by Leia Stone
He nods and looks at me.
I shake my head. "Nothing for me, thanks."
"Do not tell me you're on a diet," Livvie says as he gathers the menus and leaves. She says the word diet as if it's responsible for a heinous crime.
"I already ate," I explain. “It’s nine and I’ll get heartburn if I eat a basket of chili fries right now and go to bed.”
"What does that have to do with anything? Fries are fries." She lifts her beer and knocks it gently against mine. "To neophytes and their elders."
I grin and sip my drink. It's crisp and cold. "So?" I urge Livvie. “Talk.”
"My husband is an asshole." She takes a long drink. "A giant asshole."
“What happened?” I ask.
Livvie drains half of her beer. “Jeff, my husband, wants kids."
"And that's bad because…?"
"A long time ago, we agreed not to have kids. We wanted big careers, the kind of careers that make it hard to have a family. We both work on Wall Street," she explains. "I didn't want to give up my career for a family, and he didn't either."
Sounds familiar. I definitely fall into the workaholic type of personality. Well, I did when I actually had a job.
"You could get a nanny." As soon as I say it, I feel stupid. Livvie and Jeff have probably thought of everything. She doesn't need me to point things out needlessly. "Sorry, I'll shut up and listen."
Livvie laughs and drinks her beer. "Neither of us want to have kids and watch another person parent them. And that is what we would be doing. Now, out of the blue, Jeff wants kids, but when I asked him if he planned on being a stay-at-home dad, he laughed. He said he thought maybe I'd grown tired of my career and I was ready for a new scene. He asked why I didn't want to look like the other moms pushing expensive strollers around the park. As if I have some sort of defect for not wanting that."
"I'm so sorry," I tell her, pushing my hand across the table. She knows what I'm doing, so she meets me halfway and accepts my squeeze. What an ass that he expects her to drop her career and take care of a new baby.
"I came out here to help save my grandma's business, but I discovered how much I like Arizona, and I don't want to go back now. Earlier today, I asked him to come out here. To give it all up. We could get jobs here, or even in Phoenix. There's so much we could both do there. We could work normal hours. I'd be open to getting a nanny because we wouldn't need her 24/7. I’d be open to kids…"
"What did he say?" I lean forward.
"He said no. He's not willing to give up his job. He has worked too long and too hard to quit now."
Asshole.
I lean in closer. "What are you going to do?"
She sighs. "I don't know. I hung up on him."
I wish there was more I could say or do to make her feel better.
“Now he got all up in my head, and every time I pass a baby something kicks my ovaries until I stare at the baby with heart emoji eyes,” she says, and I grin.
This conversation is hitting a little too close to home, so I squirm in my seat and give a nervous laugh.
Someone drops off the fries and we both murmur a thank you without looking up. Livvie takes a few, shoving them into her mouth. After a few moments of companionable silence, our server comes over and she orders another beer. I try like hell to stop eyeing those fries. After a few minutes of them sitting between us, I can't take it anymore.
"Fries are fries," I say, grabbing a few. Livvie laughs.
Fuck heartburn. It’s worth it.
"Please tell me about your problems. I can't stand mine anymore." She eats another fry. "What's the deal with Owen the oncologist?"
"I'm not sure. I saw him a few days ago. He drove my mom home that day after she had chemo. The day I met you. And he stayed for dinner that night. I thought we were doing okay, being civil and all that. But then things got weird when we were cleaning up the kitchen, and he got a call and left abruptly."
To be fair, I all but pushed him out. He was acting cagey and weird. I sensed he wanted to get into our past and I wasn’t feeling it.
"Some broad?"
I shrug. "Maybe. If it was, it didn't sound like a new relationship. His tone wasn't sweet enough for that."
Did Owen have a girlfriend? I had no idea.
"You think it was an old relationship? Like one he's been in for a while?"
The thought makes me sick and I don’t know why.
"Wouldn't my mom have said something though?" Probably not, since we had a no-talking-about-Owen rule for ten years now.
