Return To You

by Leia Stone

  "I love you, Mom," I tell her, swallowing the softball-sized lump in my throat.

  She turns her chin to me, her eyes fluttering open. "I love you too, baby girl."

  "I'm sorry I didn't come back until now." My voice cracks. “I was fleeing Owen. Not you.”

  She removes one hand from where it lies on her heart and uses it to palm my cheek. "I know that, baby. Besides, I told you to stay there. And I meant it."

  "I didn't have to listen."

  "No, you didn't. But I'm glad you did. You had what I never did: a bigger life, a dream that was just for you." Her eyes grow wide as she speaks.

  "Mom, what is it?"

  "The abortion … you had it because I was pushing you so hard to leave Sedona. You didn't want to disappoint me." She says this as if she’s had a sudden realization.

  My head is shaking even before her sentence is finished. "No, Mom. No. Owen and I made that choice on our own, without anybody else, okay? Don’t blame yourself. You weren't the reason I decided not to have a baby."

  She drops her hand from my cheek, appeased, but her eyes hold a flicker of doubt.

  “Well, we should probably—” Her words are cut off by a retching noise as she tears her hand out of mine and falls forward.

  “Mom!” I shout.

  My mother falls on her knees, panting on all fours as the contents of her lunch come up onto the hiking trail.

  She waves me off, wiping her mouth. “I’m okay. Chemo,” she whispers, as if this would pacify me.

  It doesn’t.

  “Should I call 911?” Why the fuck did I agree to this hike? My mom has an aggressive form of cancer and is undergoing chemo and we are acting like we're training for the Ironman.

  My mom laughs, rocking back on her heels, and looks up at me. “No, baby, just give me some water and haul me up.”

  God help me. This is her life now, falling over and vomiting in vortexes. It isn’t fair.

  I pass her the water bottle and she takes a swig, swishing it in her mouth before spitting on the ground.

  Next, I hook her under the armpits and haul her up.

  Did my telling her about the abortion overwhelm her emotionally? Is that why she vomited?

  Her gaze flicks to mine. “Autumn, stop it. I see you overanalyzing.” She points to my wrinkled forehead. “I’m fine. This is chemo. I’ll have a nap and be okay.”

  I wind my fingers through hers and give her a nod. “Okay, Mom.”

  “That was some powerful vortex energy,” she jokes, trying to force a smile out of me.

  I don't know about vortex energy, but I definitely got more than I bargained for when I agreed to this hike.

  We get back to my mom’s car and I find a missed call from Owen. There's also a text from him, so I open it up and read as my mom straps into the passenger seat.

  I have an idea, and it might be my worst idea yet, but here goes... Do you want to have dinner with me tonight? Just as friends, obviously. Quit trying to lure me into dark shadows.

  I smile at my phone. He's just as playful as he ever was. That was what got my attention in the first place when we were fifteen. I mean, yeah, his broad shoulders and messy hair drew me in, but when I saw how much of his personality was light and fun, like a curious puppy who could suddenly morph into a strong male, that's when I knew I was a goner.

  My fingers fly over the keyboard, texting out my response. A girl does need to eat. And as I remember it, you're the one who kissed me first. I was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Three dots pop up automatically, then his message comes through. I'm sure you meant to say right place, right time.

  The muscles in my upper thighs clench. My legs cross at the ankles and I pull them in as far as the confines of the sedan will allow, trying to get control of myself. Could Owen and I ever have another loving and trusting relationship? I have no idea. But could we have some amazing sex? Yes, yes, we could.

  A quick glance at my mom tells me she hasn't noticed my sudden change—thankfully. I start the car and pull out onto the road that leads back to our house.

  I have to change the tone of the conversation before I spontaneously combust. Pick me up at six? I shoot the text back, before dropping my phone in my lap.

  Owen must pick up on my change, because he responds in the same vein. See you then.

  "Is that Owen?" Mom asks, and I can tell from her voice that she’s sleepy.

  I balance my phone facedown on my thigh and nod. "He asked me to get dinner tonight. Will you be okay on your own?"

