Return To You

by Leia Stone

  He stands in the threshold, an awkward silence taking over the three of us.

  His dark brown hair is slicked back, freshly showered by the looks of him, and he’s wearing a nice button-down shirt with dark jeans. Fifteen-year-old Owen was handsome, but twenty-eight-year-old Owen is absolutely yummy. I want to kill him. No one should age that well. How dare he stay so handsome and not gain a hundred pounds and be bald.

  Mom reaches for his forearm and pulls him into the house. "You might as well stay and eat,” she coos, giving him a smile. “I made one of your favorites."

  I nearly choke on my spit. One of your favorites? What the hell has been happening while I've been across the country? Are these two bff's and nobody told me? Do they have matching necklaces? A secret handshake? This motherfucker stole my mom!

  A surge of irritation flows through me.

  I pivot and return to the kitchen. I can’t even handle this situation right now; my brain is short circuiting. I don’t see this man for ten years and he waltzes into my mom’s house like he lives here. And I’m in sweats!

  In angry haste, I transfer the caramelized onions to a plate, slice the bell peppers and put them in the pan. Once those are cooking, I chop the chicken like I’m murdering it and season it before adding it to a separate pan. I make sure to slam it good and hard so that the entire house knows I’m pissed. I'm heating tortillas when my mom comes in.

  She surveys the scene. "I didn't tell you we were having fajitas."

  So, she’s totally going to ignore the awkwardness of Owen being here? Awesome.

  I shrug. "Lucky guess." There is a growl to my tone.

  How weird would it be if I went to my room and put on a sexy black dress and full makeup? I want Owen to feel the satisfying pain of knowing he would never have me, but considering I look homeless right now, I’m not much of a catch to lose.

  She snorts. "Or you still know Owen's favorite foods."

  Dammit, Mom, going in for the kill.

  I don't say anything. Instead, I get out the sour cream, the guacamole, the cilantro.

  “Honey, I know you don’t like to talk about him, so that’s why I didn’t mention—”

  “It’s fine,” I growl. I’m not mad at her, I’m mad at him and I hope she knows that. I made a rule with my mom a long time ago: no talking about Owen. Now that rule is coming back to bite me in the ass.

  Reaching out, she squeezes my shoulders. “You want me to ask him to go?”

  Yeah, right, and show how much I care he is here in the first place?

  No way.

  “I’m totally fine.” I tip my chin high and blow a stray hair out of my face.

  "Alright, well, I'm going to wash up for dinner," my mom says, leaving the kitchen.

  This is fine. I can handle this. Everything is fine. Taking a deep breath, I stare up at the ceiling. I knew I was going to see him. But so soon? I'm not sure I’m ready.

  "Autumn?"

  His voice reaches out, swirling around me like smoke, curling up my legs, my torso, over my shoulders. For three years, my sun rose and set on the owner of that voice. Slowly, I turn toward him, knowing we have to do this.

  Owen stands there, arms crossed. It's a defensive stance, but his expression doesn't match. It's hard to describe his expression, except that it's not angry or hateful like I expected.

  That was how he looked the last time I saw him and I expected it to be the same.

  But now? I see concern. Apprehension. Nervousness.

  Too bad I don't feel the same. Too bad he could drop dead right now and I wouldn't even attempt CPR. Ten years ago, Owen stood in my dorm room in Santa Clara and told me exactly what he thought of me. I’d stayed quiet, absorbing everything he said, believing each ugly word. I thought I deserved it.

  The worst part? A part of me still believes what he said. It's funny how a person can know something is ridiculous on the outside, but on the inside anything is possible. Emotions can turn something around and make it believable, acceptable. This is how we believe lies about ourselves, even when we know they are lies.

  He takes a step into the room. Two more. I watch him like a lion watches her prey.

  He pauses a few feet from me. “I—"

  I raise a stiff palm and he stops. I realize in that moment that I’m not ready to do this, I’m not sure my heart can go back in time right now. Not with my mother sick and all of my worry on her.

