Chapter 31

chapter

thirty-one

ADDIE

I have a million things waiting for me at home to tend to, especially since Rain practically turned my house upside down. She and her friends finally left last night, and the house is currently in shambles.

With her departure, a singed bra hung over the fireplace, several new candles lined my counter, and one of them tore down my clothesline on the back deck. Her marvelously classy friends even scared off Judd, who attempted to come by for my dryer for the hundredth time—I've lost count. According to Judd, a tall man in nothing but cargo shorts told him they were in the middle of an orgy.

Had I been there, I would've erupted like the air from a whale's blowhole, so it was probably best that I was at the dance studio.

I turn to leave—more like, flee—when a round of laughter drifting from inside gives me pause. It lures me in like a whimsical promise of a worldwide eutopia. I could use some blissful whimsy, especially after the week I've had.

With a huff, I shove my hands into the pockets of my peacoat and storm inside, following the muffled voices into the dining room like it's the freaking yellow brick road.

The heels of my boots thudding across the wooden floors slows as I reach my destination.

The pearl color of the walls gives the illusion of a larger room than what it is, especially with the sparse décor. There are only a few pictures of Owen's family on one side, a window framed with pale green curtains, and a leafy plant in the corner. The arched entrance from the kitchen is high, and it makes me feel small.

As do all the eyes staring back at me.

Everyone's here—his parents, three sisters, his baby nephew, and Owen. I didn't want to believe they were actually all here, but they are. My perfect vision doesn't lie.

This is a mistake!

"Hi there." Owen's mom is the first to smile, and it's a warm, comforting one that immediately puts me at ease. It's one I've never seen my own mother wear.

"Hi," I practically squeak.

I've stood in front of classroom after classroom of teenagers for years. I've given countless speeches and introductions at dance recitals and pep rallies, and I've even completed a few presentations for the school board too.

I never shy away from the pressure of an audience, but nothing compares to this moment.

A pool of sweat doubles in size at my lower back, and my stomach tightens.

Owen's mom scoots her chair back and waves me over. "Come on in, and take a seat, darlin'."

I find Owen stuffing a forkful of lasagna into his gargantuan mouth as he stares back at me. I've never seen anyone look so smug while eating, but he accomplishes it far too easily.

"This is Addie." He points his fork in my direction, then waves it over the rest of the table. "That's our father, Bill, and our mother, Dorothy. These are my sisters, Whitney, Lottie, and Laurel, and the stud on the end is Huck."

"It's nice to meet you all. I'm so sorry to intrude," I say, managing to find my voice through the panic seizing my chest. "You've already started eating, and I'm being rude. I didn't even bring a covered dish or a bottle of wine—I don't know if any of you like wine or drink alcohol at all," I ramble. "I don't have a gift, either."

"We don't need any gifts. We're just happy for you to join us." Mrs. Conrad throws her arm over my shoulders and leads me to the empty seat between her and Owen.

"Is it not someone's birthday? Or another special occasion, perhaps?" I glance around the room. There are no decorations, cake, or any other indication of a party, but why else would the whole family gather around this enormous oak dining table on a weeknight?

"No," Whitney says, but the simple syllable ends on a high note like it's a question. She shakes her head slowly, as if she's unsure of a special occasion.

"We get together once a week or so for a family dinner." The one across from me, Laurel, shrugs, like this is normal.

They all rearrange their schedules and get together that often… just because? I thought this sort of thing only happened with fake families on TV.

"But I can't make it next week," Laurel says to the rest of the group. "I have to get more serious about studying for Step 1 this spring."

"You're studying for something that's not until spring?" Whitney gapes. "I didn't even start studying for midterms last week until the night before!"

Her mother shoots her a stern glare as she takes her seat, and I drape my peacoat over the back of my chair, freeing my flowy top from its cage.

"I mean… not midterms. I meant to say… grocery shopping. I don't grocery shop until the night before I need something." Whitney shrinks, then points across Lottie to their other sister. "Good for you for being so diligent, Laurel. Go get 'em."

Mr. Conrad's smirk catches my attention, and it's not because it's the only movement made after Whitney basically outs herself.

It's because the mannerism is so familiar. This is exactly where Owen got his smirk. The two men are very similar in appearance, although his father is far smaller in size.

Mrs. Conrad holds up her hand. "We haven't even gotten to dessert yet. Let's discuss next week after that."

