Chapter 12

chapter

twelve

ADDIE

"It didn't rain, and the shrimp delivery wasn't late," I proudly announce to my friends.

Maren holds her flute of champagne up with one hand, while the other remains clasped around a martini glass of shrimp cocktail. "Cheers."

Caroline and I clink our flutes against hers, then sip in sync.

"Are you sharing the shrimp, or is it like Addie's Skittles, which are never to be touched?" Caroline teases.

"I have one rule," I say with a shrug.

Maren coughs into her glass like she nearly choked on her sip. "Are you kidding? You have too many rules to count." She hooks her thumb over at me and tells Caroline, "This one avoids first-date kisses, although lately, she's been avoiding dates altogether."

"You're one to talk," I shoot back.

"And she still makes a wish and blows kisses to the clock at 3:33 every afternoon."

I hold a finger up. "That's not technically a rule. It's just tradition."

The crease between Caroline's brows smooths free as understanding visibly dawns. "Is that because of the time you found that half-dollar in front of Quinton's, and they offered you a free banana split because you were their hundredth customer for the month?"

"I'm surprised you believe in something so woo-woo ." Maren punctuates her comment by ripping a piece of shrimp in half with her teeth.

"It's not woo-woo ; it's sentimental. Big difference." I sip from my champagne. "It was the afternoon the three of us swore to be friends forever. We made a sacred vow with our hands on that very coin. And it's held us together for twenty-plus years."

"You're going to make me cry." Caroline clutches her chest. "How am I supposed to go back to the city now?"

"You can't," I chirp. "You must stay here forever. I know a certain flannel-wearing grump who'd be perfectly happy if you stayed."

"Happy? Does Austin know the meaning of the word?" she teases.

"He's definitely not happy in his suit. He's been fidgeting with his tie like the dance toddlers in their tights." I snort into my flute.

Caroline's hum drifts over us. "But damn, does he look good enough to eat." A dazed shadow clouds her light eyes, but it disappears as she turns back to us. "Much better than this shrimp Maren's stress eating."

"What is going on with you?" I ask.

Around a mouthful, Maren sputters, "What? I like shrimp."

I squeeze my eyes closed and wince. "I think you just blew shrimp in my face."

"Oops. Sorry," she mumbles as she devours another shrimp whole.

I don't think she even chews it.

I swipe at my cheek. "If I didn't love you to the ends of the earth and back, I'd be more pissed."

Maren slides her empty flute onto the table next to us, and her shoulders sag. When I follow the direction of her gaze, I find Nathan McAllister at the end of it.

Her high school boyfriend and the love of her life, not that she'll admit the latter out loud.

It's been ten years since he left this town—and her—behind. Soon afterward, we heard he got married and had a baby.

And my reserved but sweet friend Maren still watches him like she's wishing on a shooting star, even though all he's done to her is leave a giant crater in her life.

Scoffing, Maren glances back at us. "Nate looks better than ever, and I fucking hate him for it."

"I hate his stupid chest tattoo," I chime in for solidarity. The truth is, the guy's pretty cool, but I'll never forgive him for breaking my best friend's heart. "Like, he should button his shirt all the way to the top and cover that shit up, am I right?"

"Totally." Caroline widens her eyes in exaggeration, clearly playing along for Maren's sake.

"The ass," Maren grumbles and swipes another flute of champagne from a server passing us with a tray.

As if her simple curse conjured him, my eyes find Owen's in the crowd of familiar faces. There are only a few people I don't recognize, presumably because they're spouses and significant others who didn't graduate with us.

But the rest are people I'll never forget, especially since most of them stuck around Sapphire Creek and nearby Savannah. Others moved away for a grand life outside the scope of our small, humble town. Caroline was one of them, as she moved to New York City right after graduation, and she has a life up there to return to.

But that's the thing about reunions, isn't it? We come together for a night to reminisce on old times and catch up on new ones. We relive the highlights of the past and then return to the realities of our present, wherever and whatever that may be.

"Can I steal you away for a second?"

This question doesn't come from the girls. Instead, I'm surprised to find Nate suddenly in the middle of our group.

"I need to talk to you about something," he tells Maren, and she zeroes in on that tattoo peeking out from the open V of his button up.

"Sure," she draws out, then holds her glass up. "Just need one more sip."

Nate backs away, and when he's out of earshot, I whisper, "Wonder what that's about."

"Go, go." Caroline nudges her toward him, and Maren almost spills her champagne.

I stifle my giggle behind my palm, but it's no use. Maren catches me and hisses, "Don't you have a fight with Owen to tend to?"

This time, it's Caroline who covers her mouth with her hand, and the crinkles around her eyes give her away—she's laughing at my expense.

"You two are on thin ice," I warn.

Maren clears her throat and steps between us to meet Nate on the dance floor, where he holds his hand out, and she accepts.

Caroline leans into me with a sigh as we watch the ex-couple sway to the music together. "What a blast from the past," she muses. "Remember how in love they were?"