  I don’t want to leave her, especially after she threw up on the hike.

  She gives me a withering look. "Autumn, I'm a grown adult. Of course, I'll be okay having dinner on my own."

  "I just wanted to make sure. Because I can cancel. It's just a dinner between friends. No big deal." My hands lift in the air as if I'm pleading my case.

  "Go to dinner. Have fun. Forget about your problems."

  My problems. Damn. Why did she have to remind me? Jobless, hanging with my ex and watching my mom get sicker by the day.

  "If that's what you want…" I tell her.

  She laughs. "It's an order."

  When we get home, she goes to her room to lie down. I go into the bathroom, turning on the shower and waiting for the water to warm. As I wait, I lean against the bathroom counter and think about what I should do about tonight.

  I can't figure out if it's a good idea to let this happen. A friendship with Owen feels inevitable, but is it a good idea? Maybe not. Will it stop me from going? Nope.

  I climb under the hot spray of water, but I don't have all the time in the world to let the water wash away my nerves. A drink wherever we're going should do the trick.

  After stepping out of the shower, I towel off, then start on my hair. It takes forever to dry because it's too long, and I make a mental note to get a trim. Moving on to curling it, I blend it into loose waves. I move on to my room, where my makeup bag lies on the dresser. Some women love makeup. I am not one of them; however, I do see the merit in a good pressed powder and swipe of mascara. Since I'm going to dinner, I add a dab of cream blush to my cheeks and a little eyeshadow and eyeliner.

  Tonight is about two people who are hungry deciding to break bread together. Nothing more. But, just to be safe, I select a romper from the closet and pull it on, hoping it will function as a modern-day chastity belt. I'm not sure one can ever really prepare for something as unexpected as what happened the other night at Owen's dad's house, but at least this way I feel I've taken some measure of precaution in case things get out of hand again.

  Or, in hand, I suppose.

  My little joke makes me chuckle. Standing in front of the dresser mirror, dabbing some Chapstick over my lips, I slide a couple gold bracelets onto my wrist.

  "Autumn," my mom calls from somewhere beyond my door.

  I grab my purse from my bed and thread my arm through it, then leave the room.

  Owen stands in the foyer, making small talk with my mom, and nerves claw at my gut. He looks up when I walk in and I watch him take me in, his Adam's apple bobbing when he clears his throat. I take him in too. He’s wearing dark-wash jeans and a tight powder-blue polo that shows off his tattoos. He looks absolutely yummy. For a friend…

  "All set?" he asks, eyebrows raised.

  I point down at my bare feet. "Just need shoes."

  I walk to the sandals I dropped by the front door when we came in from our hike. But to get there, I have to walk by Owen. He smells like manly body wash, virility, and desire.

  Pushing the scent out of my nostrils with a quiet huff, I slip my feet into my sandals. "Ready," I sing, turning around and holding my hands out to the side.

  Mom smiles. "Have fun, you two."

  I lean in, brushing a kiss on my mom's cheek. "What are you having for dinner?" I feel bad making her eat alone. I'm here now. She shouldn't have to eat by herself.

  "Spray cheese and ultra-processed crackers."

&nb
sp; Owen explodes with laughter, shaking his head as he tries to catch his breath, and I scowl at the both of them.

  "If that's true, you'd better eat it all in one sitting, because when I get home I'm going to search high and low for that contraband."

  Mom laughs, placing her hand on my shoulder and gently shoving me to the door. "Seriously, go. I'm fine."

  I open the door and step through, pausing on the other side to wait for Owen. He offers my mom a high-five, probably congratulating her for ribbing me, and walks out.

  “Feeling better from before?”

  She nods. “Yep.”

  “What happened before?” Owen asks, his body tensing.

  “She threw up,” I tell him.

  Owen’s face relaxes. “Ahh, chemo.”

  “She wanted to call 911,” my mom tells him, and he bursts out laughing again, before seeing my glare and turning it into a cough.

  “Chemo is harsh stuff.”

  “Alright, you two. Have fun and don’t worry about me.” My mom shoos us away and closes the door.