Huck stirs in his highchair, and while the attention shifts to him, I take advantage of the distraction and pinch Owen's leg. His knee bumps the table and draws his mother's eyes toward him, but he waves her off.

"You are unbelievable," I hiss in hushed tones. "You lured me in here with delicious food—cheap tactics."

"You're the one who came to me, baby." He winks as he sips from his glass of water, and I'm suddenly so hot, I'd love to pour it all over me.

"Addie, darlin'—what would you like to drink?" Mrs. Conrad gently pats my shoulder and jolts me.

"I, um…" I pause to catch my breath and slowly rise on trembling knees. "I'll get a water from the kitchen. No need to get up."

"Nonsense. Make yourself a plate, and I'll be right back." She pats my shoulder again and scurries away while I blink at the spread in front of me.

Where do I even begin?

My stomach growls, but no one seems to hear it, other than Owen, anyway.

He reaches for the lasagna and sets it next to my empty plate. "Eat before your stomach eats you." Pointing to a corner piece, he whispers, "I'd recommend that one. It's the biggest cut, and you'll need your strength for what I plan to do to you later."

I clutch my chest, almost to ensure my heart is still, in fact, beating underneath.

This guy is straight trouble.

Mrs. Conrad returns with a glass of water, and her timing couldn't be better. I down nearly half of it with my first gulp.

"Hang on…" Lottie pushes her food along her plate, but her focus is solely on me. "You're the Addie? As in, Addison Lockhart?"

I nod. "You probably saw me running around the homecoming parade a couple weeks ago. And I went to school with Owen."

She shakes her head. "You're also the one Owen couldn't stop staring at during the chili dinner."

Owen slows his chewing, and when he swallows, his Adam's apple bobs with seemingly great difficulty.

Lottie snaps her fingers. "Bond was talking about you, and our big brother got so squirrely."

"When has Owen ever been squirrely?" Whitney teases as she reaches over to wipe drool from Huck's chin.

"When there's a pretty girl at stake," Laurel tosses.

"No way was I squirrely," Owen says with a wide grin. As he turns to look at me, amusement flits across his green eyes. "At the chili dinner, Lockhart and I weren't even friends ."

"Well, we're co-workers," I quickly add. "I teach English at the high school."

"Oh?" Bill raises a brow. It's the first syllable he's uttered since I sat down, and I can't tell if it's a good thing.

"English was my favorite subject," Mrs. Conrad gushes. "I was such a big fan of Wuthering Heights . I think I read it three times in high school just for fun."

"Wasn't that the one with Heathcliff?" Laurel ventures.

"Wow. I'm surprised you know anything other than the name of a disease or a bone," Lottie teases.

"I'm not surprised you can't chew and talk at the same time." Laurel swipes at the sleeve of her shirt. "You got tomato sauce on me."

"Relax. What do you even need real clothes for? You live in nothing but scrubs."

"When I'm a doctor, I'll wear mostly scrubs, but there are so many things to do before then. I have to—" Laurel holds up her fingers as if to start listing all the things, but Lottie and Whitney cut her off.

"Please don't start." Whitney groans. "I did not sleep enough last night to hear your long list of words I've never heard of."

"Besides," Lottie cuts in. "We've heard it all before. I'd rather hear from Addie." She pins her gaze on me.

"Hmm?" I swallow the last bite of my lasagna after having inhaled the delicious dish with the gusto of three sumo wrestlers. I was positively starving.

"Do you like to paint?" Lottie asks.

"I've never really painted, unless you count the finger-painting assignments we were given as kids." I smile.

"What about pottery? Do you like pot?" Whitney pales. "Oh my gosh—I didn't mean that. I was just?—"

"We know, sweetie," Mrs. Conrad says, swooping in to put her youngest at ease.

"I haven't tried that, either." I frown.

"What do you do for fun? Gardening, perhaps?" This comes from Mrs. Conrad, and I stare a beat before I realize I don't have much of an answer.

"I've never had much of a green thumb, not like my mom. When she stays in one place, anyway." I clear my throat and quickly bypass my unintentional mention of Rain. "I guess I don't have much time for fun. I'm always busy grading papers and volunteering at the dance studio."

"She's a phenomenal dancer," Owen announces.

"That's one skill I so wish I had," Lottie laments.

I smile softly. "I do like to dance, but I mainly just practice once a week. I used to do it more, but like I said, I guess I just got busy."

