But here, he could forget about all of that. He could sleep in and stay up late, not to work but to party. He could drink beer instead of water. And he could find a pretty girl to sleep with and shove all thoughts of Grace out of his head.
He’d spent last night in New Jersey, since there were no direct flights from Vancouver, but it had given him time to get in touch with Travis, who was thrilled he was coming for a visit. Owen shoved away the niggle of guilt. He wasn’t betraying Mal by maintaining his friendship with Travis. She’d encouraged it, even pushed for it. But part of him wondered exactly how okay Mal was with everything and how much was just her putting on a brave face.
He was still wondering when he wandered into the beachfront bistro she had owned with Travis, looking for the man in question. Owen had stopped by his hotel room only long enough to change into a pair of shorts and flip-flops. He was already starting to sweat in the tropical heat.
The bistro was beautiful and he thought he was qualified to make such a declaration, seeing as he seemed to spend the majority of his work life inside a similar establishment. The walls were blue, the furniture white and made of wood. The front looked directly onto a water view, unmarred by anything but toned, tanned bodies in swimsuits.
Owen snagged a seat at the bar, ordered a beer and asked the bartender to tell Travis he was here. He could have texted Travis himself, but had decided to leave his phone in his room. He didn’t need the temptation of Grace’s number—which he couldn’t bring himself to delete—mixed with a couple of beers.
“Owen.” Travis grinned as he came out of the back. His hair was lighter than it had been last time Owen had seen him, his skin darker. But, like Mal, he was also thinner. Even so, Owen felt small around him. He wasn’t short, but he felt that way around Travis. “Good to see you.”
“You, too.” Owen stood and they shook hands, following with a few back slaps, each one harder than the one before until Owen laughed. “You win.” Even thinner, Travis was still a burly guy. Owen retook his seat and motioned for Travis to join him. “You have some time?”
“I’m the owner. I can make time.”
Owen bit back the comment that he hadn’t personally found that to be true. He wasn’t here to bitch about work or really anything. He was here to unwind and maybe have a little fun.
“So, what’s brought you out?” Travis thanked the bartender, who placed a glass of ice water in front of him. “And don’t say my charming personality because I’ll know you’re lying.”
Owen laughed again. A real laugh this time and some of the tightness in his lungs eased. “Well, since you stole my real answer, I’ll have to lie and say that it was the sun and sand, but we’ll both know the truth.”
Travis threw back his head as his laughter filled the room. He slapped Owen on the shoulder. “Good to see you.”
“Yeah.” And it was good to be there. Owen felt his lungs unclench a little more. Mal had been right. He did need this.
They shot the breeze, talking about surface things: work, hobbies, what the Canucks’ chances were at a Stanley Cup this year. Owen hadn’t realized how much he’d missed Travis until he was here with him. “I’m really glad I came,” he blurted out.
Travis blinked. “Do you need a tissue? A shoulder to cry on?”
Owen gave his friend’s shoulder a shove, but Travis didn’t move an inch. “You’re an ass.”
“Yes, but I’m your ass. So what’s going on?”
Owen didn’t know where to start. How he’d met Grace? Their breakup? Everything in between? “It’s all good, man.” He faked a grin. Maybe if he acted as if it didn’t matter, it wouldn’t.
“Right.”
Owen stared at his beer, though he wasn’t thirsty and he knew any oblivion found at the bottom of a glass didn’t last. It just made everything worse the next morning.
“What’s her name?”
“Who’s name?”
“The woman who made you look like someone just stole your dog.”
Seriously, what was it with these people and dogs? Was this the universe telling him to get one because a dog would love him when no one else would? Was it the male version of the crazy cat lady? “I don’t have a dog,” he said.
“I don’t hear any denial. Going once, going twice.” Travis slapped a hand down on the bar. “I think we have a winner.”
“No winner.” Just him and his rapidly warming beer. “And no woman.” But his voice rose on the last word as though trying to hold back the lie.
Travis didn’t say anything, just studied him. Owen felt as though he was under a magnifying glass.
“What?” he finally asked.
“Well, I’m just wondering, since there’s no woman, why you haven’t noticed the brunette who’s been giving you the eye since you walked in.”
What? There was a brunette?
“Or the redhead or the blonde. Or anyone.”
“Maybe I’m not here for that.”
Travis blinked hard. “Since when?”
“Since always.” God, was he really so pathetic that even his closest friend thought he was only here to have sex? Was that what Mal had thought, too? Was that why she’d sent him here?
For a moment, Owen saw his previous self through their eyes and he didn’t like it.
“So you’re here because?”
“Can’t a guy just come and hang out with a friend when he has a break?”
“Of course. But you didn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m psychic.” Travis shrugged. “You want to talk about it?”
Owen gave a sullen shrug. “Nothing to talk about.” Grace had made it very clear that he wasn’t worth her time. Maybe she was right. He swore and took a slug of beer.
“Seems like there might be.”
Owen leveled a gaze at him. “I was seeing someone and now I’m not, okay?”
“Okay.” Travis sipped his water. “But I’ve never seen you this upset about a woman before.”