  "You encourage her by laughing, you know that?" I tell Owen as we walk down the driveway to his car.

  Owen shrugs. "She's funny. I laugh."

  "I'm still getting used to her sense of humor." We reach his car and he follows me around to my side, opening the door for me.

  "Thank you," I tell him, sliding in. He’s done that since high school and it still makes my belly warm.

  On the drive, Owen peppers me with questions about my job. Old job? Former career? I don't know what to call it.

  "It was fun, I guess. Kind of like a puzzle. Figuring out the target demographic for a given product. Working with different clients." I think back to my building, the high-rise I walked to every morning and walked away from every night. It wasn't especially beautiful, not like other buildings Manhattan is known for, but it was a part of the skyline, and it made me feel special.

  Owen makes a right, taking us off the black tar road and through a curved entry, his tires now bumping over cobblestones. Giant sycamore trees tower over us. Two-story buildings all around, ivy vines that curl and stretch, covering the thick stucco walls.

  "Owen," I breathe, unable to take my eyes off my favorite place.

  Tlaquepaque.

  Tucked away behind a low stucco wall, it's not so much a hidden gem but one that requires a longer gaze to be discovered. It's not just a place, but a Spanish Colonial village. Tlaquepaque sits high above the bank of Oak Creek.

  I know what I will find once we leave Owen's car: columns and arches, intricate ironwork and patterned tiles artfully decorating little spaces here and there. And everything, absolutely everything, built around the sycamores that stretch high throughout the village.

  Owen has brought me to my favorite place, the very place we had our first date, back when neither of us could drive and my mom dropped us off here. In the courtyard, under the glow of white lights that wrapped around trees and the balconies of second story shops, Owen pressed his lips to mine for the first time.

  I get out of the car, leaning back slightly and gently resting against the frame. If there is any place that could make me feel the word home, this is it.

  Owen reaches for me, but only for a moment, the pad of his thumb brushing the inside of my wrist. "I was hoping you hadn't come back here yet."

  My head turns and I look at him: at his strong chin, his angular nose, the freckle on his earlobe.

  "I didn't bring you here to walk you down memory lane." The words trip from his mouth, his eyes bright with the hurry he feels to justify why we are here. "I just know how much you love the Mexican restaurant."

  I'm stunned, trying to catch up to the feeling slipping through me, but Owen takes my silence for something else.

  "We don't have to go there," he reassures me. "Other restaurants have opened since you've been here."

  "El Rincon," I assert, my eyes still trained on his. It is our place. “I want our table, if possible."

  At the words, our table, Owen’s lip peel into a sly grin and he nods swiftly. Gathering one of my hands in his, he leads me away from the car, across the cobbled street, and through an arched hallway. We spill out into the main courtyard. In the center, a stone fountain gurgles. People mill about, stepping over the places where Sycamore roots have pushed against the pavers laid atop them. I look around, drinking in the architectural ingenuity, the sheer beauty of a place capable of transportation. In here, the desert we live in is but a distant memory.

  "Walk first?" Owen asks me, pulling my attention from a second-story shop. "Or eat first?"

  "Eat," I respond without hesitation. The hike with my mom wasn't strenuous, but the sun still has a way of sneaking in and stealing energy; it made me hungry.

  The front door of the restaurant is visible from where we stand. We walk there together, and though he doesn't need to, Owen keeps a firm grasp on my hand.

  And I let him.

  I’m holding hands with Owen Miller. What kind of alternate universe is this?

  We request a table on the patio in the corner, under an orange umbrella. Our table. When we sit, I adjust the wicker chair, dragging it closer to the table.

  "It hasn't changed a bit," I remark, one finger bumping over the terra cotta tiled tabletop. Even the plants in the planter boxes along the gated patio look the same, deep green and waxy.

  "No," Owen agrees. "But we have." His gaze, which is on the menu he holds in his hands, lifts to meet mine.

  I don't know what to say to that, and so I choose to say nothing at all.

  It’s true.

