I manage to ask, “What changed?”

River sighs heavily, shoves his hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he says, like he’s as lost as I am. “Maybe it was the snow. I don’t entirely know, Owen. We just got here and all I could think was how I’d wanted everything to go as planned. The pie and the drive and the trip and the... everything.”

So maybe he’s not talking about feelings. But that’ll have to be okay. Even if we’re never more than friends, that’s enough. River’s the guy who wanted to road trip with me, to hang out, to talk with me. That counts for more than something. That counts for so much. And you don’t throw a friendship like that away, not when I can see us doing the same thing in five, ten, fifteen years.

“Yeah, I get it. No worries. I was kind of wound up as well,” I say, and that’s true enough.

He tilts his head, studying me. “You were?”

“I guess I wanted things to go a certain way too. And then I was frustrated because sometimes you think you can do anything. You’re so confident, which is awesome, but you’re not always realistic.” I gesture to the toasty luxury cabin. “It’s not the worst thing to have to spend the night here, River. It’s like a travel brochure cabin.”

River’s smile flashes again, bright and buoyant. “Do they even make brochures anymore?”

I laugh, and it’s the first one in a while that feels real. “I don’t think so. You have me there.”

“I do have you there,” he says, a spark in his eyes, a naughtiness in his tone once again. Innuendo is never far away with River. I take its return as a sign that all is well.

His gaze travels to the window. “It really is gorgeous here. I did kind of want to take a tour of the home, check everything out, and stare at it all. So I did while you were asleep. I love checking out homes. Did I tell you when my neighbors had an open house a few weeks ago, I went? I was like Ooh, this is their bedroom, I bet he banged her here .”

I laugh again, this time at the absurdity. “So you like to spy on your neighbors?”

“No. But sometimes, I can’t stop thinking about what people are up to behind closed doors.” He drops his voice to a confessional whisper. “Like if I’m walking down the street, I wonder about the couples I pass.”

“Your brain is a very overactive place,” I say.

“Sometimes it’s too busy. And you’re right. I do sometimes think I can do everything, so I’m going to let you in on a little secret.”

“Bring it,” I say, wiggling my fingers.

Drawing a deep breath, he leans forward, palms pressed on his knees. “The pecan pumpkin apple pie was terrible.”

“You made it? For real?”

“I did. Baked it yesterday. I made two—one to taste and one for tomorrow—and they were disgusting. Tossed them both in the trash. I officially cannot bake pies,” he says, banging a fist on the arm of the chair.

“One bad pie attempt doesn’t mean you can’t bake them.”

River waves a hand dismissively. “Eh, it was boring. Baking is so boring. I went out and bought a pie instead, and I bet it’s divine.” He takes a deep breath, his lips curving into a kind grin. “Does your head still hurt?”

“No. I feel better,” I say, and that’s all true.

“Good. I hate it when you get headaches,” he says.

“Really?” That makes me laugh for some reason.

“Why are you laughing?”

I shrug. “That’s sort of a random thing to hate.”

“No, it’s not,” he says, insistent. “I don’t like it when you don’t feel good, Owen. I want to fix it for you. I wish I could take them all away. Stomp on them and crush them out of existence.”

My heart hammers again.

Yup. I need to get back in the dating game for sure. Turn my attention away from River. Get all the way over him because every little thing makes my dumb heart jitter.

I pat the couch. “Naps cure pretty much anything, so I’m all good.”

“Naps should come with a label. Like the opposite of a warning. Instead, they should say... naps are always a good idea . Anyway, we’re here now and you feel better. I say we make the best of tonight. Want to pop open some champagne and play a board game? That’s what they do in cabins, right?”

They do other things in cabins. Lots of other things .

But at least we’re not arguing. We’re having fun again, like we vowed to do back in college. Stick together. No matter what. “Yes. But does that mean we’re sneaking champagne from the hostess gift for Declan’s mom?”

River brings his finger to his lips. “Shh. I won’t tell if you won’t tell.”

I wink at him. “Your secret is safe with me.”

He pops up, heads to the kitchen, and grabs the bubbly. “By the way, I texted Grant and Declan. Told them we needed to spend the night here. They were totally fine with it. Did you tell Nisha?”

“I texted with TJ, so she knows, but I’ll give her a quick call,” I say, then grab my phone from the floor, and hit her name.

One ring, and she picks up.

“You had me so worried,” she says, and I can practically see her in her home, shaking a finger, all statuesque and goddess-like.

“Sorry, Mom,” I tease.

“If it weren’t for TJ, I would have gone to Markleeville and tracked you down myself,” she says, sighing like she’s still annoyed, though I know she’s not.

“Yes, you are definitely a mom.”

“Not yet.”

