Chapter Fifteen

Charlie

Owen closes his eyes in a long blink and picks up his keys from the breakfast table. I don’t know why I even entertained the thought of coming here with him. That he might be different than before.

Changed.

More mature.

Not getting stumbling-through-the-kitchen-drunk at a family dinner. And stealing drinks from Danielle? What the hell was that? I snatch the keys from his hands before he can even say he’s good enough to drive us home.

“Get in the car,” I snap, narrowing my eyes. I turn and plaster a smile on my face so I can thank Mrs. Dawson for dinner. My heart is in my throat, and I fear I might throw it up on the floor at any moment.

Because it felt so good to be back here.

To be around this amazing family…and Owen.

Sitting there with the Dawsons, seeing them all married and happy and with babies…it gave me a stupid sense of hope. It brought me right back to college and beyond, when Owen was all I needed, and I thought—without a doubt—that we’d be married with babies of our own not long after graduation.

He was everything to me.

My first kiss. My first love. We lost our virginity together, but it was so much more than that.

Owen was my world.

If only I was his…

“I’m okay,” he says, but doesn’t try to take the keys back from me.

Ignoring him, I turn. Quinn is right there, telling Emma to put her shoes on. She looks over my shoulder at her brother, and her brows pinch together with concern.

“I’ll take him home,” I tell her before she has to ask.

“Are you sure you don’t mind? He can come back with us. Or stay here.”

I shake my head. “I don’t mind. And I kind of want to get home to check on Tulip.”

“Your cat, right. Don’t blame you there.” She bends over and helps Emma slide her feet into her shoes. “Don’t judge him,” she blurts, looking up at me. “He’s not usually like this, and I think he’s nervous being around you again. He won’t admit it, but we all know he’s still in love with you.”

Her words break my heart even more, because it reminds me how much I love this family. They believe in each other one hundred percent and will do anything for each other.

“If things were different,” I start, looking down at Quinn. Things have changed so much. She used to be like my little sister, and here she is, with her life together and living her dreams, giving me advice.

“It was so nice to see you again,” Mrs. Dawson says as she comes into the kitchen. It’s a welcome distraction. We hug, I thank her for dinner, and then she sends us off with two large plates full of leftovers.

Owen stumbles out of the house behind me, and it’s all I can do not to peel the foil off the plates and smear the food all over the front of Owen’s truck. It’s not entirely his fault. I mostly blame myself for giving him the chance to show me he changed.

And then disappointing me.

My mind goes back to what Marcus said, that Todd was my rebound after Owen. I didn’t put any merit in it before, but the hurt that I’m feeling right now is making me think that he was right after all.

Until the end, things with Owen were perfect.

Easy.

He got me, and I got him.

I didn’t have to put on a show for him. Didn’t have to get dressed up. Hell, I didn’t even have to shave my legs.

And Owen always made me feel like I was enough. More than enough, really. We loved each other so, so much, and I thought love was enough to get us through anything.

How did we fall apart?

Looking behind me, I watch Owen drunkenly struggle to get out of the gate without letting any of the dogs out. The question of how we fell so far still haunts me, because for the life of me, I cannot figure it out.

We were happy.

In love.

The sex was good. Really fucking good.

Why wasn’t I enough for him? Maybe I dodged two bullets. Owen never grew up and Todd is an asshole.

Maybe I’m destined to be alone for the rest of my life.

And I’m fine with blaming Owen for that. He ruined me. Gave me unrealistic expectations that even he couldn’t fill in the end. I open the passenger side door and wait for Owen to stumble his way across the gravel driveway and into the truck. Slamming the door, I force myself to take a deep breath. I’m mad at myself more than anyone else.

I get in, move the seat up, and put the plates of leftovers on Owen’s lap.

“Hold onto these. If they fall, I’m not cleaning up your truck.” I pull my seatbelt on and slowly back out of the driveway. Logan and Danielle come out of the house in somewhat of a rush, and it almost looks like Logan is flagging me down.