"Busy is good." Laurel nods. "I am happiest when my schedule is packed. Makes me feel productive and useful."

"You have no life," Lottie jabs, then widens her eyes at me. "Not that you don't have a life, either."

"You're kind of right, though." I shrug and attempt to appear unaffected, but in truth, I am. It's not because of Lottie's joke, but because my life has been loaded with appointments and opportunities to get myself to where I'm going professionally.

What about my personal life? What about fun? I hang out with my friends and attend karaoke nights on Sundays, but those aren't hobbies or pastimes just for myself.

The only thing I've done for myself recently is book a spa appointment out of town and sleep with my co-worker, neither of which I regret.

I should do more of those things, but I should also adopt a hobby.

As the conversation continues, I drift into the rhythm of their back and forth, as if I come to all their family dinners. Mrs. Conrad insists I call her Dorothy, and Mr. Conrad shares stories of my own father.

According to him, they were friends in high school, but I've never heard my dad mention him. It's not too surprising, though. When we do get together, which becomes rarer and rarer every year, Dad mostly asks about me and my life. He'll occasionally mention what new hobby his wife has undertaken and conquered, but he keeps his personal life under lock and key.

After we all devour a slice of pumpkin pie, I rise, my stomach full and satisfied. "I'll get started on the dishes," I offer, but Dorothy playfully swats my hand away.

"You'll do no such thing." She holds a finger up. "The Conrad Rule is that I cook, but the host washes the dishes."

"And if we're eating at Mom's, Dad's in charge of the dishes," Whitney adds.

Bill takes a mini bow in his seat, and I nudge Owen in the shoulder, my smile widening as I say, "I like this rule. Lucky, lucky Owen."

"I'm about to get lucky," he whispers, coughing on the last word, and I glare.

I skim the room to confirm no one heard him, then mouth to him, "What is wrong with you?"

"Where to begin," he mumbles with a smirk.

"Jenga?" Lottie claps.

Laurel checks her watch. "I have time for one round, and no cheating!" She directs the last part to Whitney. "Just because you have a baby doesn't mean you get five free passes."

"Tell that to Dad," Lottie says. "He's the one who lets her get away with it."

"She's the youngest. What can I say?" Bill shrugs as he stands from the table and shuffles into the living room.

"Addie, you in?" Lottie asks. "We can add your name to our ongoing scorebook."

"Sure," I answer without hesitation, and I feel Owen's eyes on me. "How exactly long is ongoing ?"

"For the last fifteen years," Whitney chimes in. "I was almost seven when Mom and Dad decided they needed more ways to occupy all of us since eating and running around the yard weren't enough."

"The rain put a real damper on their tempers," Dorothy explains. "We needed an inside game, and Owen suggested Jenga."

"It was the only thing on our shelves at the time," Bill adds with a good-natured grin.

"Aside from peppermint snowball cookies at Christmas, Jenga is our longest-standing tradition." Laurel maneuvers around the table in the direction where their father disappeared.

"I love traditions," I whisper as a pang of sadness mixed with jealousy spears my chest.

This family might make their playful jabs at one another, but they're wholesome and loving. They're kind and inclusive and welcoming.

The Conrads have traditions in their homes, and they value them as much as I do.

As a kid, my parents established plenty of them—camping in the yard with s'mores on the first night of fall, movie nights with bowls of Skittles every Sunday, and more. These nights brought us closer together as a family. With every laugh, moments of juice spewing from our noses, and comparisons of rainbow-colored tongues, we were tied together.

But once my parents divorced, almost all of the traditions stopped. The one that remained was chili dinner with my mom.

From then on, I relied so heavily on the traditions of the school, especially those of homecoming. It's why I'm so adamant—and desperate—about upholding the importance of such annual activities.

"We're ready!" Laurel calls out, and the rest of us filter away from the dining room.

Owen and I are the last ones out. With his family far enough ahead of us, Owen squeezes my ass, and I yelp.

"Are you okay?" Whitney's head whips around, Huck cradled in her arms.

"Thought I saw a… spider. Just a fly." I force a smile, and when I turn around to scold Owen, his red face tells me all I need to know.

He's not sorry one bit. In fact, he's rather proud of himself as he watches me with a twinkle in his eye. It's the kind of look people have when gazing at the stars or drinking in a sunset over the ocean.

It's a look of awe.

And I'm deliriously happy to be on the receiving end of such a look from Owen.