  "I don't know what you're going to say, but I don't want to hear it. I don't even understand why you're here." My insides are shaking. My whole body feels like a snow globe violently shaken by a toddler on a sugar high.

  The corner of Owen's mouth quirks up, just like it always did. I hate that he still does that. I hate that I remember it. "Your mom's prescription," he explains.

  I push a hand to my hip, willing the shaking to stop. "Do you hand deliver medicine to all your patients, Owen?"

  He squeezes his eyes shut, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. "You aren't going to make this easy, are you?" He reopens his eyes and studies me and I see pain there, just behind the eyes. And just like that I’m taken back to that day … the day that broke us. The day that stained my soul—the sterile room, the smell of antiseptic, the way we held hands so tightly I thought my fingers would break.

  Shaking my head to remove thoughts of the past, I turn back to the food, flipping over the chicken. I'm not sure what there is that I have the power to make easy, and I don't want to ask.

  I feel it the second he disappears from the room. I'm reaching for three plates and the intensity evaporates.

  Well, good.

  He can go to the living room and wait for dinner. I don't have anything more to say to him right now. Owen Miller doesn’t deserve my grace. I am going to make this as hard on him as possible because he made things hard on me ten years ago and payback is a bitch.

  But even as I think it, I feel my resolve softening. What we went through … it tore us both in two and maybe he deserves a little tiny bit of understanding…

  "Where is Owen going?" my mother asks, coming back into the kitchen.

  Guilt suddenly gnaws at my gut. "I didn't know he left."

  "He just walked out the front door, Autumn." My mother looks at me like I’ve done something wrong.

  "Okay." What does she want me to say? It’s not my fault he left, though I do feel bad that any guest would feel unwelcome in my mother’s home on my account.

  She points to the door. "Go get him please."

  "What? No." She had no idea what she was asking me to do.

  "This is my house and he is a guest. I don't know what you said to make him leave, but I want him here. So, go get him. Now." Her tone is no-nonsense. She is not to be argued with, not that I want to. I want to make her happy, but if she knew what happened between Owen and I, she wouldn’t ask this of me. “Autumn, I raised you better than this.”

  Dammit, that got me.

  I put the plates on the counter and hurry out of the house, making it outside just in time to catch Owen climbing into his car. He sees me and pauses, one leg in and one leg out. He leans one arm on the top of the doorframe, the other on the roof. He doesn’t say a word, just looks at me and waits for me to speak. Smart man.

  "Where are you going?" The attitude in my tone is heavy. I want to pick up a handful of dirt and throw it in his face, or egg his car, or something immature that I never got to do when I was eighteen.

  "It's highly likely my dinner is poisoned. I don't think I should stay."

  I have to hold back a chuckle. Owen always had a good sense of humor, but I’m not in the mood. I stare at him for a second, then decide to play nice, for my mother's sake, because she raised a good hostess. I pat my pockets and tell him, "I misplaced my poison. Tonight's dinner is safe."

  A smile tugs up one corner of his mouth.

  I wish time had been unkind to him, but the opposite is true. He's only grown better looking. His hair is longer than he used to wear it. It has the slightest
wave to it. I hate to admit, even to myself, that it's cute. Fuck Owen Miller and his dashing good looks. Meanwhile, homeless Autumn is over here single and pushing thirty.

  I tug at my sweatpants and pin him with a glare. “You coming or not?”

  He steps away from his car and closes the door. Tucking his hands into his pockets, he walks closer to me, squinting as he approaches, the setting sun in his eyes. "Are you going to stab me with a kitchen knife?"

  I didn’t even realize I still had the small knife in my hand and now I pretend to consider it. "Probably not. You better be on your best behavior though."

  He stops beside me and I hate the zinging sensation in my body. All of me is at attention because he is near. How, after ten years apart, can I remember him so flawlessly? How can he still make my body come alive?

  "Probably not?" One eyebrow lifts. "You're making one of my favorites, so I'll take those odds." He smiles.

