7. Red Front Door #2
“That’s the house I grew up in. Carved my initials into the base of that oak when I was in third grade—I bet they are ten feet higher by now.
I fell out of it a few years later and broke my arm pretty badly.
” He holds out his wrist to show me two small scars almost completely hidden under his tattoos.
“Had to have a pin put in to set the bone, from here to here.”
I cringe. That sounds like it hurt.
“Do your parents still live there?”
“Nah.” He plucks absentmindedly at the grass beneath him. “They did the whole retire and move to Florida thing. Used to visit often, but they’re getting older now, and travel is hard.”
Owen smiles, yet there’s something in his eyes I can’t put my finger on. I shouldn’t press, considering what happened last time, but a vague sense haunts me that he wants me to ask. “Are you close?”
He shrugs. “We were. Are, I guess. Things have been strained since Annabelle was born. They never approved of Delilah’s ex-boyfriend, and well…turns out they were right about him in the end. He ran out on her before the plus sign had fully developed.”
He pauses and glances over to make sure Annabelle isn’t listening, then adds, “My parents wanted Delilah to terminate the pregnancy. She refused. After Annabelle was born, my sister struggled a lot with postpartum depression. My parents never said, I told you so, but the few times they’ve visited since it felt implied. ”
My heart drops a little. I’m usually the first to jump on my soapbox and advocate for a woman’s right to choose.
Still, looking at the perfect angel currently doing starfishes in the grass, it hurts to imagine a world without her infectious giggles and bouncy curls.
I admire Owen for standing by his sister, not all men would—case in point, Delilah’s good-for-nothing ex.
“Do you keep in touch?”
He nods, beginning to gather the trash from our lunch, packing it and the few Tupperware containers into the cooler bag we brought.
“We speak a few times a week. I usually catch up with them while I’m setting up the cafe for the day.
We don’t have a bad relationship by any means, it’s just hard not to feel…
I don’t know, disappointed? I guess. I’m not a father, but if I were, I can’t imagine not supporting my child in any decision they make—provided they aren’t hurting others or themselves. ”
I don’t mention that he basically is a father.
I’ve only been allowed pieces of the story that put Annabelle into his care.
I do know, however, that Delilah wants to be the best mother for her daughter, and a huge step was her realizing to be that, she needed to take time away to focus on her mental health.
I wouldn’t want Owen to think I judge her.
My eyes catch on a “For Sale” sign stuck to the mailbox.
“You thought about buying the place?” I ask, nodding toward it.
It’s supposed to be an innocent question, but his eyes flick to the house once more before landing back on mine. “A house like that deserves a family.” A simple enough sentence. However, I can sense something significantly more complicated lurking underneath.
“Do you not want a family of your own, one day?”
A wistful expression crosses his face, and he looks back at his niece, only a few feet from us now. “More than anything, but…”
I don’t get the end of that sentence, as an excited Annabelle dives between us, practically tackling me to the grass, chanting, “Ice cream. Ice cream. Ice cream.” We roll around for a bit, play-fighting before Owen scoops her off the ground, and throws her over his shoulder, fireman style.
“Enough of that,” he laughs, setting off at a quick pace. “Last one there doesn’t get sprinkles.”
I trail after them, watching as Annabelle kicks her legs trying to get free, thinking about what an incredible father Owen would make…and how he’d feel about becoming one with me.
Once Annabelle is satisfied and I’m over sugared, we take our time heading home, dropping in and out of the stores we pass, in no real hurry.
Owen points out different sights around town (I use the word sights incredibly loosely) while his niece skips ahead, stopping to chat with each person she passes.
We pick up steaks at the only grocery store in town.
It’s not big by any means, a real one-brand-only, two if you’re lucky, sort of place.
But it serves what the community needs. Apparently, there was major drama five years ago when Walmart opened shop in the next town over, but the locals staged a boycott to keep this place running.
I suggest baked sweet potatoes as a side. In the basket, three go, followed by a bag of brown sugar, because I happened to mention my grandma used to make them that way.
“We don’t have to...” I go to put the sugar back, but Owen stops me.
“I think that sounds delicious, Fin.”
This is a new thing he does, call me Fin. You’d think I’d be immune to the nickname, yet I genuinely can’t think of a single time anyone has ever called me that. At least not the way he says it. Not in a way that makes my toes tingle and my whole body thrum with misplaced pleasure.
The first time he used it was the other day in the cafe. I’d been too worried I’d upset him to notice at the time, but it hit me later, once my heart rate had returned to normal. He’s used Fin ever since, and it makes me feel—I don’t know—important, maybe? Like his?
On the way to the checkout, Owen pulls me to a stop, pointing toward a large display of wicker baskets.
They are in various shapes and sizes, slightly rustic in appearance, lined in pink gingham, sitting under a “Clearance, Final Sale Only” sign.
There are so many, the stacks are toppling over themselves and spilling onto the floor.
“Grab a few,” he tells me, hooking the shopping basket over his arm so he can take Annabelle’s hand before she careens into a pyramid display of cereal boxes.
“How many?”
“Three of the medium-sized. One for bagels, one for muffins, and one for danishes? What do you think?”
I preen a totally normal—in no way excessive—amount when it registers.
Later that night, as I watch him write three signs for them in a perfectly aesthetic script, I try very hard not to fall even more in love with him and fail miserably.