Chapter 5 - Ivy #2
She's gone before I can correct her, swept up in a hug with Sarah.
I sit there, trying to process the conversation.
Amanda thinks Owen is into me. Amanda, who dated the captain of the football team and the student body president and probably half the lacrosse team, thinks Owen Harper is looking at me like I'm special.
Maybe I'm not imagining this.
Maybe this is actually real.
"Hey." Owen slides back into his seat, setting down two glasses of wine. "You look shell-shocked. What happened?"
"Amanda happened."
"Ah. What did she want?"
"To tell me you're hot and I should lock that down before someone else does."
He chokes on his wine. "She said that?"
"More or less."
"Huh." He's trying not to smile. "And what did you say?"
"That we're just catching up."
"Are we?"
I look at him. At the way he's leaning toward me, elbows on the table. At the way his eyes haven't left my face since he sat down. At the way he's smiling like he knows something I don't.
"I still don't know what we're doing," I admit.
"I do."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He reaches across the table and takes my hand.
Again. He keeps doing that: touching me, holding my hand, like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"I'm falling for you. Again. Still. I don't even know anymore.
But I'm here, and you're here, and I'm done pretending I'm not completely gone for you. "
My heart stops. Restarts. Does a somersault.
"Owen—"
"You don't have to say anything," he says quickly. "I'm not asking you to feel the same way. I'm just telling you where I am. So, you know. So, there's no confusion."
But I do feel the same way. I've felt the same way since I was seventeen. I just need to say it. Five seconds of bravery. That's all it takes.
I open my mouth. Close it. Try again.
"I—"
"Owen Harper, is that you?" A booming voice interrupts, and I look up to see Coach Patterson heading our way. He was our gym teacher and football coach, a wall of a man with a handlebar mustache and a tendency to yell motivational speeches at inappropriate times.
Owen's hand tightens on mine, but he plasters on a smile. "Hey, Coach."
"Damn, son, you look good! City life treating you well?" Coach claps him on the shoulder hard enough to make Owen wince. "I heard you're a doctor now. Your granddad must be proud."
"He is. Thanks, Coach."
"And who's this lovely lady?" Coach turns to me, and I brace myself for the inevitable blank look.
But instead, he grins. "Ivy Rose! I remember you. Quiet girl, always had your nose in a book. You were in my health class, right?"
I blink. "Um. Yes?"
"Thought so. You wrote a hell of an essay on nutrition. Best one in the class." He nods approvingly. "Good to see you, kid."
He wanders off, and I'm left staring after him in shock.
Owen is trying not to laugh. "Did Coach Patterson just remember you better than half the popular kids?"
"I think he did."
"That essay must have been really good."
"It was about how the food pyramid is basically propaganda for the dairy industry."
Now he does laugh. "Of course it was."
I'm smiling. Actually smiling. Because Coach Patterson remembered me. And Owen is sitting here holding my hand like he never wants to let go.
And the words are right there. Right on the tip of my tongue.
*I'm in love with you. I have been for fifteen years.*
But what if I say it and he realizes he was wrong? What if the reality of me loving him back is too much, too fast, too real? What if this whole night has been some beautiful dream and saying the words out loud will shatter it?
What if I'm not enough?
"I'm glad Coach remembered you," Owen says, filling the silence I've let stretch too long. "See? You're not as invisible as you think."
"Maybe not to Coach Patterson."
"Or to me." His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. "Ivy, I meant what I said. I'm not expecting anything from you. I just wanted you to know where I stand."
"I know." My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
"Okay." He smiles, but there's something in his eyes that looks like disappointment. Or maybe resignation. "Want to walk around? See who else is here?"
He's giving me an out. A way to move past this moment, to pretend he didn't just lay his heart at my feet. I should take it. Should let us go back to the easy conversation, the gentle flirting, the safe distance of getting to know each other.
But I also know that if I do, if I let this moment pass, I might never get the courage again.
"Owen, I—" I start, but then the DJ's voice booms through the speakers.
"Alright, Blackwater Falls Class of 2010! It's time for our class photo! Everyone to the front steps in five minutes!"
The room erupts in movement. People standing, grabbing their drinks, heading toward the exit. Owen's hand slips from mine as someone jostles our table.
"We should probably go," he says. "For the photo."
"Right. Yeah." I stand up, smoothing down my cardigan even though it's hopeless. I'm still in jeans and an old sweater. Still completely underdressed for this.
Owen must see something in my face because he steps closer. "Hey. You look perfect. Stop worrying."