"The same mom who didn't tell you she was going to church?"
I nod. She didn't tell me she'd been having dinner with Owen weekly either. It makes sense she'd keep something like Owen having a girlfriend from me. "I see your point."
"So, what if it was a woman on the other end of that phone call?" Livvie’s eyes bore into mine and I suddenly regret sharing.
If Owen had a girlfriend, would I really care? I mean, sure, he was a good-looking doctor who I had history with, but who cares? We both moved on. Right?
"I don't know."
"You don't know? Or you're not being honest with yourself?"
A shadow passes over my soul as my mind goes right back to what Owen and I truly share: three good years together that exploded like a supernova in one day. The memory of the foul things he said to me that day in my dorm floods my mind. How Ace stood by and watched in horror as Owen spewed verbal diarrhea all over me in an effort to mask his own pain.
I grab two more fries, using my fork to scoop up green chili. "He hurt me, Livvie. Badly."
"How badly?" she asks cautiously, clearly noticing the change in my mood.
"Not physically," I assure her. "No, nothing like that. It's just…" My palms come to meet in front of me. "When things went south, it got ugly. He said things, and they left a mark."
I finish my beer and take one more fry.
Livvie must sense I'm done talking, because she doesn't say more. Her second beer arrives and we move on to less emotional topics. We're knee-deep in a discussion about the best cannoli on the Upper East Side when a commotion at the bar stops us mid-sentence.
"You need a new set of eyeballs, friend! I'm just fine!" a man hollers with slurred speech. I look up and see a clearly drunk man with his back to me, swaying on his feet. Another man, bald and wearing a collared shirt, hovers near the drunk. Baldy turns slightly, and I make out the emblem of the restaurant embroidered on his shirt, so he must work here. As he reaches for the drunk man, the old guy shoves him off.
His voice … it’s raised the hairs on my arms.
Where do I know that voice?
That’s when the drunk turns and I get a clear picture of his face. He's older, his hair salt and pepper, but I recognize him immediately.
I bolt up from the booth, heart hammering in my chest, and Livvie follows.
"What are you doing," she asks, right on my heels.
"I know him," I tell her, and walk right up to the two men. The guy with the collared shirt, who is clearly a manager or something, is trying to explain something.
"Sir, we can't serve you any more tonight. Now, if you'll just tell me your name and address, I'll be happy to call a car to drive you home."
"This is ridiculous. I came here to spend my hard-earned money and you’re turning me away?"
"Hey there," I say, stepping up to the two men.
The manager puts a hand on my forearm. "Ma'am, I don't think it's a good idea to get in the middle of this."
I ignore him and focus my attention on Owen's dad. "Mr. Miller?"
He blinks two heavy-lidded eyes at me. "Autumn … is that you?" His face brightens a little and I’m relieved he remembers me in his inebriated state. But now that I’m close, I see how the years have aged him: thick red skin, wrinkles—time hasn’t been good to Mr. Miller, and I don’t think this is his first time getting kicked out of a bar.
I offer a small smile to the manager. "I've got this, sir."
/> He looks uncertain. "Are you sure?"
"Yes. I'll take him home. I know him."
He nods once, then steps away. Given how quickly he walks away, I'd guess he's grateful he doesn't have to deal with this situation any longer.
"Can we go somewhere and talk, Mr. Miller? I haven't seen you in a long time and I'd love to catch up."
He glances back to the bartender, who's shaking a cocktail in a metal shaker but is still keeping an eye on Owen's dad.
"I guess so," he says gruffly. "Not much point in staying here."
I look to where Livvie stands a few feet from us. "Go ahead," she says quietly. "I'll get the bill. You buy next time," she says when she sees me begin to protest.
"Thank you," I mouth. I wind my arm through Mr. Miller's and hope he doesn't realize I'm providing him with support in case he can't walk. To cover up what I'm doing, I look up at him and ask if he still has that old collection of baseball cards.