“I’m not upset.” But he practically bit his tongue in his haste to get the words out.
“Then I’ve never seen you this concerned. Is that better?” It wasn’t, but Owen let it slide. He hadn’t come here to fight with Travis. “How’s everything else?”
“Crappy.” He still hadn’t been promoted from managing Elephants. Donovan had met with him to discuss ideas, but hadn’t moved forward to implement any of them and it seemed no matter what Owen did, he stayed in place. In the little box everyone in his life had built for him and refused to let him out of. He was banging his head against the sides, but nobody seemed to hear.
“Really, man. It’s great to have you here. Your sunny disposition makes everything better.”
Owen narrowed his eyes, but felt the edges of his lips twitch. “You the kind of man to kick another man when he’s down?”
“When that man needs a kick in the ass? Yes.”
Owen snorted then and some of the tension twisting his gut eased. “I don’t need a kick.”
“No, just that tissue, then?”
Owen punched him in the shoulder. “It’s so not great to be here.”
“It’s so not great to have you.”
They both grinned.
By the end of the night, Owen was feeling better or at least less ready to pound his fist into the bar top. He’d even told Travis a little about what had happened. Not everything—there were some things he thought it was best to keep to himself—but some. “So I left.”
Travis pressed his lips together as he took in Owen’s story. “Rough.”
“It was.” He appreciated Travis’s simple assessment. It was rough. What more needed to be said?
“You going to do anything about it?”
“Like what? Throw myself at h
er feet and beg her to take me back?” But the light tone Owen had been going for never showed up. Instead, his voice sounded as rough as his situation and the sympathetic look in Travis’s eye told Owen he’d heard it, too.
“If that’s what it takes and that’s what you want.” Travis shrugged his big shoulders. “Why not?”
“Because.” Because. Well, he didn’t know. “Just because.”
“Good one.” They were both quiet for a moment. “I would, if I thought it would help.”
And suddenly they weren’t talking about Owen anymore. “So why don’t you?”
“Because I don’t think it would matter.” Pain flashed over Travis’s features and then hid behind a smile. “But I’m trying not to wallow, you know?” He fished a piece of ice from his glass and crunched down on it. “I haven’t had sex in nine months.”
“Clearly, the women in Aruba have good taste.”
This time Travis punched Owen in the shoulder. “Just for that, I’m going to tell you that it was with Mal.”
Owen closed his eyes. “Stop. That’s my baby sister you’re talking about. And I don’t want to have to hurt you.” He opened his eyes. “I did ask Mal if she wanted me to beat you up.”
Travis, whose arms were about the size of Owen’s thighs, snorted. “Oh, yeah?”
“But because she loves me and wants me to remain in one piece, she declined my gallant offer.” Owen drummed his thumbs against the counter. “What happened between you two? Everything was good and then it wasn’t.”
“Story of my life. I was an idiot.” Travis met his eyes and shrugged. “I screwed up. Big-time. And now she hates me.”
Owen wasn’t so sure about that. Mal had never said anything negative about Travis, never even hinted about what had happened between them, and as far as Owen knew she hadn’t been on a single date since the breakup. “She misses you,” he said and even though Mal had never said that explicitly, he was confident it was true.
Travis’s head shot up. “Don’t mess with me.”
“I’m not. I just escaped engaging you in a scrap—you think I want to try again?” But the look on Travis’s face told Owen that now was not the time to joke. “I mean it. She misses you. She doesn’t date. She’s totally turning into an old lady. When she’s not at work, she’s at home.”
“I think I’m about to prove what a sicko I am, by telling you that I have never been so turned on.”
“I’m not willing to act as a surrogate for her, okay?” Now Owen punched Travis in the shoulder again. He was no slouch in the muscles department, but his hand practically boomeranged back on him. “Keep it in your pants.”
“I’ll try.” Travis’s grin was back and this time it didn’t appear to be hiding anything. “Does she really miss me?”
“I think so, but what do I know? I just got dumped.”
“True.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“I’M SO GLAD you’re here, Gaia.”
It was a testament to how happy Grace was to be back that even her mother’s slip of the tongue didn’t bother her. “It’s Grace. I had it legally changed and everything.” Which had caused quite the hair-pulling and teeth-gnashing at the time despite the fact that she’d retained Gaia as a middle name.
“I know. And I don’t mean to keep slipping up. Sorry, baby.” Her mother hugged her more tightly as the cold wind whipped off the ocean at the ferry terminal, making Grace’s face and toes ache. Somehow, instinctively, her mother seemed to understand that this wasn’t just the postholiday visit Grace had promised months ago when she’d explained that she wasn’t able to spend Christmas on the farm.
“It’s okay.” And it was. It was good to draw strength, to let the wind blow away some of the hurt and to just focus on breathing. The two days she’d spent alone in her apartment had not been cathartic. Not cleaning up the decorations, rearranging her furniture or picking up paint chips with the hopes that a new look would give her a new outlook. Instead, the idea of taping and rolling and starting fresh just felt overwhelming.
“Dad’s excited to see you.” Her mother squeezed her again. “I had to promise him chocolate to get him to stay home while I picked you up.”