“Wait. Are you and Hailey trying to?”

“Don’t change the subject, Owen Hayes. You had me so worried that for two hours I was pacing and convinced you were dead.”

“Well, there was snow, and I took a nap.”

“You and your nap fetish,” she says. “Anyway, if the snow doesn’t melt by tomorrow, I’m sending a helicopter for you. I really want you here.”

“You are a determined goddess. But question—can helicopters fly in this weather?”

“My imaginary one can. You’re in that little car, right?”

“Yes, River has a Honda.”

“My cousin has a new van for work. It’s all weather, or all-terrain, or jet-fueled, or something. Anyway, I can send him to pick you up tomorrow if the snow is still shitty. He loves helping. It’s his thing. Send me your address.”

“I’ll text it when I hang up. See you tomorrow.”

“See you,” she says, then takes a beat. “Also, have fun.”

“Goodbye, Nisha.”

I hang up and text her the address of the cabin.

Then, I join River in the kitchen as he swings open the cupboards and grabs two mugs.

Thank God.

If he got out champagne flutes, it’d be far too romantic for me.

Mugs are what friends drink champagne from.

He pops open the bottle, pours some for me in a For Fox Sake mug, and some for himself in one with the words Gopher It under a drawing of that animal.

He lifts his mug to toast.

I step closer, clink the ceramic to his.

River clears his throat. “To our first fight ending,” he says.

“I’ll drink to that.” And I do, taking a big, thirsty sip, then sigh happily. “I fucking love champagne.”

“Of course you do.”

“Why do you say it like that?”

“Because you have good taste, Owen, and champagne is delish. So of course you like it,” he says, then grabs a bag of popcorn. “Let’s snack and drink and play...” He stops, screws up his brow. “Monopoly?”

“I slaughter you every time. It’s not challenging.”

River snarls. “So cruel. But so true. We’ll find another.”

In the living room, we sink down onto the plush carpet, tugging games from the drawer in the coffee table.

Uno.

I pretend to fall asleep.

He grabs Catan.

I shake my head. “We’ll be up all night.”

River points to the window. “Got somewhere to go?”

I knock back some champagne. “Nope. But I am not playing a game that requires me to pull an all-nighter. My commitment level to a board game is about an hour.”

“A man who knows his mind. Gotta love it,” River says, taking another drink, then opening the popcorn.

We root around for more games, while munching on the salty snack.

“Exploding Kittens?” He waggles the Russian-roulette style game in front of me.

“Possibly. We’ll consider it a front-runner,” I say, grabbing another box, then moaning in mock pain as I set it on the table.

“Risk.” I cringe. “Pretty sure you have to be into Game of Thrones to like Risk.”

His jaw comes unhinged. “You don’t like Game of Thrones ? How did I not know this juicy tidbit?”

“Maybe because we never talk about it. Does that”—I stop, cross my fingers—“mean you don’t like it either?”

“I tried a few episodes. Too much violence to get to the nakedness.”

“Am I right? I’m all for more skin, just less blood and guts.”

River lifts his mug in another toast. “To more fucking and less violence.”

“I will definitely drink to that.”

I take another swallow and he does the same, then we grab some popcorn too, as the snow keeps falling and the fire warms me up.

River pokes his head under the table, then grabs a box of cards. Would You Rather…? “What do you think, cutie?”

That last word tugs on my brain. Reminds me of our conversation from years ago in college as we left the Old School coffee shop and created the Harry and Rod rule. I called you a cutie because I can’t call you a hottie. Even with those Clark Kent glasses. I can’t call you hot because you’re seeing someone.

River never calls anyone else cutie but me. He only uses hottie for guys he’s into. Everyone else is just hun.

I’m not sure what the math here adds up to, and maybe I’m grasping at straws, but still, I clutch them. “Why do you call me cutie? You call everyone else hun . I never hear you use cutie for anyone else.”

His eyes flash with surprise, like I’ve caught him off-guard, but then he adjusts to being his easy, breezy self. “You’re questioning why you get a special nickname?”

I am, since I want to know if there’s an answer to his word problem. If the logic adds up. So I stand my ground, push a little more. “Yeah. I am.”

River lifts his mug, takes another drink, his eyes darkening as he swallows. He sets down the cup on the coffee table. “I suppose it’s because I can’t call you what I really want to call you.”

“What’s that?”

He takes his time, like he’s weighing his words, then levels me with a stare that feels a little more than friendly. “Hottie. Like you are.”

Make that a lot more than friendly.

And just like that, it’s impossible to slide back in the friend zone with him, so I choose the riskiest game of all.

“Let’s play . . . Would You Rather.”

Since I’m hoping I’ll learn something from the questions—something about him and me, and whether we could ever move out of the friend zone.