“You lied.”
Harrison is looking at my ID.
I assume he just noticed that today is my birthday and I wasn’t at all twenty-one when I walked in here with Owen the first time.
“Owen made me.”
Harrison shakes his head and hands me back my ID. “Owen does a lot of things Owen shouldn’t do.” He wipes down the bar between us and tosses the rag aside, but I’m hoping he’ll elaborate on that comment. “So what’ll it be, Ms. Reed? Jack and Coke again?”
I immediately shake my head. “No thanks. Something a little less assaulting.”
“Margarita?”
I nod.
He turns around to make my first legally ordered alcoholic beverage. I hope he puts one of those tiny umbrellas in it.
“Where’s Owen?” he asks.
I roll my eyes. “Do I look like Owen’s keeper? He’s probably inside Hannah.”
Harrison spins around, wide-eyed. I shrug off my insult and he laughs before returning his attention to my drink. When he’s finished making it, he sets it on the bar in front of me. I begin to frown, but he reaches to his right, plucks an umbrella out of a jar, and places it in the drink. “See how you like this one.”
I bring the margarita to my lips and lick the salt off first, then take a sip. My eyes light up, because this is so much better than the shit Owen ordered for me. I nod and motion for him to go ahead and make me another one.
“Why don’t you finish that one first,” he suggests.
“Another one,” I say, wiping my mouth. “It’s my birthday and I’m a responsible adult who wants two drinks.”
His shoulders rise with his intake of breath and he shakes his head, but he does what I ask. Which is a good thing, because as soon as he finishes making my second one, I’m ordering a third one. Because I can. Because it’s my birthday and I’m all alone, and Portland is way on top of the country and I’m way down here, all the way at the bottom, and Owen Mason Gentry is a huge asshole!
And Lydia is a bitch.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Owen
There’s someone here who belongs to you.”
It takes me a few seconds to adjust to the middle-of-the-night phone call. I sit up in bed and rub my eyes. “Harrison?”
“You’re asleep?” He sounds shocked. “It’s not even one in the morning.”
I swing my legs to the side of the bed and press my palm to my forehead. “Been a rough week. Haven’t slept much.” I stand up and look for my jeans. “Why are you calling?”
There’s a pause and I hear a clatter come from his end of the line. “No! You can’t touch that! Sit down!”
I pull the phone away from my ear to salvage my eardrum. “Owen, you better get your ass over here. I close in fifteen minutes and she doesn’t take last call well.”
“What are you talking about? Who are you talking about?”
And then it hits me.
Auburn.
“Shit. I’ll be right there.”
Harrison hangs up without saying good-bye and I’m pulling a T-shirt over my head as I make my way downstairs.
Why are you there, Auburn? And why are you there alone?
I make it to the front door and kick a few of the confessions that have piled in front of it out of the way. I average about ten most weekdays, but the downtown traffic triples the number on Saturdays. I usually throw them all in a pile until I’m ready to begin a new painting before I read them, but one of the confessions on the floor catches my eye. I notice it because it has my name on it, so I pick it up.
I met this really great guy three weeks ago. He taught me how to dance, reminded me of what it feels like to flirt, walked me home, made me smile, and then YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE, OWEN!
PS: Your initials are so stupid.
The confessions are supposed to be anonymous, Auburn. This isn’t anonymous. As much as I want to laugh, her confession also reminds me of how much I let her down and how I’m probably the last person she wants to see come rescue her from a bar.
I walk across the street anyway and open the door, immediately searching for her. Harrison notices me approaching and nods his head toward the restroom. “She’s hiding from you.”
I grip the back of my neck and look in the direction of the restrooms. “What’s she doing here?”
Harrison lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “Celebrating her birthday, I guess.”
You’ve got to be kidding me. Could I feel any more like shit?
“It’s her birthday?” I begin making my way toward the bathroom. “Why didn’t you call me sooner?”
“She made me swear I wouldn’t.”
I knock on the restroom door but get no response. I slowly push it open and immediately see her feet protruding from the last stall.
Shit, Auburn.
I rush to where she is but stop just as fast when I see she isn’t passed out. In fact, she’s wide awake. She looks a little too comfortable for someone sprawled out in a bar bathroom. She’s resting her head against the wall of the stall, looking up at me.
I’m not surprised by the anger in her eyes. I probably wouldn’t want to speak to me right now, either. In fact, I’m not even going to make her speak to me. I’ll just take a seat right here on the floor with her.