“Dad? Chocolate?” Grace was surprised, both by the use of “Dad” instead of “Cedar” and the mention of chocolate. Her parents hadn’t had chocolate in the house since Grace had been ten, when she’d snuck it home from a neighbor’s birthday party and hid it under her mattress. She’d enjoyed the sweet treat all the more knowing she wasn’t supposed to have it. But as far as she knew, her dad and Sky had always followed the rules.
“Organic.” Her mother pulled back and picked up Grace’s suitcase. “And free range.”
Grace wasn’t sure how chocolate could be free range, but she wasn’t up for hearing the details, which she knew her mother would be only too happy to share. “Are we off the Cedar and Sparrow names, then? Can I call you Mom and Dad?”
“You call Cedar that anyway.” Her mother winked at her, tossed in her suitcase and slammed the back door shut. “You didn’t actually think you hid that from me, did you?”
Grace was surprised. She had thought she’d kept it a secret. She didn’t even slip when Sky was around. But apparently, her bat-eared mother had discovered their secret nickname anyway.
“And if you want to call me Mom, then Mom it is.”
“Are you okay?” Grace froze, suddenly fearful. Where was her overbearing mother who demanded obedience? “Are you sick? Is Dad?”
“We’re both fine.” Her mother patted her on the hand. “And while I’ll allow you to call me Mom in private, in public I’d prefer Sparrow.”
It was the first time her mother had ever loosened her hard-and-fast rules. Grace peered at her, still uncertain. “Are you sure you’re okay? No one’s sick? Weeks left to live, that sort of thing?”
“Of course not.” Sparrow puffed out her chest. “We’re healthier than most twenty-year-olds. All the fresh air and hard work and clean eating.”
Grace wasn’t sure if that was true, but she could admit that her parents did look younger than their fifty-something ages listed on their ID and who was she to say that it was genetics and good luck as opposed to their lifestyle choices?
They made small talk on the drive to her parents’ home. Well, Grace made small talk while her mother encouraged her to explore her feelings, which she did not want to do.
But when had that ever stopped her mom before?
Sparrow wheeled into the driveway and turned to Grace. “Let’s go inside. I’ll make you some chai nettle tea and you can tell me all about what’s happened.”
“Nothing’s happened,” Grace said, but her mother was already halfway to the house, Grace’s suitcase bouncing merrily by her side. She hurried to catch up. “I’m only here for a visit, Sparrow. Because I wasn’t able to come over the holidays.” She purposely used her mother’s name as a conciliatory gesture and one to sway her into letting Grace set the tone for the visit.
But Sparrow hadn’t loosened her rules that much. “Of course something’s happened.” She pushed open the door and called to the house at large that they were back. “The question is if you’re going to tell us about it or spend the next seven days moping around, thinking you’re fooling us.”
“I don’t mope.” Grace never moped. She considered her feelings, she debated how long an appropriate mourning or celebrating period was and then she followed the rules she set for herself.
“It’s okay to mope.” Sparrow started up the stairs, seeming to make as much noise as humanly possible. “It is a totally valid response.”
Grace didn’t want to talk about valid responses or honoring her feelings or any other New Age psychobabble that her mother liked to spout.
“We love you even when you mope.” Sparrow swung the suitcase i
nto the room that had always been Grace’s. “And there’s no need to pretend around us.” She hugged Grace. “We’re family.”
Grace wanted to defend herself, but there was a lump in her throat and she didn’t think she could talk around it. She swallowed and concentrated on breathing, letting herself be hugged hard.
“There’s not always a right answer, Grace. Sometimes things just are.” Sparrow gave her a little jiggle that Grace suspected was meant to infer “chin up, buttercup.” Then she looked at her daughter. “You unpack while I make the tea.”
And all Grace could do was nod.
She walked into her room, still the same clean, white palette she’d selected at twelve. Even then, not yet in high school and years away from being known as the Condom Lady’s daughter, she’d already been looking to be different from her parents and find her own way through life.
Grace heaved her suitcase onto the bed and unzipped it. Nothing had moved during the trip, which was exactly how she’d packed it. There was an art to packing that people didn’t realize. Her own mother, who had a tendency to hurl in whatever she thought she might need and then kneel on top of the suitcase to close it, was one of them.
Carefully, Grace unloaded her toiletry bag, double wrapped in plastic bags to prevent any spillage, then a series of small, light items. Her folded clothing, a dress shirt—not that she’d have any need for one here—a nice skirt and a pair of dress pants were all loaded into a dry cleaner’s bag to prevent wrinkling. She hung the bag in her closet without looking at it, then pulled out her rolled T-shirts and sweaters, jeans and finally her footwear. Everything was stowed in its place and when she was finished, she felt a little better, a little more centered. As if she wouldn’t break at the slightest tap.
This was good, all part of the grieving process. For a breakup, the formula was three days of grief per month spent together. That didn’t mean Grace was completely over her relationships once she reached the end of her predetermined period, but it did mean she would no longer allow herself to actively grieve. When the end date came, she boxed up the hurt and got on with her life.
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