"Disgustingly so," I say.

"Just like you and Stewart were. What happened with him, anyway?" She levels me with her curious stare. "You just told me you ended things, and that was it."

I brace myself. "Let's not ruin a fine evening with horror stories, okay?"

She holds her hands up in surrender and offers a sympathetic smile. "In that case, I'm going to run to the restroom, then find my flannel-wearing grump."

"Go be happy," I say as she playfully shimmies away, and I'm left with a bitter taste on my tongue at the mention of Stewart.

I never told her the truth about him because it's hard to repeat it, even to my close friends. Maren barely knows the whole story—just that it has something to do with my mother since I ended things with Stewart the day after he met her.

" O.M.G ." Yvonne snickers. She and Emmy—or Emily, as she goes by now—block my view of Maren and Nate, both their brows hitched into an arch in the shape of a hook.

My skin itches with dread and discomfort.

"I'm pretty sure my grandma has this same dress," Emily taunts, waving a condescending finger over me.

"She must have great taste, then." I square my shoulders, raising my spine as if it's attached by a string, and I'm dragging it up into a locked position.

But even at my tallest—and in my heels—I'm still a couple inches shorter than Cruella and Maleficent.

"Sweet Addie Lockhart." Yvonne rubs her hand up and down my arm. "Some people just don't change, do they?"

"You are still single and as predictable as ever, with this balloon arch and confetti on the tables like we're in middle school." Emily's shrill voice snaps my last nerve like a twig. "You are just adorable, Addie. Bless your heart."

"You're right. Some people never change, and isn't that a shame? Because you two could've been much better women by now if you'd grow up even just a fraction." I start to hurl some insult regarding their fried hair from too many products or the fact that Yvonne has already been divorced twice in the last five years, but someone calls for Emily, interrupting what was sure to be the best ending to the most glorious ass-kicking I've ever delivered.

They saunter away, arm in arm, toward Emily's husband, the uptight city counselor who's seemingly on a campaign tour even though it's not an election year. From what I overheard in the sitting room earlier about some mini mall he's angling for, he's off to an early start with his re-election.

I'd appreciate the ambition if he were married to anyone else.

"What did the evil twins want?" Austin sidles up next to me.

"The usual—they're out for blood," I mutter. "It wouldn't be a trip to the past if they didn't sink their fangs into some poor soul."

"Good thing you're no poor soul," he says with a grunt.

I could launch into a scathing rant over the Wicked Witch and her wretched sidekick, but I opt for the high road. As I told Caroline, I'd rather not spoil a fun evening. Yvonne and Emily are not worth the trouble.

With all the hard work I poured into this event, I'm hell-bent on enjoying it, no matter what they think of the decorations.

I angle myself to face Austin. "Did you drop off food at my house the other night?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Because we're supposedly friends," I point out.

"Yes, that," he deadpans and scratches the back of his head. "I didn't figure we were bring-each-other-food close."

"I've brought you many baked goods over the years," I remind him.

"You've brought those in exchange for something. It's never without strings."

"So, you didn't drop off my favorite food from Lucy's after float on Thursday?"

"From Lucy's on Thursday?" His cloudy aqua eyes flash like a lightbulb, and it's obvious that he knows something.

"What?" I press. The quiet brute will be the death of me. Half of every conversation we have is me prying information out of this human vault of secrets.

"I'd rather mind my own business." He attempts to shrug me off and walk away, but he should know better by now. I'm never easy to evade.

I fist the back of his jacket and yank him backward. "Austin Kyle—you better tell me what you know, or I will tell your mama you're the one who broke her favorite antique vase last year and not the storm."

"You wouldn't." He glares.

"I'm surprised you got away with the lie to begin with. What storm rattles a house hard enough to shatter a vase but leaves everything else intact?"

"That's none of your concern, Addison ."

"Use my whole first name all you want, but it won't save you. Only the truth will." I mimic his seething glare, daring him to blink first as I stand my ground.

"Owen," he says simply.

It's like talking to a freaking wooden chair.

"What about him?" I pry.

"He asked me for your address after float Thursday night." He works his jaw back and forth, and his words raise the hair at the back of my neck. "He also wanted to know… your favorite meal from Lucy's," he says, shifting from one foot to the other.

"You're telling me that Owen Conrad dropped off dinner for me?" I blink. I don't think I've ever been more confused. Not even biophysics is this baffling.

Austin only offers an incoherent raspy sound, but it's enough to confirm this phenomenon. There's no other way to describe it.

"Why would he do that?" I ask.

"Why do geese fly in a V-shaped formation? The reason can be complicated, but there is an answer."

"Spare me the lecture," I mumble. It's times like these when I realize as much as we have in common, Austin and I could not be more different people.

"If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

I wave him off and take hesitant steps toward Owen, my mind clambering for an explanation. My emotions run from one end of the spectrum to the other over the short distance to reach him.

