by Noelle Adams
He hasn’t.
I haven’t heard him really talk all week.
I wait, but he offers no more than the one word. I’m stewing. Breathing heavily. And I’m positive that if the car ride took even a minute longer, I would completely blow up at him.
But we’ve reached the restaurant, and Owen is pulling up to the curb for the attendant to park the car.
So everything I’m so close to yelling at him gets bottled up again.
We’re the last ones to arrive. Pop wears his normal jeans with a corduroy blazer. Melissa and Trevor look sleek and stylish, and Hunter and Sam look like they might have had sex on the way over. I’m not sure why that occurs to me, but it does.
It makes me feel even worse as I loop my hand in the arm of my silent husband.
My sisters found men who really love them, who see them as special, who genuinely consider them the best thing that’s ever happened to them.
Who believe they’re the most important thing.
I thought briefly that Owen might be that man for me, but I was stupid.
I was wrong.
I’ll never be the most important thing to him.
And now he won’t even talk to me, so I’m not sure I’m anything to him at all.
The restaurant doesn’t have our table ready, so the dinner already starts off on the wrong foot. Pop isn’t happy with this development, even though the host offers us free drinks at the bar.
We all accept the offer, moving over to crowd around a small, round bar table.
I sip my pear martini and stand next to Owen. He’s listening to the conversation but not participating. He’s also not touching me.
Trevor’s got his arm around Melissa, and Hunter is holding Sam’s hand.
And Owen won’t even brush up against me.
My sisters notice, but they also know the reasons.
Pop also notices, and I see a question on his face whenever his eyes glance over toward my husband and me.
It upsets me more than anything else this evening.
That Pop might see that something’s wrong between Owen and me.
That he will be proven right.
Owen does care more about his company than he does about me.
And I am too silly and immature to pick out a good husband, to make even a business arrangement work.
Maybe Pop was always right about me.
Maybe everyone was right.
Everyone but Owen.
He always told me I was worthwhile, but then he treated me as anything but.
I’m angry again. So angry I tighten my hands into fist at my sides.
Eva is right.
My sisters are right.
I didn’t do anything wrong.
Owen was an asshole to me last weekend.
And he’s still being an asshole right now.
If I could shake him or yell at him at this moment, I probably would have. But I’m stuck making small talk over drinks with my family as Pop drums his fingers impatiently on the table and occasionally glances over at me, as if checking if everything is all right with Owen and me.
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was concerned.
I think of something to do.
While Trevor is telling a funny story about a client and making everyone laugh, I press myself against Owen’s side and nuzzle his neck.
His body stiffens dramatically.
“Don’t act like I’m going to bite you,” I murmur, right in his ear. “Pop can see that you’re acting weird, and I don’t want him to worry. You’re supposed to be my husband, so act like it for a few minutes, if you don’t think it will kill you.”
He tilts his head and meets my eyes, and I see his brows knitted together like he’s confused, like he’s trying to figure something out.
I plant a big, sloppy kiss on his jaw. “I mean it,” I whisper harshly. “This is my family. I’m your wife. Act like it.”
He turns his head and kisses me, and for a fake kiss it’s not bad.
I know his real kiss. Earnest. Focused. Urgent.
This kiss isn’t real, but it will probably look like it is to other people.
I giggle and snuggle against him, turning back toward the group.
Sam is frowning at me.
I smile at her.
She knows I don’t mean it, but she doesn’t say anything.
Our table is finally ready, so we have a reprieve in the shuffle out of the bar and into the dining room to take our places. Then we have to order, and then Melissa, Hunter, and Pop get into a long conversation about work, which takes the burden off me to act normal.
I sit and listen and pick at my food when it comes.
I’m not usually a picker. I really like to eat. But I’ve had a knot of emotion in my belly all week, and my rising indignation just makes it churn around even more.
I’m not hungry.
Owen replies to direct questions—not from me, since I don’t say a word to him—and it probably doesn’t surprise anyone that he doesn’t initiate conversation himself. He’s always been quiet at Sunday supper except that one time he called Pop out about me.
I keep touching Owen. As much as possible.
And I know it’s not just because I want Pop to think things are fine in my marriage.
The real reason is that I want to provoke a reaction out of Owen. Any reaction.
I want to snap him out of the thick shell he’s crawled into.
I’ve been nice and understanding and compliant long enough. He didn’t treat me right. And now I want to do something.
And touching him is the only thing I can do right now.
So I play with the hair at the back of his neck. And I fiddle with his fingers on the table. And I lean against him, dropping my head on his shoulder, at every opportunity.
He’s studying me, whenever he thinks he can get away with it. Scrutinizing my face. Trying to figure out what I’m thinking.
It’s something, but it’s not what I want.
Pop always orders dessert, so the dinner goes on a long time. He’s talking to the server about our dessert order when he looks at me and asks in his curt way, “What’ll you have, girl?”
I’m about to answer when Owen says, “Chelsea.”
Pop blinks.
I blink.
Everyone blinks.
Owen’s expression is grave. “Her name is Chelsea.”