  I turn away. There is too much energy between us. I need to cut it off.

  "Come on in, before it gets cold."

  Owen follows me inside and I wonder what the hell can of worms I’ve just opened.

  Two weeks ago, I was in my apartment in Manhattan. I ate in front of my laptop, working at night after working all day.

  Now I was face to face with my past.

  Funny how a phone call can change everything.

  Dinner was … awkward.

  I don't think my mom could've tried any harder to make conversation flow. I tried, I really did, but I just couldn't make it happen. A block formed in my brain.

  A block made up of memories and pain and judgments. Every time I looked at Owen, every time he opened his mouth, all I could see, feel, and think of was our past. The good and the bad. Everything from the way he kissed, to the way he called me a monster and slammed a door in my face.

  I had managed to excuse myself to the bathroom just as we walked in from his car. I ran upstairs to put on skinny jeans, blush and run a brush through my hair.

  After we ate, Owen did the dishes. He sent my mom and I to the couch, claiming it was his turn to put in some of the work.

  "Dish duty," my mom sang, and they shared a knowing smile.

  My chest tightened as I watched the familiarity between them. It made me angry. Owen has been here, spending time with my mom, and I didn't even know it. I was in New York, grinding away, chasing my career dreams. Funny how reality sets in once the shine wears off. I went to New York with my shiny new marketing degree, ready to work at an advertising firm and use my creativity. And I did. It just didn't feel as good as it sounded when I was in college. Not that any of that matters anymore. I'm back in my hometown, ready to take care of my mom and help her win her third battle.

  I've been sitting beside her on the couch for the past ten minutes, silent, as some inane show with canned laughter plays loudly on the television.

  The irritation at her obvious closeness with Owen beats a rhythm in my chest, until I feel it building up, up, up and it feels impossible to avoid. "How often do you see Owen?" My voice bursts into the silence, and I feel my mom startle against my shoulder.

  I scoot back on the couch so I can look at her. She leans forward, grabbing the remote from where it lays on the ottoman, and mutes the TV.

  She looks at me, apprehension in her eyes. "Once a week, unless I have an appointment with him, and then it's the appointment plus our Monday night dinner. Unless he's mowing my lawn on Sunday, but that only started last month."

  Twice … and, recently, three times a week? Holy shit. Anger rolls through me until I steel myself. My mom doesn’t know what went down with Owen and me. She had no reason to avoid him.

  My lips purse. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  She could at least have done that.

  "You told me not to talk about him.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t want you to ask me about him, but I’d like to have known you adopted a new son.”

  She chuckles, thinking I’m joking.

  My mom raises one eyebrow. “Would you have wanted to know?"

  "Yes."

  She cocks her head to the side and narrows her eyes. She doesn't say anything, and I know she's giving me time to reconsider my response, to respond truthfully.

  "Maybe," I spit out begrudgingly.

  She nods once, slowly. Still giving me time.

  "Okay, fine. No. I hate this." I cross my arms and stare at the TV.

  "That's more like it." She pats my knee.

  I frown, wishing Owen would just fucking leave. "You still should've told me."

  "You were in New York, living your dream. I didn't want to put a damper on it by bringing up something difficult."

  “You don’t talk to him about me, right?” That was a line I hoped had never been crossed.

  My mom raises her hand and tucks the thumb and pinky in. “Girl Scouts honor. Autumn talk is off limits.”

  Relief floods through me.

  "So, you filtered out the truth every time I called you?"

  "Lie by omission, I guess."

  "Were your scruples always this flexible?"

  She barks a laugh. "No. But things change as you age. Facing death challenges perspectives."

  With that one sentence, my indignation fizzles out. I am reminded of why I am here—not that I forgot.

  Mom looks behind me, placing a smile on her face, and I turn around.

  Owen steps into the edge of the living room, looking between us with uncertainty. This has to be weird for him too. He's been coming here once a week for years, and has probably never felt more uncomfortable and unwelcome.

  There was a time when he was here constantly. Mi casa es su casa was a literal term when we were together.