  Our server comes, and we place an order for two prickly pear margaritas.

  I smile at Owen when the waiter walks away, feeling a bit like I've done something naughty. "That's the first time I've ever ordered a real margarita here."

  He grins. "Not for lack of trying," he reminds me.

  "Oh gosh," I laugh, my eyes half-rolling. "That was embarrassing."

  "It was funny," Owen corrects.

  "Maybe for you," I say, picking up my menu but still peering at him above it. "I hope that server didn't get into too much trouble for serving me alcohol. I felt terrible."

  It was silly, just a bet between Owen and me. He didn't think I had the guts to order a margarita and not say the word non-alcoholic while doing so. I showed him just how wrong he was. The flaw in the plan was that I didn't account for a gullible server. I assumed the server would take one look at my seventeen-year-old face and call bullshit. But no. So I decided to roll with it. The manager, however, was not as gullible as the server, and he came over before I could take a drink, apologizing profusely for their error in serving a minor who most certainly had not intended to order a real margarita. By his third I'm so sorry, which was accompanied by his over-the-top acceptance that the mistake was their fault, I realized his tone was more sarcastic than apologetic. And that he knew exactly what the seventeen-year-old girl in his restaurant had been trying to pull.

  Despite the embarrassment of the night, we returned over and over. Can't keep a couple teenagers from their beloved chimichangas. We never saw that manager again.

  Our drinks are dropped off. They are hot pink and sugar-rimmed. Owen lifts his, waiting for me to do the same. As I reach for mine, I get a swipe of sugar on my finger in the process.

  "To old times and favorite tables."

  I echo him and carefully clink my glass against his, then bring it to my mouth. It's cold and sweet. Refreshing. "This," I say, keeping the drink in the air so he knows what I'm talking about, "was worth waiting for."

  "Yes," he responds, his tone gruff. "It was."

  Something tells me he is not referring to the margarita.

  Instantly, the empty third seat at our table is filled. Not by an uninvited person, but by a ghost. The shadow of our failed relationship sinks down into the wicker, uninvited but nonetheless expected. Did we really think we could get through a night at our old spot without it?

  Chapter 14


  Autumn

  For most of dinner, we've managed to ignore the phantom at our table. Our conversation leans toward the basic, giving any possibly touchy subject a wide berth.

  But our time is running out. I can feel it. And by the shift of his torso in his seat and the changing of positions of his legs, Owen can too.

  "Thank you." I smile graciously at our server as she drops off my wine. A Spanish red. Owen has opted for a second margarita. Classic this time, not pre-made prickly pear. He said he was only allowed one hot pink cocktail a week, and had therefore reached his limit.

  Our plates are cleared and we've declined dessert. There is nothing left but us, our drinks, and a conversation that, for all its meandering, has been headed in the one direction since I climbed into his car.

  Owen picks up the straw from his drink, pinching it between his thumb and pointer finger before suddenly dropping it back into the glass. He looks at me, intensity burning in his gaze. "Why did we break up, Autumn?"

  And here we are. The rest of the shit we haven’t hashed out has arrived.

  I squirm. "You know why. We discussed it at coffee." I know it’s not possible to move on without talking about this, but a girl can dream.

  Owen shakes his head like a child refusing a parent's request to clean up toys. "I mean why. Not what happened that caused us problems. I want to know why we couldn't handle what happened."

  Why couldn’t two eighteen-year olds handle an abortion? Gee, let me think…

  "I … don't know." As insufficient of a response as it may be, it's the truth. I honestly don’t know what went wrong after that day, only that I could no longer look at him the same. Could no longer see us together.

  His dark lashes fall and I see the hurt my lack of an answer causes, so I try to explain. "I used to think about it a lot. But I could never really pinpoint exactly what it was that ended us. There was no great big swipe of a blade … it was just everything."

  "Death by a thousand cuts," Owen says, the admittance both nostalgic and forlorn. It makes me sad for our younger selves, the teenagers who bit off more than they could chew, who tried to be adults and instead of cautiously stepping into the water, jumped in headfirst and drowned.