Pop clears his throat. Opens his mouth to say something but then must change his mind. “Chelsea,” he says. “What’ll you have?”
I’m stunned. Bewildered. And almost in tears for no good reason as I explain I want the chocolate caramel cake.
When the server leaves with our orders, I can’t hold on to my composure anymore. I stand up so abruptly my chair wobbles.
Owen steadies it.
“Sorry.” I’m trying and failing to smile. “I’ve got to go the bathroom. Excuse me for a minute.”
I leave to the table’s murmured responses and am shocked when I discover that Owen has followed me.
We’re out of the dining room now. In the wide, back hallway that leads to the restrooms.
“Chelsea,” Owen says when I glance back and then keep walking.
His saying my name snaps the last thread of my control. I whirl around. “What do you want?”
“Why are you mad at me?” His face is tense. It looks like he’s sweating a little. His eyes are strangely aching.
“I’m not mad.” It’s an automatic answer. The one I’d give anyone. Then I suddenly hear myself and hate it. “Yes, I am mad!”
“I know you are. You’ve been mad since the ride over here. I want to know why.”
“You want to know why? You want to know why?” My voice is getting shrill. I try to keep it down. I really do. We’re in the hall, but it’s open to the main part of the restaurant. If we’re loud, everyone in there will hear us.
“Yes. I want to know why. You weren’t mad before, but you are now.” He reaches out and put
s a hand on my shoulder, turning me slightly so I’m facing him. “What happened?”
“You happened!”
He frowns, his eyebrows pulling together again. “What did I do?”
“You know what you did! How can you even ask that of me?”
“I know what happened last weekend, and I’m really sorry about it. I know it was a shitty thing to send you back upstairs. But I thought you’d be pissed at first and then get over it. I didn’t think you’d be mad about it now.”
He’s telling me the truth. Being completely earnest as he always is.
His voice is hoarse as he moves his hand up to my jaw, cupping it almost tenderly. “I didn’t think it would be... be that big a deal to you.”
I choke.
I literally choke on my outrage.
It takes me a minute to clear my throat, and then I jerk my head away from his hand. “You didn’t think it would be a big deal? That’s really what you think? Well, screw you, Owen! Maybe it’s not a big deal to you to have a wife for a while and then to push her away for no good reason, but it’s a big deal to me. You... hurt me. Really badly. So I’m sorry if I can’t just brush it away like it’s nothing. I’m evidently not as heartless as you.” I’m spitting the words out but still making an effort to keep my voice down so no one in the dining room hears.
Owen freezes at my outburst. His mouth drops open slightly, and he reaches out for me again. “Chelsea, what the fuck—”
I’m not sure what he’s planning to touch, but I can’t let him touch any part of my body. “Fuck you, Owen Masterson! You keep saying you’re not an asshole, but that’s exactly what you are. We had something good. I kept thinking I was silly and immature to believe that, but I know now I wasn’t silly or immature at all. You were the stupid one! I’m worth more than this. I deserve to be treated better than this. I did good work for Masterson’s, and I was a good wife to you. We could have had something... really special. Now we don’t have anything because you’re a stupid asshole after all. But you don’t get to stand there and look all shocked and innocent like you’re not the one who did this to us.”
I’m not sure where the tirade even came from, but I don’t even regret it. Even if my voice got a little too loud at the end.
There are tears streaming down my cheeks, and Owen is staring at me in astonished awe.
That’s what it looks like.
Awe.
And it stabs me in the chest like a blade.
He has no right to look at me like that.
He has no right to make me feel a sudden well of hope.
He has no right to trick me into thinking he has feelings like that for me.
I know he doesn’t.
He’s made that clear over and over again.
I make a little sobbing sound and run for the bathroom.
“Chelsea!” Owen’s voice is hoarse, almost panicked. Way too loud for a restaurant. He’s chasing me, grabbing for my arm. “Chelsea, sweetheart, wait!”
I give another choked sob at the endearment, but I’ve reached the door now. I fling it open, shake off his grip, and manage to get inside and slam the door on his face.
A fast look proves I’m alone in the women’s restroom. I lean against the door and cry.
Owen is pounding on the door. “Chelsea, please come out and talk to me.”
“You had all week to talk, and you didn’t. I’ve got nothing to say to you right now.”
“We do have things to talk about. Please come out.” I hardly recognize his voice and not just because it’s muffled by the thick door.
I somehow know he won’t try to get into the women’s restroom. Owen is a rule follower, and the sign on the door will be an impassable barrier.
Just then I feel the door move. “If there’s anyone else in there,” Owen calls, “tell them I’m coming in.”
“Owen, no!” I press my back to the door and brace my feet on the floor to keep him from opening it.
He’s trying. I feel the pressure against my back.
He’s actually trying to get into the women’s restroom.
He could force his way in. He’s stronger than me. But he must know I’m blocking the door and any more force would send me tumbling.
He lets up and bursts out, “Damn it, Chelsea!”
“Don’t say ‘damn it’ to me that way! I’m not the one who messed things up.”