  Without warning, nostalgia sneaks its way into my chest. I don't like how it softens the tension, blunting the edges of the annoyance I feel at Owen's presence in my mother's life.

  "Kitchen is clean," Owen announces. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his pants. "Thanks for dinner, Faith. I'll see you on Thursday." He starts for the door.

  Something sharp juts into my side.

  "Ow," I huff.

  "Walk him out," my mom hisses through clenched teeth, her elbow in my ribs. "And be nice."

  I climb to my feet, shooting a dirty look at the ground instead of at her, and hurry after him for the second time since he showed up unannounced a couple hours ago.

  As I arrive at the front door a few feet behind him, he reaches for the handle, letting himself out in the warm summer evening air. Without looking back at me, he says, "I thought I heard your fairy-footed pitter patter."

  The inside joke causes a smile to overtake my face.

  My damn traitorous face. Fucking nostalgia. It's a powerful bitch.

  "My feet are enjoying the break from stomping around in high heels." I'm providing him with an excuse instead of acknowledging the throwback to our past, to the time he told me he liked my light feet, joking how it trained his ears to listen closer for my approach when I was barefoot.

  He turns around suddenly and it takes me by surprise. I can't stop my forward momentum in time. My palms rise to stop the collision, and I wind up with my hands pressed to his rock-hard chest.

  He grabs my shoulders, catching me.

  My mind screams at me to step back, but my heart wants two more seconds in this space.

  "Autumn," Owen says my name softly.

  His thick, husky voice snaps me from the moment. I rip myself from his arms. "Don't, Owen. Just don't."

  His eyes plead with me. "I have a lot to say, Autumn."

  "Don't you think you said enough?"

  Guilt rides across his face. Good. He should feel bad.

  "That's what I want to talk about. I—”

  I shake my head and he stops. "I'm here to get my mom through this. I'm here to support her while she fights. I am not here to revisit the past. Don't mistake my presence here as an invitation to take a ride down memory lane."

  There. I put
my foot down.

  A short stream of air bursts from his nose. "You're just as stubborn as you ever were!"

  "You call it stubborn. From a different angle, it's strength of conviction." I shrug. "Call it what you want. You drew lines in the sand a long time ago. I'm simply staying on my side."

  Anger lights up his face. "You are unbelievable. Fucking unbelievable." Owen sweeps the air around him with one arm. "Welcome back, Autumn. It's about damn time."

  He turns to get into his car and I step forward. "What the fuck does that mean?" My words slip through clenched teeth.

  Owen spins back around and leans in to me. "It means you should've come years ago."

  "Excuse me?” My head reels back. Mr. Fucking Judgy Asshole was at it again. “Don't act like I ignored the situation. I worked harder than any other person in my office just so I could make more money and pay her medical bills. My hard work made it possible for her to pay for you, Owen. For the best care, for home nurses, and replacing her income so she didn't have to worry about working while she battled. Don't you act like I stepped back with hands up when she got the bad news."

  A little bit of guilt creeps into his face. "Autumn, she needed you. Not your money."

  Oh, this self-righteous asshole.

  "Weekly dinners and now you think you know my mom better than I do?” I step closer to him so that he is well within range if I decide to smack him, “She told me to stay there, Owen. She made it clear where she wanted me to be, and I respected her wishes."

  His face carries a mixture of hurt and anger, "Fuck that, Autumn. You didn't want to come back because you didn't want to face me. You let her tell you what you wanted to hear."

  There is so much anger inside me that my fingers are vibrating. My lips tremble, but there is nothing left inside me to hurl at Owen. This exchange has depleted me. He has touched on the guilt I feel deep inside my soul.

  Tears sting my eyes. Owen sees them, and the angry planes of his face soften.

  "Autumn…"

  "Don't." I point a stiff finger at his chest. "Don't send any sympathy my way. I want nothing from you."

  He sighs and backs up. "For the record," he says, walking backwards and then stopping. "This reunion went just about how I expected it to go."