Chapter 38

chapter

thirty-eight

ADDIE

I trudge out of my bedroom and down the hall, feeling worse than I ever have after any hangover or flu combined.

Rubbing my eyes with the heels of my palms, I run into the wall, disoriented after fifteen hours of sleep and odd dreams.

In the living room, I smell fresh linens. Am I imagining it? It definitely smelled like sage and burned pancakes yesterday morning when I left for work.

I blink several times, then scan the couch, coffee table, and rug. They're all clean. Everything is spotless.

My jaw drops as I take in the fluffed throw pillows and the stainless corner of the rug. Before my mother left, she informed me of a tea spill and that it was bad luck to clean it up, so she left it.

It's become obvious to me over the years that she makes shit up, and it's mostly because she wants out of responsibility.

But there's no tea stain. No trash or dirty cups strewn about. No sign there were rowdy, ill-mannered people here at all.

I rub my hands up and down my arms, which no longer tremble under the curse of chills and body aches. Right now, my skin just crawls with a different kind of feeling—one I've never been keen on.

Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I cautiously meander into the kitchen, and sure enough, it matches the living room. The sink is free of any dish, drop, or mark. The stove and counter sparkle, and the windows have been wiped down too.

The only difference in here is that fresh flowers sit in a vase in the center of the breakfast table. It's a beautiful arrangement, with greenery interspersed among pale yellow, white, and orange blooms. Those definitely did not come from my property.

Which means someone got me flowers.

It's probably the same someone who brought a box of muffins from Bready or Knot. The yellow-and-white striped box is tucked under the flowers, and I open the top to take a whiff, testing the strength of my stomach for the day.

The smell is heavenly, but I'm not feeling a fresh muffin quite yet.

Brows furrowed, I peek through the window above the kitchen sink and admire the freshly cut grass. Even the hedges are trimmed.

When I thought I heard a lawn mower yesterday afternoon, I figured it was one of the neighbors. It was not. It was my yard.

How much of my dreams were actually reality?

"Good morning!" someone chirps from behind me, and what's left of my stomach falls to my knees.

I whip around, expecting to find Owen, but it's…

"Bo?" I ask, and two innocent eyes stare back at me. The not-even-twenty-year-old was in my English class a couple years ago, and he now works with Austin at the auto shop.

While I do know him, it's not well enough for him to be standing in my kitchen.

This was probably Owen's doing. He brought his mother to cook for me last night, and now he must have Bo up to something too. Did he enlist the whole town to help me, the incapable, puking damsel in distress?

"What are you doing here? Did you mow my lawn?" I ask.

"No. I fixed your car." He shrugs as he wipes his hands on a dirty rag.

A freshly showered—and dripping—Owen appears over his shoulder. Water droplets from his wet hair splatter across the top of his T-shirt, and his eyes shine like crystals catching the sun's rays.

"How did you know it needed fixing?" I ask, and it's directed more toward Owen, who seems to be the mastermind since it's clear the kid is just the messenger.

"It took you three tries to start it in the school parking lot the other day. Figured it was a starter problem, so I called in an expert." Owen holds his chin high with pride.

"I was going to fix it. It was on my list for next week," I say, hugging my gurgling midsection.

"Now you don't have to. It's done." Owen's innocent smile doesn't reach me as it did yesterday. Right now, it makes my blood boil.

I turn toward Bo. "I didn't know you made house calls."

"I do for three times the pay."

I gape at Owen again.

Bo cringes. "Sorry, dude. I forgot I wasn't supposed to say anything."

"Next time, I'll wait for Austin to be free."

Bo grumbles, and I level Owen with my stare. "Why did you pay him so much for my car?"

"What? I have money."

"And I don't?"

Bo shifts, his discomfort radiating in waves between us.

"That's not what I said, and it's definitely not what I meant. It's just that I have baseball money."

"I don't care if God Himself gave you stacks of gold. You have no right to go and spend it on me. Let me pay you back." I scan the counter for my tote, but it's not there. It's not at the breakfast table, either, and when I rack my brain for the answer as to its whereabouts, I come up empty.

Then again, it could be right in front of me, but it's hard to see past the red dots blotting my vision.

"I don't want you to pay me back. How do you still not understand the concept of an act of kindness?" His jaw sets. "Here's how it works—you let someone mow your lawn while you're sick, and you let that same someone get your car fixed, and you don't pay that someone back. You just say a simple thank-you, which I don't think you've ever said. Do you know how?"

My eye twitches. This is not happening. Not returning a favor is like not saying "excuse me" when I sneeze or leave the table. It's rude. And I especially can't leave things with Owen like this. There is no scenario I can live with where I'm in Owen's debt.

He's done too much for me, and the feeling of weakness creeps up my spine. This is why I don't ask for help. It's why I take care of everything myself. I hate being a burden to anyone, and I hate owing anyone anything.

"Why are you acting like saying two words is figuring out how big the universe is?" Owen folds his arms over his chest.

"If you don't care about getting anything in return, then why do you insist on a thank-you?"

"It's good practice for you," he shoots back.

"You cleaned my whole house!" I throw my hands up. "Not just that, you got other people involved too." I point to Bo, but he's nowhere to be found.