"Sure do," he says. "Wouldn't sell those things for the world."
I ask him which one is his favorite. He talks about the card, how he got it, and what he paid for it. This conversation gets us all the way out of the place and into my mom's car.
"Does Owen know you're back?" he asks as I start the engine.
"Yes, Mr. Miller. He's my mom's doctor."
They must not talk much, and that hurts my heart. I had no idea. Mr. Miller was always an unemotional man, but he and Owen had a decent relationship.
"Call me Mike, Autumn. Feels weird to be called Mr. Miller." He coughs and adjusts his seat. "I'm sorry to hear your mom is sick."
"Yeah, me too. Thanks."
Mike reaches around behind himself, struggling, then his arm reappears with a silver flask. He unscrews the top and tips it to his lips, then offers it to me.
"No thank you," I tell him, trying to keep the surprise from my voice. I can't remember ever seeing him have more than a couple beers the entire time I was dating Owen. What happened?
"Do you still live on Liberation Lane?" I ask.
"Yep. I guess not much has changed since you left," he laughs as he says it.
I smile, aware of how wrong he is. "Guess not," I say.
By the time I turn onto his street, he is slumped against the passenger door, passed out. His head is tipped back, soft snores falling from his open mouth.
Well, shit…
How am I supposed to carry an unconscious grown man inside?
Chapter 9
Owen
My fingers curl around the cold beer bottle. For hours I've been looking forward to opening my new science fiction book, sitting back in my favorite chair, and drinking a cold beer. It's my preferred way to unwind from a long day at the hospital when I find it difficult to settle down my brain. Going into a fantasy world is my favorite form of escapism.
I sink into the chair and put my feet up on the matching ottoman. I paid an obscene amount of money for this chair, but it's already paid for itself in the amount of relaxation it brings me.
I'm one paragraph into my book and two sips into my beer when my phone rings. My gaze flicks across the room and I stare at the device on the coffee table. I'd love to ignore it, but I can't. It could be the hospital. Or my dad. In either scenario, my help may be needed.
With a deep, irritated sigh, I close my book and set it on the small table beside my chair. My beer comes with me and I can feel the frown on my face.
I have a sixth sense for bad news. Comes with being a cancer doctor. And this call feels like bad news.
Grabbing my phone, I see the name flashing across the front, and my frown deepens.
"Autumn?"
"Hey," she responds. Her voice is uncertain.
"Is everything okay?" Something must be wrong. She wouldn't call me for any other reason. The last time I saw her she stood at Faith's kitchen sink, her anger apparent.
"Um, no. Not really … I need your help." She sounds reluctant, but presses forward anyway. "Your dad is passed out in my car and I can't wake him up. And I certainly can't carry him into his house alone."
What. The. Fuck?
My eyes close slowly, my chin tipping up to the ceiling. My grip on the beer bottle tightens, the muscles in my fingers straining as embarrassment washes over me.
Dammit. What the hell did he do now? How did Autumn get roped into it?
"I'll be right there." I hang up without waiting for Autumn to answer.
My old man has a problem, and I've known for a while. But how do you help someone who doesn't want help? He’s sixty, retired, and not keen on taking advice from his young son.
I go to the kitchen, empty the rest of my beer into the sink, then toss the bottle into the recycling bin, staring at it for a full second and wondering if I could ever be like my dad and have a drinking problem.
Running into my bedroom, I change quickly from my ratty basketball shorts into jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, then grab my keys and phone and head out.
I had no intention of telling Autumn about my dad. Guess that desire is out the window. I wonder what she thinks…
As I pull into the driveway beside Faith’s car, I kill my lights. From what I can tell in the dark, there is only one person in her car, and my guess is that it’s not Autumn. Something moves in the shadows on the side of the house and I recognize her petite frame.
Climbing from my car, I close the door, heading around the corner.