I put the truck in drive, and it lurches forward, surprising me with the pickup. The last truck I drove was Owen’s, and that was back in college.

“Charlie,” he starts, turning to look at me. His eyes are bloodshot but are also glossing over. I don’t think it’s from the alcohol, but I don’t want to give him the chance to sway me.

Because if anyone can, it’s him.

“Just…just don’t, Owen.” My own voice catches in my throat, and I lean forward, turning on the radio. Synced to Owen’s phone, his music automatically gets pulled up. He listens to the same stuff he did when we were together, and I love and hate that about him.

I skip past three Def Leppard songs, another by Motley Crew, and am surprised when “Defying Gravity” comes on.

“Seriously?” I turn, taking my eyes off the road for a split second. He has his head resting against the window as he clutches the plates of leftovers.

“It reminds me of you,” he mumbles, and my eyes instantly fill with tears.

Damn you, Owen Dawson.

*

“We’re at your house,” I say, putting the truck in park in the driveway. Owen sits up, blinking. “I’ll walk you in. I don’t want to be responsible if you stumble, fall, and then die of exposure from the heat or anything.”

Owen doesn’t say anything. He blinks and undoes his seatbelt. Holding the plates of leftovers in one hand, he gets out and slowly walks up the driveway, using a keypad to open the garage doors. I stay a few feet behind him, watching to make sure he gets in the house okay.

Going against my better judgment, I follow behind. Just to make sure the plates get put in the fridge and he gets himself water. The moment I step inside the kitchen, I’m shocked. Because this does not look like the kind of house I’d expect Owen to live in.

The kitchen is clean and impressive, with a huge island counter decorated with three apothecary jars full of fruit. The biggest jar is in the center, and the lemons inside of it set a theme for the rest of the decor. Nothing is over the top, but the little pops of yellow amongst the white and gray color scheme in the kitchen is I*******m-worthy.

The kitchen opens into a living room, and the same colors are carried throughout that part of the house as well. The TV is obnoxiously large, giving me Owen-vibes, but everything else looks like it was copy and pasted right off of P*******t.

It even smells good in here. But looks mean shit, obviously. Owen’s house is perfect for a family, but he’s obviously not.

He takes his phone out of his pocket, sets it on the island counter, and mumbles something about having to use the bathroom. Taking the leftovers, I go to the fridge and find a place to fit them in.

His phone rings and I look over my shoulder to see who’s calling. It’s Logan, and I’m sure he’s wondering if Owen made it home okay. I silence the call and then get a big glass of water for Owen.

I care more than I should, but I’m also a little curious to look around the rest of the house. Crossing through the kitchen, I set the water down on a glass coffee table in the living room. I gather my hair up in a ponytail and pull a hair tie off my wrist as I look around.

There’s a two-story foyer right when you walk in through the front door, with a formal dining room on one side and another room, set up as an office, on the other.  Things are neat and tidy, and I can’t get over how impressive and flawless the decorating is.

“You can go,” Owen slurs, coming out of the bathroom. “And I’m sorry.”

“It’s…it’s…it’s nothing I shouldn’t have expected,” I sigh.

“It’s not, though,” he starts, eyes looking heavy.

“Sit down.” I motion to the couch. “I got you some water. And Logan called, probably to make sure you’re not drowning in your own vomit or something.”

Looking dejected, Owen nods and plops down onto the couch. I take a lingering look at him and then leave, not saying another word. My heart is in my throat, and I wish I could cough it up, getting rid of it once and for all. That thing has let me down over and over again.

I’m smart. Rational. I can see both sides to every story and am able to look at arguments with an unbiased opinion. It’s what makes me a good lawyer. I get my clients as well as those we’re opposing, giving me a leg up on whatever case I’m working.

Is it sad to say I miss it? That I’m craving a good argument in front of a judge? I need a win in life right now, because I’m feeling like the biggest loser. And not in a good way.