She watches me as I walk into the stall and take a seat directly in front of her. I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around them and then lean my head back against the stall.
She doesn’t look away from me, she doesn’t speak, she doesn’t smile. She just inhales a slow breath and gives her head the slightest disappointed shake.
“You look like shit, Owen.”
I smile, because she doesn’t sound as drunk as I thought she might be. But she’s probably right. I haven’t looked in a mirror in over three days. That happens when I get caught up in my work. I haven’t shaved, so I more than likely have a good case of stubble going on.
She doesn’t look like shit, though, and I should probably say that out loud. She looks sad and a little bit drunk, but for a girl sprawled out on a bathroom floor, she looks pretty damn hot.
I know I should apologize to her for what I did. I know that’s the only thing that should be coming out of my mouth right now, but I’m scared if I apologize then she’ll start asking questions, and I don’t want to have to tell her the truth. I would rather she be disappointed that I stood her up than know the truth about why I stood her up.
“Are you okay?”
She rolls her eyes and focuses on the ceiling and I can see her attempt to blink back her tears. She brings her hands up to her face and rubs them up and down in an attempt to sober herself up, or maybe because she’s frustrated that I’m here. Probably a little of both.
“I got stood up tonight.”
She continues to stare up at the ceiling. I’m not sure how to feel about this confession of hers, because my first reaction is jealousy and I know that isn’t fair. I just don’t like the thought of her being so upset over someone who isn’t me, when really it’s none of my business.
“You get stood up by a guy so you spend the rest of the night drinking in a bar? That doesn’t sound like you.”
Her chin immediately drops to her chest and she looks up at me through her lashes. “I didn’t get stood up by a guy, Owen. That’s very presumptuous of you. And for your information, I happen to like drinking. I just didn’t like your drink.”
I shouldn’t be focusing on that one word in her sentence, but . . .
“You got stood up by a girl?”
I have nothing against lesbians, but please don’t be one. That’s not how I envision this ending between us.
“Not by a girl, either,” she says. “I got stood up by a bitch. A big, mean, selfish bitch.”
Her words make me smile even though I don’t mean for them to. There’s nothing about her situation worth smiling over, but the way her nose crinkled up while she insulted whoever stood her up was really cute.
I straighten my legs out, placing them on the outsides of her legs. She looks as defeated as I feel.
What a pair we make.
I want so badly to tell her the truth, but I also know that the truth won’t make things any better between us than they are now. The truth makes less sense than the lie, and I don’t even know which one I should go with anymore.
The only thing I do know is that, whether she’s mad or happy or sad or excited, she has this calming energy that radiates from her. Every day of my life it feels as if I’m fighting my way up an escalator that only goes down. And no matter how fast or how hard I run to try to reach the top, I stay in the same place, sprinting, getting nowhere. But when I’m with her it doesn’t feel like I’m on that escalator. It feels as if I’m on a moving walkway, and I’m effortlessly just carried along. Like I can finally relax and take a breath and not feel the constant pressure to sprint in order to prevent hitting rock bottom.
Her presence calms me, relaxes me, makes me feel as though maybe things aren’t as hard as they appear to be when she isn’t around. So no matter how pathetic we may seem right now, sitting on the floor of the women’s restroom, there isn’t anywhere else I would rather be at this moment.
“OMG,” she says, leaning forward to pull at my hair. Her entire face contorts into a frown and I can’t understand how my hair is displeasing her so much right now. “We need to fix this shit,” she mutters.
She puts one hand on the wall and one on my shoulder and she pushes herself up. When she’s standing, she reaches for my hand. “Come on, Owen. I’m gonna fix your shit.”
I don’t know that she’s sober enough to fix anything, really. But that’s okay, because I’m still on my moving walkway, so I’ll effortlessly follow her anywhere she wants to go.
“Let’s wash our hands, Owen. The floor is gross.” She walks to the sink and squirts soap on my palm. She glances at me in the mirror and looks down at my hand. “Here’s you some soap,” she says, wiping the soap across my hand.
I can’t tell with her. I don’t know how much she’s had to drink, but this interaction isn’t what I was expecting tonight. Especially after reading her confession.
We wash our hands in silence. She pulls two paper towels out and hands one to me. “Dry your hands, Owen.”