“Hey,” she says softly as I come near. She’s leaning against the house, blocked from the view of the street, hands tucked in the front pockets of her jeans. A swath of moonlight cuts across her face and I try not to think about how beautiful she is.
“Hi.” I come to a stop a few feet away. “Sorry about my dad.”
She waves me off. “It’s no biggie.”
It is a biggie to me. A huge fuckin’ biggie. Local doctor’s dad becomes the town drunk. It’s embarrassing.
We’re both silent for a full minute and I’m trying to figure out how to get him into the house without her helping when she speaks.
“How long has he had a problem?”
Her question rankles me. I feel defensive, even though I know he needs help. I hate what he’s turned into, and of all people to see it, it’s Autumn…
“You can leave now,” I say, looking out into the distance and avoiding her question. I know she doesn’t want to be here. “I can handle it from here."
"I can't leave, Owen. He's in my car."
Right.
"And I wouldn’t leave you with this alone. Why do you seem mad at me?" A guarded edge has crept into her voice and I hate that she looks hurt on my account. I’ve hurt her enough for ten lifetimes. I don’t intend to do any more of that.
I press the spot at the bridge of my nose and avoid her gaze. “I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at him. Where did you find him?”
"I met a friend at Orange Peel Brewing Company. Your dad was there … creating a scene. I stepped in because the manager was two seconds away from calling the police."
"What friend?" Of everything she just said, it's the entirely wrong place to focus. I can't help it though. "Have you met someone here already?" I’m completely shocked by the jealously lacing through my voice.
She balks. "What does it matter to you if I have?"
"It doesn't." The lie burns my teeth as I tell it.
"I didn't think so.” She crosses her arms and steps closer to me, bringing the heat of her body with her. “Besides, you're the one who went running the other night when your phone rang. Someone has you on a short leash."
I’ll be dammed. Autumn Cummings is jealous. This one shred of information does crazy things to my stomach. Could we pick up where we left off? Would it be that simple? No, but it was proof that everything wasn’t dead between us.
"What does it matter to you?" A sly grin pulls at my lips and her gaze sharpens like an eagle ready to hunt.
"It doesn't,” she says, just a little too harshly. A little too intense. The hallmark of a l
ie. I would know, seeing as how I just did the same.
I take a step forward, grazing my body against her, my gaze on her face, watching her reaction. Her expression is steady, and if it weren't for the slight widening of her eyes, I'd think my proximity had no effect on her.
One more step puts me fully flush against her, and I’m delighted when her breath hitches as she presses herself closer to me. Her chest rises and falls with a single, deep breath. The scent of her skin wafts over me, covering me like a blanket, bringing memories to the surface like sunken ships pulled from the depths by a hurricane. I cannot deny how much my body wants her. How much I want to make her moan the way I used to. I want to rediscover her.
Cautiously, I reach out to touch her and she watches my hand but doesn’t back away. With one fingertip I trace the edge of her tank-top strap. Her eyes go half lidded and my finger trails across her collarbone and then up her neck to trace her jawline.
Was that a small moan? I can barely fucking contain myself; I want to explore every inch of her, but I stop as her sharp exhale fills the already thick air between us.
"It doesn't matter to you that I left your house after a phone call?" I want to test her, to see if she still cares for me.
She levels her heated gaze on me. "It doesn't matter to you that I met someone tonight?"
Fuck. It’s a stalemate. We both know each other’s hand but neither will admit it.
My fingers travel up her neck, feather over her jaw, disappear into her hair. She swallows hard as I lean closer, ducking my head and placing my lips on her neck. I don't kiss her, but I hold my lips there, taking in the familiar scent of her skin.
I’m completely floored that she hasn’t racked me in the nuts by now. She wants this … like I want this … and that thought brings everything good about our love back to me. The way we used to be, like two magnets that could never part.
I drag the tip of my nose up her neck, near her ear, across her cheek. Her heart hammers against my chest. We're nose to nose, forehead to forehead, my lips hovering over hers.
"I missed everything about you," I whisper.