Chapter 5
GERONIMO
SHEPPARD (COVER BY TWENTY ONE TWO)
brOOKE
“Marry me.”
Marry me. Marry me. Marry me.
Owen says the very last thing I ever thought he’d say in the middle of a karaoke bar…
with a plate of chocolate marshmallow fluff and rainbow sprinkle-covered tater tots sitting in front of me.
And most unfortunate, he did so as I took the last sips of the ginger beer I’ve been working on.
I do an actual spit take all over my best friend’s handsome face, while simultaneously inhaling my favorite spicy, carbonated beverage up through my nose.
My eyes are watering. There’s ginger beer dribbling from my chin, and am I crazy, or did the music just stop?
“Jones!” Breezy yells from the center of the silent room. “Bro, did you just propose?!”
“In a tater tot bar?” Drew echoes his disbelief. He’s never heard anything more ridiculous. And, for real, me neither.
“No!” I say, just as Owen says, “Yes.”
“Are you…” I tilt my head and whisper, “ya know… under the influence…? High on pain meds?”
“What? No, Brooke. I’m completely serious, and I’m overdue for meds.”
His eyes haven’t left mine, and I find I can’t look away either.
Especially when he reaches out with his good hand—in the single hottest moment of my life—and pulls my stool by the seat, dragging it like I’m a tiny little thing until it’s flush against his.
His legs bracket mine and the room has quite disturbingly not returned to its former volume, because they are waiting for an answer from me.
“Marry me, Babe.”
I lean closer, pretending it’s just me and him and not a crowd of people watching our not-proposal. “Owen, no…”
“Yes.” His fingers brush along my knuckles, and I must really be losing it, because I don’t ever remember agreeing to hold hands with this man.
That is a careful boundary I rarely, if ever, cross.
His voice is low and gritty and sounds a lot like it does when he sings every single word to “Your Man” with the windows of his truck down and a sultry smirk on his face.
Stay strong, woman. Now is not the time to run through the lyrics of that song.
“We are not getting married, Owen. Not for a game show.”
His eyebrows raise in question, so I quickly nip that guffaw in the bud. “Not for any reason.”
“But you were going to marry Edward Scissorhands? Have some fun… Win some money… Remember?”
I peek around at the crowd now beginning to mumble around us. “Can we not do this here?”
“Sure.” He nods, cheeks reddening when he looks at our surroundings and realizes we have an audience. “Let’s go home.”
“Come on, Brooke!” loosey-goosey Dinah yells from the other side of the room. “Stop the man’s pining. Put him out of his misery. Let him put a ring on—” Emory slaps a hand over her sister’s mouth.
“Carry on,” she says, then pulls Dinah quickly through the bar and out the front door, each woman throwing identical waves over their shoulders as they escape. I wish I could follow them.
Meanwhile, Owen’s teammates, our friends, and all of Honey Hill—including my mother and Jerry canoodling in a corner I’ve avoided eye contact with all night—are waiting for me to graciously accept Owen’s proposal.
I hate that the little green monster in my gut—let’s call her Gretchen; she feels like a Gretchen—has almost convinced herself that this could be my real life.
Like, in some other dimension, Owen Jones proposed to me in front of all our friends and family, not for a game show and not for a cash prize or convenience, but because he loves me and I love him, and we can promise forever to each other with certainty.
But then, my mama cheers in the corner, her arm wrapped around Jerry’s stodgy shoulders and his thick hands draped proprietarily around her waist, and I’m shaken back to reality. “Come on, honey! Say yes! Double wedding!”
My chest tightens, and I give Gretchen a mental chastening for letting her fantasies get away from her.
“It’s okay, Brooke,” Owen whispers, just before his lips press against my cheek in a soft kiss, though I didn’t even know he had leaned into my space. “Let’s get out of here.”
I think I’m ready to leave, but then, suddenly, I’m wrapping my arms around Owen’s neck, careful not to put too much pressure on his injuries but needing him closer.
When I was seven, I tried out for and earned the role of Wendy in my school’s production of Peter Pan.
I learned every line, practiced my facial expressions endlessly in the mirror, and drove my mom crazy with all the songs even before the first rehearsal.
And when rehearsal time came, it was my dad who dropped me off, telling me how proud he was of me.
How he couldn’t wait to see my performance and that he knew I’d steal the show.
He smiled, slipped a little diecast collectible VW van—mint and cream and brand new—into my pocket, then hugged me like he might never let me go.
I can still remember the way he smelled like his beer of choice and the old truck he spent so much time restoring.
Like warm, worn leather and the grease his hands seemed to always be stained with.
When rehearsal ended, though, he never came back for me.
And later that night, he never came home.
Though Mama assured me time and again throughout the years that nothing I could have done that night, or ever, would have kept him around a little longer, I have always regretted rushing into rehearsal and not holding on to his hug for as long as he would allow.
And it may be childish, but I feel like that right now.
Like if I let go of Owen, I’ll lose him. He’ll walk out of this bar, and even though he might love me, it won’t be enough. My eyes sting with tears, and my dumb best friend with his dumb intuitive nature makes gentle shushing sounds in my ear.
“It’s okay, Babe. We’ll talk through it. We’re okay.”
But we aren’t.
Because all at once, the entire place explodes in celebration.
The rowdy crowd at Tots, Collaborate & Listen don’t see a twenty-five-year-old woman having a minor emotional breakdown in her best friend’s arms. Nope.
They’re seeing an acceptance to a very important question.
One she waited an agonizingly long time to answer.
Breezy, Titan, Drew, and Brennan surround us when Owen pulls away, hand still firmly grasping mine.
“Guys”—Breezy drapes an arm over Owen and me—“I can’t believe this.”
Neither can I, my dude.