"I'm not worrying."
"You're biting your lip. You always bite your lip when you're worrying."
The fact that he's noticed this, that he's been paying attention enough to know my nervous habits, makes me happy.
We follow the crowd outside. The rain has stopped, leaving everything wet and glistening under the inn's exterior lights.
The photographer is setting up on the front steps, arranging people into rows.
Tall people in back, shorter people in front.
The same formation we used for every class photo since kindergarten.
Owen and I get separated in the shuffle. He ends up in the back row with the other tall people, and I'm pushed toward the middle, wedged between two women I vaguely recognize but can't name.
I can see Owen scanning the crowd, looking for me. When our eyes meet, he smiles, and it's like everything else fades away for a second.
"Okay, everyone squeeze in!" the photographer shouts. "On three, say 'Blackwater!'"
We squeeze. We smile. We say "Blackwater" in a chorus of voices that ranges from enthusiastic to deeply sarcastic.
The flash goes off once, twice, three times.
"Great! Got it!" The photographer waves us off, and immediately people start breaking apart, heading back inside or toward the parking lot.
I'm trying to navigate through the crowd when I feel a hand on my elbow. Owen.
"There you are," he says. "I lost you for a second."
"I'm right here."
"Good." He doesn't let go of my elbow. "Want to get some air? Actual air, not crowd air?"
I nod, and he leads me around the side of the building, away from the main entrance. There's a small garden here, just a bench and some rose bushes, but it's quiet. Private.
We sit down on the bench, and for a moment neither of us says anything. I can hear music still playing inside, muffled through the walls. Someone laughs loudly. A car engine starts in the parking lot.
"This is nice," Owen says.
"Yeah."
"Quieter than in there."
"Definitely."
More silence. But it's not uncomfortable. It's the kind of silence that feels full instead of empty.
"Ivy," Owen says, and there's something in his tone that makes me look at him. "Earlier, when I told you how I felt. You started to say something. Before Coach interrupted."
My heart rate picks up. "I did?"
"Yeah. You said 'I—' and then stopped." He turns to face me fully. "What were you going to say?"
This is it. This is my chance.
Five seconds of bravery. I open my mouth, and what comes out is: "I was going to say I'm having a really good time tonight."
It's not a lie. But it's not the truth either.
"Oh. Good. I'm glad."
"Are you?" I ask, because I can hear the disappointment he's trying to hide.
"Of course I am. I want you to have a good time."
"But you were hoping I'd say something else."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "Yeah. I was. But it's okay, Ivy. I told you. I'm not expecting anything. This is just... this is already more than I thought I'd get."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I came here hoping to maybe get five minutes of conversation with you. Instead, I got to dance with you, talk with you, hold your hand. That's more than enough."
"It doesn't feel like enough," I whisper.
His eyes snap to mine. "What?"
"Nothing. I just—" I stand up abruptly, needing space, needing air. "I should probably check on my car situation. See if Casey’s texted back."
"Ivy—"
"I'm fine. I just need a minute." I pull out my phone, staring at the screen without really seeing it. There are no new messages. The tow truck is still scheduled for tomorrow morning.
Owen stands too, but he doesn't crowd me. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No. God, no." I look at him, and he's so genuine, so concerned, that it makes my chest ache. "You've been perfect. You've been everything. That's the problem."
"I don't understand."
"I know. I don't either." I'm making no sense. I can hear myself making no sense. "I just—I need to think. Can we go back inside? I need people. And noise. And distractions."
"Okay," he says slowly. "Whatever you need."
We walk back around to the main entrance. The reunion is starting to wind down. It's past ten, and people are beginning to leave. The ones who remain are the hardcore nostalgic types, clustered around the bar or on the dance floor.
Owen and I return to our table. Someone has cleared away our wine glasses.
"Want another drink?" Owen offers.
"No. I think I'm good." I sit down, and he sits across from me.
"We could leave," Owen says. "If you want. I can drive you home. We can figure out your car situation in the morning."
"Where are you staying?"
"Granddad's house."
"You should go. You probably want to see him. I can call a cab."
"Ivy, I'm not leaving you here alone."
"I'm fine."
"You keep saying that, but I don't think you mean it."
He's right. I'm not fine. I'm a mess. I'm sitting across from the man I've been in love with for fifteen years, the man who just told me he feels the same way, and I'm too terrified to say the words back.
"Talk to me," Owen says gently. "Please. Tell me what's going on in your head."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because if I start talking, I'm going to say things I can't take back."
"Maybe that's not a bad thing."