I take the paper towels from her and do as she says. She’s confident and in charge right now and I think it’s best to leave it that way. Until I figure out her level of sobriety, I don’t want to do anything to trigger any type of reaction from her other than what I’m getting right now.
I walk to the door and open it. She steps away from the sink and I watch her stumble slightly, but she catches herself on the wall. She immediately looks down at her shoes and glares at them.
“Fucking heels,” she mumbles. Only she isn’t wearing heels. She’s wearing black flats, but she blames them, anyway.
We make our way back out into the bar and Harrison has already closed up and shut off some of the lights. He raises a brow as we pass by him.
“Harrison?” she says to him, pointing a finger in his direction.
“Auburn,” he says flatly.
She wags her finger and I can tell Harrison wants to laugh, but he keeps it in check. “You put those wonderful drinks on my tab, okay?”
He shakes his head. “We close out all tabs at the end of the night.”
She places her hands on her hips and pouts. “But I don’t have any money. I lost my purse.”
Harrison leans over and grabs a purse from behind the bar. “You didn’t lose it.” He shoves it across the bar and she stares at the purse like she’s upset she didn’t lose it.
“Well, shit. Now I have to pay you.” She steps forward and opens her purse. “I’m only paying you for one drink because I don’t even think you put alcohol in that second one.”
Harrison looks at me and rolls his eyes, then pushes her money away. “It’s on the house. Happy birthday,” he says. “And for the record, you had three drinks. All with alcohol.”
She throws her purse over her shoulder. “Thank you. You’re the only person in the entire state of Texas to tell me happy birthday today.”
Is it possible to hate myself more than I did three weeks ago? Yes, it absolutely is.
She turns to me and tucks her chin in when she sees the look on my face. “Why do you look so sad, Owen? We’re going to fix your shit, remember?” She takes a step toward me and grabs my hand. “Bye, Harrison. I hate you for calling Owen.”
Harrison smiles and gives me a nervous look as if he’s silently saying, “Good luck.” I shrug and allow her to pull me behind her as we walk toward the exit.
“I got presents from Portland today,” she says as we near the exit. “People love me in Portland. My mom and dad. My brother and sisters.”
I push the door open and wait for her to walk outside first. It’s the first day of September—happy birthday—and the night has an unseasonable chill to it for Texas.
“But how many people who claim to love me from Texas got me a present? Take a wild guess.”
I really don’t want to guess. The answer is obvious, and I want to rectify the fact that no one from Texas got her a present today. I would say we should go get one right now, but not while she’s drunk and angry.
I watch her rub her hands up the bare skin of her arms and look up at the sky. “I hate your Texas weather, Owen. It’s dumb. It’s hot during the day and cold at night and unreliable the rest of the time.”
I want to point out that the inclusion of both day and night leaves little room for a “rest of the time.” But I don’t think now is a good time to get into specifics. She continues to pull me in a direction that isn’t across the street to my studio, nor is it in the direction of her apartment.
“Where are we going?”
She drops my hand and slows down until we’re walking next to each other. I want to put my arm around her so that she doesn’t trip over her “heels,” but I also know that she’s probably slowly sobering up, so I highly anticipate her coming to her senses soon. I doubt she wants me near her, much less with my arm around her.
“We’re almost there,” she says, rummaging through her purse. She stumbles a few times and each time, my hands fly up, preparing to break her fall, but somehow she always recovers.
She pulls her hand out of her purse and holds it up, jiggling a set of keys so close to my face they touch my nose. “Keys,” she says. “Found ’em.”
She smiles like she’s proud of herself, so I smile with her. She swings her arm against my chest so that I stop walking. She points to the salon we’re now standing in front of, and my hand immediately flies up to my hair in a protective response.
She inserts the key in the lock and sadly, the door opens with ease. She pushes it and motions for me to walk in first. “Lights are on the left by the door,” she says. I turn to my left and she says, “No, O-wen. The other left.”
I keep my smile in check and reach to the right and flip the lights on. I watch her walk with purpose toward one of the stations. She drops her purse on the counter and then grips the back of the salon chair and spins it around to face me. “Sit.”
This is so bad. What guy would allow an inebriated girl to come near him with a pair of scissors?
A guy who stood up said inebriated girl and feels really guilty about it.
I inhale a nervous breath as I take a seat. She spins me around until I’m facing the mirror. Her hand lingers over a selection of combs and scissors as if she’s a surgeon attempting to decide what tool she wants to slice me open with.