We’re quickly pulled from our seats and separated in a firestorm of congratulatory hugs.
Titan quietly sobs into Owen’s good side, the old—but deeply mistaken—softie, while Drew and Breezy playfully fight over who gets to be best man.
I think I hear them say they’ll “play for it.” Which means the bridal party in my imaginary wedding will come down to a fight between Donkey Kong and Yoshi. So, that’s fun.
Mom squeals, sloshing the drink in her hands onto the floor as she rushes towards us. She grabs Owen first, who, bless him, looks absolutely mortified by what’s happening. I don’t see how we’ll talk our way out of this one, but I’m certain I’ll be using this moment as blackmail for years to come.
“You cad!” Mom slaps him playfully on the chest but, then, kisses his cheek. “I knew you’d be the one to take care of my girl.”
“I will,” he says like it’s a solemn vow. Against my explicit wishes, good ol’ Gretchen does a tap dance in my belly. “But I am sorry I didn’t speak with you first, Ms. Beth.”
“Oh, honey, you call me Mama now, okay?”
Owen doesn’t get a chance to try out the new moniker as Mom turns to me and grabs my hand, looking at the lack of significant jewelry on my finger. “Where’s the ring?” Her eyes transform from absolute glee to angry mama bear in mere seconds. “Did you not have a ring, Owen Jones?”
“I do.” Owen runs his good hand through his hair, before he takes my hand from Mama’s and runs his thumb across my fingers. “I have a ring.”
My good, green friend, Gretchen, does the Harlem Shake.
Jerry, mom’s future husband number six, suddenly slur-yells, “Drinks on the father of the bride!”
Which I wish I could laugh off, but I’m finding my sense of humor rapidly dwindling in direct relation to the amount of people congratulating us and the number of dates my mother has begun to holler as if she is ready to plan my wedding here.
In a tater tot bar. While a guy who famously plays a rogue pirate in box office blockbusters sings “Let it Go” like he’s a Disney princess with magic problems.
No. I don’t think this is funny, at all. I might actually be crying again.
Owen wraps his arm around my waist and rolls me into himself, half caging me into his chest. And, yeah, his T-shirt is quickly damp, so tears are present.
To the crowd cooing and awing around us, he looks like a blissful, newly engaged man, but we both know what this really is.
Owen’s my safe space. A holding dock just for me.
A security blanket wrapping me as close as only he can.
“I’m gonna get my girl home,” he announces. The place cheers again, and I curl in all the more. He puts up a hand in the air, only mildly pacifying the crowd. “Not what I meant, y’all. Get your minds outta the gutter.”
He grabs my purse, putting it over my shoulder, and I figure I have to be brave if he’s doing the hard work of getting us out of here, so I reluctantly loosen my Velcro hold to his body, and face the music, so to speak.
“First, a toast!” Brennan announces, holding a beer out for Owen.
Breezy slides into the space, all too graciously taking the offered beer from his hands. “Jones doesn’t drink during ball season.”
“Surely, he can now.” Brennan points a look of faux pity at Owen that I can’t say wins him any points in the mental tally book of worthy friends I keep for him. “He’s not playing this season.”
“No,” Titan fires back. “Jones never drinks. Not even when we were in college.”
That can’t be right? Can it? I start to correct them, but Owen interrupts. “I like to keep my personal hydration private, thank you very much. And I’d very much like to take my fiancé home now. Thanks for… being here… I guess.”
He searches the bar top for his nearly empty drink glass, grabs it haphazardly and thrusts it into the air. “Cheers!”
The bar echoes, heads tilt back, and then… a chant begins.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
Owen’s face is so close to mine, I smell the drink on his breath. It’s minty and sweet. I wish I didn’t want further information.
A memory flashes through my brain. The first and only time I cut Owen’s hair, the night before he left for school, and I stayed behind in Honey Hill.
Me, standing between his legs, focused on my work but all too aware of the looming distance between us.
Terrified of what it would mean to be apart for the first time since we’d claimed one another as friends freshman year.
One minute I had my hands in his hair, and in the next, I’d let them rest, framing his precious face.
My friend. My person. The only person I could fully count on.
In the next breath, his hands were suddenly on my waist, thumbs running circles on my skin.
Leaning closer. Nose-to-nose and a hairsbreadth away from a decision with no return.
When I’ve thought about it—frequently—over the years, I realize he gave me every chance to step back.
Full control and autonomy. Owen would never force me into anything he didn’t think I already wanted.
No, he simply whispered, “Brooke,” and, then and there, with my name still fresh on his lips, selfish and foolish as it was, I had to know what it would be like. Even just once.
I brought his face to mine and kissed him like it’d be our last. It had to be.
He was leaving the next day, and I was grown enough to recognize that nothing would ever be the same.
So I took and took and took, for what felt like an eternity but was equally far too little time.
Memorizing the only chance I’d get. And then I stepped back, knowing it—we—could never go any further.
I’ve stood by that decision, trying to move on.
To date other people. Hoping and equally dreading Owen doing the same.
All in an attempt at the impossible—to forget what it felt like to be held by my best friend for a moment that’s so deeply ingrained in my bones that if you were to cut me open, you’d see it tattooed permanently there.
Right now, though, as Owen inches closer and closer to me, again, the memory of his lips on mine feels more akin to craving your favorite ice cream after too long going without.
I know what it would be like to give in to this crowd—and, yes, my own fantasies—but I also know how high the stakes are.
How close I might be to losing him forever.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
The chanting beats in steady rhythm with my heart.
Owen’s eyes narrow. Exactly like they do before he throws a pitch.
He runs his hand in a circle over his belly, and then, with no preamble, no warning or hint of his intentions aside from the small inhale of breath only I can hear, he takes my chin in his hands and brings his lips down on mine.