“I know you didn’t. I know it now. Please let me talk to you and explain.”
“There’s nothing to explain. I’ve already told you what I think about you.”
“But I didn’t know that! I didn’t know any of it! I had no idea you... you... thought we were real. That you’d want... That you’d be hurt like this by what I did. I had no idea.”
My whole body is flushed with heat, and it’s excitement as well as outrage. But I can’t let myself believe what it sounds like Owen is saying. “You didn’t know? Oh my God, Owen. You expect me to believe that? How clueless could a person be?”
“He can be this clueless.” His voice changes, like he’s leaning right next to the door. “He can be exactly this clueless. I promise I didn’t know. I had no idea. You think I ever would have sent you away if I’d known you really wanted to stay? For real? You think I ever would have done that?”
“You did do that.”
“I know I did. I was confused and terrified of how much I was feeling for you and paralyzed by the thought of what I would do at the end of the year when I lost you. I... I couldn’t handle it. I didn’t know what to do. So I was an asshole. You’re absolutely right. I did what I thought would protect me. I had no idea you would get hurt like this.”
I’m bawling silently, shaking against the door. “I did get hurt.” I manage to gasp.
“I know, Chelsea. I know that now. I’m so sorry. If it makes you feel any better, my attempt to protect myself didn’t work. I’ve been in agony all week. I’ve barely been able to make it through the days without you.”
“Good,” I say with a few sniffs.
“I deserve it. I deserve all that misery and a lot more. I had you, and you were everything I wanted. And then I actually let you go.”
“You didn’t just let go. You pushed me away.”
“I know I did. But I’m not going to do it again.”
I mop at my face with the back of my hands and try to figure out what to do. “I want to believe you.”
“You can believe me. I promise you can. You’re everything, Chelsea Greyson. Everywhere. You’re the air I breathe.”
I’m crying again. This time I know he can hear it.
“Oh sweetheart, please don’t cry.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Then let me in so I can hold you.”
I want him to hold me. I want him to hold me forever.
But I’m so afraid of making a mistake again. I’ve never been smart about men.
Then I hear something different from the other side of the door.
Wise men say...
Owen’s voice.
Singing.
I make a gurgling sound. “Owen, what the hell—”
He continues like I didn’t say anything.
...only fools rush in.
He’s singing.
Standing outside the women’s restroom in a crowded restaurant and singing.
An Elvis song.
“Oh my God, Owen, what are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer. He continues the song. All the words. And then the chorus two times.
On the final chorus, he’s really belting it out. Take my hand, take my whole life too. The whole restaurant must be hearing him. For I can't help falling in love with you.
I’m laughing and sobbing and dangerously close to collapsing with emotion as I throw open the door on the final line.
I’m greeted by Owen’s flushed, damp, ardent face and a chorus of cheers from a crowd that’s gathered in the other end of the hall.
Owen turns to look, like he didn’t kno
w the other people were there.
“Do you mean it?” I ask. “The song?”
He blinks at me. “Of course I do.”
“You’re falling in love with me?”
“No.” He takes my hand and holds it in both of his. “I fell in love with you a long time ago.”
I pull him into the bathroom because the cheers and laughter from all those strangers are starting to unnerve me, and he pulls me into a tight hug.
“Oh fuck, Chelsea, I love you so much,” he mumbles into my neck. “If you’ll forgive me for being a stupid asshole, I’ll spend the rest of my life proving how much. Making sure you know how incredible you are. How special. How much you’re worth.”
I’m sobbing again—right into his shirt. But I manage to pull it together enough to stretch up and say into his ear, “I love you too.”
WE STAY IN THE BATHROOM for about ten minutes, but eventually we have to come out and face the restaurant.
And my family.
All of them but Pop are trying to hide grins, and Pop just raises his eyebrows.
“Sorry,” I say. I glance at Sam. “Did you hear everything?”
“We couldn’t hear whatever happened before it, but we heard the song.” Sam is no longer hiding her smile. “We all heard the song.”
“Everyone heard the song,” Melissa adds with a soft laugh.
Owen ducks his head and mumbles something. He’s still holding my hand.
Trevor laughs and gives Owen a soft punch on the shoulder. “You can really belt out the Elvis.”
This leads to general laughter, and even Pop chuckles a little.
It means something to me.
To all of us.
As I catch up on my dessert, Pop says, “I do have something to say. Not that it’ll be as exciting a performance, but I’ve got an announcement.”
We all turn to look. It’s clear no one knows what’s coming.
No one could possibly predict what Pop says next.
“I’m getting married.”
Sam gasps, and Trevor chokes slightly on his coffee.
“You’re getting married, Pop?” Melissa asks, her eyes as wide as I’ve ever seen them.
“Yep. Asked her last night. She said yes.”
“Who is she?” I ask. “We didn’t even know you were dating.”
“We weren’t. Dating is a silly, modern contrivance. I’ve known the lady for several years from church. I always admired her. But I was busy with work and I thought you girls... I thought you still needed me.” He looks almost sheepish, which is very unusual for Pop.