As I approach, another guy steps away from Owen to high-five a friend and laugh over something I can't hear. My ears are ringing.

"Dick," Owen mumbles.

Now that, I definitely hear.

I wait for him to finishing tossing back what appears to be… is he drinking water? What happened to his offensive flask of whiskey?

"Who are you talking about?" I ask, jolting him in place as if I shocked him with a taser, not that I'd ever take my distaste for him so far.

"Just stupid Lorenzo." He waves a finger around his glass toward the guy who just left. "Do you remember him? He played baseball too."

"Doesn't ring a bell." I shrug, but the truth is, I'm too distracted by Owen to focus on whether or not I remember "stupid Lorenzo."

"Let's just say he was a jerk in high school," he continues.

"Oh, there were more of you?" I toss back.

He drops his narrowed gaze onto mine. "He was jerkier than I was."

"As a professional teacher of English, I can't allow you to ever repeat that word." I cluck my tongue against the inside of my cheek, my chin angled upward. "But as a woman, I have to say you were the jerkiest jerk of all."

"Is that why you came over here? You're seeking me out to insult me now?"

Fusing my lips together, I tilt my head and study Owen from a different angle, using the twinkling lights above us and what little sunlight is left to my advantage.

He's not wearing a hat tonight. His hair is unencumbered, naturally bouncing back into place even after he runs his hand over his head, the ends swooping over the tops of his ears.

His square jaw is sharp. Yet it's not intimidating like some of the ones I've seen on guys marching down Wall Street. It's definitely not as lethal as the sharp edges of some boulders I've seen near the river.

Owen's jaw is strong, and it's very… him.

And I guess I agree with the rest of the women around town—he's rather attractive.

Has he always been this good-looking? When the gossiping shrews have gone on about his looks, I've usually turned the other way to fight a gag. But now, is it possible that I see what they mean?

"Well?" he presses, still peering down at me. "I'm sure there are better ways to celebrate a job well done. I mean, this reunion turned out great, and it's all thanks to you. You should enjoy yourself, or is that what's happening here? You're celebrating by doing what you love most—insulting me?"

The only part of his rambling that my brain latches onto is the compliment of a great reunion. "Do you really think so?" I whisper, searching his green eyes for any sign of sarcasm, but I come up empty.

"It's bitchin' ," he belts from deep in his chest.

And a laugh rumbles free from my throat, a sound I've never made around him.

His eyes drop to my mouth, which curves upward, the intensity of his gaze like the heat of the sun.

Goose bumps prick my arms as I clear my throat and say, "Listen, did you… I found dinner on my porch the other night, and I was just… Austin mentioned you might have…"

"I left you dinner," he states evenly.

I stuttered over my words, but he couldn't be more calm and collected, as if he does this sort of thing for people he hates all the time.

"I thought it best to forego a note, since I figured you wouldn't eat it if you knew it was from me."

The sound I release resides somewhere between a scoff and a snort. "That's so not true."

He lifts a brow, and I glimpse a bounce in his cheek like he's fighting a smile.

"Okay, it's true, which begs the question—why? Why did you bring me dinner?" I urge.

"You hadn't eaten," he says, and again, his answer is simple.

It's too simple for my liking.

I have so many questions.

"What did you hope to gain from it?" I start. "I've seen you since then, but you haven't mentioned it. If I hadn't talked to Austin, I wouldn't have known it was you, and I wouldn't have been able to thank you."

"Is this supposed to be a thank-you?"

"Yes," I clip.

"You're not very good at it."

"Well, I'm not finished, am I?"

"Please. Go on. I'm listening." He lifts his thumb and forefinger up to his mouth, where he drags them across his bottom lip in a motion to zip them up.

Hot currents of indignation creep up my neck until my ears burn. "What's your angle, Owen?"

He shrugs. "I thought it was nice."

"You don't do nice."

"I'm plenty nice, but you—" He releases a low, sarcastic chuckle. "You just can't see it, can you? You're too set on making me the bad guy in your sweet little Addie show."

"I might be open to changing my mind about you if you didn't hate me, but I don't make a habit of going easy?—"

"Whoa. Back up. What are you talking about?"

I jam my finger into the valley between his curved pecs and do my best to ignore how hard his chest is. They're just muscles, after all. It's nothing new. I've seen muscles before.

But his feel like more than just muscles.

They're the products of hard work and dreams come true.

He gained this physique from years of pursuing his passion in baseball, all before it was ripped away by his injury.

I respect these muscles.

My previously succinct trail of thoughts changes course, leaping into more of a zigzagging pattern as I stumble over what I want to say next.

He dips his head and inches closer, and my arm floats back to my side, my fingertips skimming the thin material of his button up.

His voice drops into a lower octave, one I feel in my freaking toes, as he says, "I don't hate you, Lockhart. I never have."

Time—and my heartbeat—sputters to a stop as the weight of his confession settles over me.