He must've snuck out during yet another one of my ridiculous squabbles with Owen.

"Bo and your mom," I continue. "Did you ask Leon for advice on the lawn too? I'm sure he was so happy to hear from you. He just loves weirdo do-gooders knocking on his door unannounced."

"What is your problem? Do you need to go back to sleep? Clearly, you didn't get enough rest last night."

"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Owen," I clip. "I don't need you to fix me."

He jolts backward, a frown etched into his face in the most unnatural way. Only grins and smirks belong there, but I've put a damn frown in their place.

"I know you can't help yourself, but I can handle this on my own," I assert.

"Can't help myself?"

"I never thought I'd say this, but you help too much. Your sisters, your nephew, your parents. When do you ever do anything for yourself?" I pose.

"That's what this is about?" He releases a humorless laugh. "I didn't realize lending a hand to those I care about is a crime, but thank you for clearing that up for me."

"It's not, but don't you ever get sick of being taken advantage of?" I ask, lowering my voice. "I don't want to be yet another person you need to drop everything for. I just want…"

"What do you want, Addie?"

I cringe at his use of my first name. No Lockhart, angel, or baby.

Just Addie .

And it drips with disappointment.

What is my problem? Am I seriously mad because he's so considerate and caring? That his heart is as big as this freaking town?

Or do I just not understand it because he actually does it out of the kindness of his soul and not because he's seeking praise? Not like me.

"I want to be more like you," I whisper.

His expression drops into one of shock.

He looks as surprised as I feel by my answer. Where did that come from? Is that why I'm upset—because he's making me realize I'm a compliment whore?

I lick my lips, acutely aware of the words as I speak them. "I don't want to care so much about the give-and-take of good deeds. I wish I could just appreciate the favor and let it rest."

The tension in his brow eases, and one corner of his mouth curls upward. "You can start that journey by saying thanks ."

I shift uncomfortably in place as years of habit come to a head. "I dreamt that you held my hair back while I vomited." I wince.

"That was real."

"And carrying me to the bedroom?"

"Also real." He nods, his expression frustratingly unreadable.

"You mowed my lawn too," I say, and this time, it's more of a statement since I already know the truth.

He mowed my freaking lawn while I practically wasted away last night. I hate that I'm partially upset over my existential crisis, but also that I didn't have the chance to witness—and gawk—at a sweaty Owen, who might've been shirtless, engaging in physical labor.

I bet the sun glistened off his muscles, and I missed the whole thing.

But that's not the important part.

"This is hard for me." I blow out a heavy exhale, my head fuzzy and overwhelmed. "I've been severely independent since I was a kid. When my parents divorced, I was suddenly ten going on thirty. I had to be the adult in our house, and not once did my mother thank me. Do you know what she did? She criticized me for being too responsible and making perfect decisions. She said I should be outside playing in the dirt with the rest of the kids in our neighborhood. Can you believe it?" I scoff.

"It shouldn't have been that way for you," he says softly. "Nothing about that was fair."

I swallow the lime-sized lump in my throat, thankful for the validation. It's a relief, to say the least. Why have I never talked about this before? I could've freed myself from the burden long ago.

I wring my hands in front of me. "I guess it's why I'm so desperate for praise. I never got it from the two people who always meant the most to me, and in turn, I never learned how to offer it when someone does nice things for me. And you, Owen, have done the kindest things of all."

He dips his head, scratching the back of his neck, and when he raises up again, his cheeks redden. The shy blush squeezes my heart.

Owen has proven time and again that this is just who he is. This isn't a game, and he's not working an angle. He's just a kind guy.

And I don't deserve him.

I shake my head as I lament, "I've said such terrible things to you and about you—over ten years' worth."

"Right back at you." He chuckles.

I round the counter and stop a foot from him, inhaling deeply as if to try and absorb some of his confidence and all-around goodness. "Thank you." And for some unknown reason, I poke his chest with the tip of my finger.

He lifts a brow.

The tops of my ears burn. "I don't know why I did that."

He full-on smirks as he covers the spot I poked with his large hand. "I'll cherish it always."

"You really didn't have to do any of this, but I'm very grateful."

"You are welcome," he says, his voice thick with sincerity. "And I'm very glad you're feeling better."

"It was scary there for a while." I slide my fingers into my hair, which gives me pause. "Oh, God. I look like shit, don't I?"

"Never."

"Don't lie to me."

"Never." He cracks a grin and pulls me in for a hug, his arms easily swallowing me. He rests his chin on my head and sighs. "Did I mention how glad I am that you're feeling better?"

My smile spreads against his chest as I breathe him in, thankful he's here.

"And…" He pulls back. "Is this a good time to let you know I also fixed your dryer? Judd was here to help until Mary reminded him they were supposed to be with their niece and nephew, so I did it alone."

"That's it." I shake my head and separate myself the rest of the way from his embrace.

"What?"

"That's the last straw." I throw my hand up and round the counter toward the stove. "I thank you for all you've done, but I'm making you pancakes for all your troubles. That'll make us even."

As he takes a seat on a stool at the counter, he teases, "It's bad luck to reject pancakes."