Chapter 31 Owen
OWEN
The next morning, I pad to the door to collect the newspaper from the hallway. But this time, I find a surprise sitting on top—a comically oversized peppermint stick with a note attached:
You look like a man who appreciates a big candy cane. ;-) Thanks for the scones! Happy Holidays — Raj & Marty
I choke out a laugh and immediately text George as I bring it inside.
Dec 24 at 8:30 AM
Owen
I think your neighbors are trying to corrupt me.
As soon as I hit send, I wince. I wasn’t going to bother today. He’s supposed to be working. But before I can even fully register the thought, he messages back.
George
In what way? Criminal? Political?
Sugar and innuendo.
Oh! They REALLY like you!
I settle in with the bagel and cream cheese I prepared for breakfast and ask the thing that’s really been nagging at me since I woke up.
Please tell me you really did get something done yesterday so I don’t have to feel guilty?
Don’t feel guilty! I feel guilty, dragging an innocent into my delinquent scheme.
Also, yes, I wrote 3 and a half mostly not terrible chapters yesterday!
Okay, phew.
I know I mostly just hung out at the apartment and messaged with George on and off, but yesterday was honestly the most fun I’ve had in a while.
I like talking to George. I feel comfortable talking to him. And I don’t feel comfortable talking to a lot of people.
I guess we’ve been… well, maybe not flirting—at least not in a way that would lead anywhere.
But clicking, honest-to-God clicking. And that is really rare for me.
I’ve got friends. I get along with pretty much everyone.
But that deep-in feeling like someone really gets you and you can just be you? Rare.
Got to say, when Zoe roped me into this, I did not see myself making a new friend here. Of course, maybe I actually haven’t. Maybe it’s one-sided. Maybe he’s just conveniently latched onto me as a way of procrastinating on this book he’s stuck on.
Jesus, maybe Zoe just full-on put him up to it. He for sure seems too nice to say anything if she did.
But somehow, I don’t think it’s any of that. I don’t know how I know, especially with someone I’ve only just met. Haven’t met actually.
But I think—I know—it’s mutual.
My phone buzzes on the table.
George
And one horrifically bad escape using a goat and a fake mustache scene that we will never speak of again.
Well now I need to know more. Who was wearing the fake mustache? Was it the GOAT?
I’d tell you but…
…you’d have to kill me?
Worse. I’d have to protect you from my editor, who would be hellbent on killing anyone who knew this scene existed.
Aaaand now I’m sitting in the man’s apartment grinning to myself like a total dork.
I can’t help it, though. It’s just… It’s been a while since I connected with someone. It feels damn good to connect.
Oh shit, what are the odds Ruth keeps the store open over the holiday?
Uh… zero. She usually closes up sometime middle of today and opens up whenever she gets tired of her great-grandchildren climbing all over her. Could be a while.
Damn, of course. I should’ve thought of that. I better make a run for it while I can. Few essentials I won’t make it more than a couple days without.
I push down the stab of disappointment I feel at this. What the hell? He’s busy. He was going to be working all day anyway, even if he wasn’t trekking into town for supplies. I fire off a reply, keeping it light just in case any of my pathetic feelings show through the silence.
Coffee?
Toothpaste. Toilet paper.
…and coffee.
I start typing: Well, I’ll let you go—
You want to keep me company?
Sure
He doesn’t need to know I’m grinning as I delete my unsent message.
An hour later, I’m flipping crepes between texts to George while he walks to town. Every once in a while, I lose him to a bad signal, and I keep expecting him to just disappear. After all, we’re just chatting about nothing, really. But he keeps coming back.
GEORGE
So you just up and moved when your uncle left you the place? Did you think about selling?
OWEN
Nah. I don’t think I could have. Too many memories. Plus once I realized I could convert the garage into a workshop there was no talking me out of it.
When you know you know, huh?
I feel heat creep up my neck for no good reason.
Pretty much.
I guess I feel like I’m living the life I’m meant to be living.
Mostly, anyway.
That’s amazing.
Totally jealous.
. . ·
I have no idea what that would even feel like.
That… I…
I’m trying to figure out what that means exactly or how to respond to it—or if I’m even supposed to acknowledge at all that a man whose life is the envy of millions just maybe implied he’s not happy with it.
Sorry. Don’t listen to me. I’m just stressed because I’m on a deadline.
It sounds like more than that to me, but do I really know the guy well enough to judge that? I definitely don’t know him well enough to call him on it. He clearly doesn’t want to talk about it. I change the subject.
So where are you now? You must be getting close.
Almost to town. I can see the lights up ahead.
Aw. I miss it. Is that weird? I know New York has Christmas up the wazoo, and Moonlake Village just has a little tree in the middle of the green, but…
You think I’m a weirdo, don’t you?
For saying “up the wazoo”? Absolutely. For being homesick? Of course not.
It’s such a matter-of-fact kind of acceptance that all of a sudden, I’m kind of choked up. What the fuck is wrong with me? I redirect with a little friendly teasing.
How do I know you’re even where you say you are? For all I know you’ve booked yourself into a spa in Stowe and are sipping Prosecco in a hot tub.
There’s no response for a couple minutes, and I start to think he’s lost the signal again when an image comes through.
It’s the Moonlake Village Christmas tree, lit up trunk to tip with colorful twinkle lights, and even though it’s midday, the lights pop against the evergreen and the gray sky and goddammit but I am homesick.
Oh wait, sorry. You wanted actual proof…
A minute later, another photo comes through.
The tree’s still in the frame, but this one’s a selfie.
George’s cheeks are rosy, and I can actually see his breath in the image.
Dark waves of hair poke out haphazardly from under a hunting cap.
He looks cold, but he’s grinning. I can’t help it.
I grin back at him even though he can’t see me.
What do you think? Am I passing for a local yet? Except for the part where I’m wearing a dry-clean only coat I got at Saks, which I realize is all wrong.
Sometimes wrong is right.
It takes a minute for his next text to come through.
Did you just make a Miss Matched reference?
Oh. Shit. Well, that’s a little embarrassing. Do I watch the over-the-top reality dating show as a guilty pleasure? Yes. Do I advertise that? N—hang on.
Did you just RECOGNIZE a Miss Matched reference?