Chapter Twenty-Five
Remy
Six Months Later…
“I can’t believe you’ve never been to Sofra!” I smack Owen’s arm.
He shakes his head at me. “Rem. What part of ‘I grew up poor’ is so hard for you to understand?”
“Sofra isn’t exactly fine dining.”
“Listen, when I was a kid, if we ever went out, it was for seafood. And I love you, babe, but if you think I’m going to miss the opportunity to eat my weight in clams and crab cakes, you don’t know me.”
I feign offense. “First of all, I will never turn down steamers. Second, the fact that you didn’t mention lobster is offensive. The only lobster they have in Vegas is from California, and no. Just no.”
“California lobsters are inferior,” Owen agrees. “But clam chowder beats lobster every time.”
I loop my arm through his, savoring the salt air. It’s been forever since I smelled the ocean, although it’s been less than a year since I came back. “You’re such a stereotype.”
“I’m a simple man. And I know what I like.” Owen kisses the top of my head. “And, speaking of which…”
The warmth in his voice still catches me off guard sometimes. Owen used to sound like every word cost him something.
“Quit worrying about what my dad will think. He’s going to love you. Just like I do.” I bump my hip with his to make him smile.
He barely cracks a grin. “You say that, but I don’t have the best track record with dads. My mom already adores you, so you’ve got nothing to worry about, but I’m not so sure.”
“Are you expecting my dad to show up with a shotgun and threaten you?”
Owen’s face pales. “Would he?”
The fact that he sounds genuinely concerned instead of joking makes me laugh. The mental image of my father threatening Owen, or anyone else, is absurd. “He knows I love you. That’s enough for him.”
That, at last, is enough to make Owen’s smile light up his face.
He smiles so much more these days than he did when I first met him.
Not constantly. Owen will probably always be a little quieter and more thoughtful than most people.
But now the happiness reaches the surface instead of staying buried underneath everything else.
And he talks more, too. Who he is hasn’t changed on a fundamental level.
He’s still the thoughtful, observant man I fell in love with last season, but he’s more confident.
He’s better at expressing himself. It took a few tries before he found a system that worked for him, but he has bi-monthly meetings with an anger management coach, and he’s been attending monthly meetups with a group of guys who grew up in troubled homes.
He doesn’t talk about the meetups much, but he hasn’t missed one yet.
And he’s cultivated male friendships outside the team.
Watching him choose healing over shame has changed the way I think about strength entirely.
This trip to Massachusetts is only a short one. It’s also the first time our families are meeting.
“We’ve got another hour until the reservation,” Owen says. “Want to head down to the beach?”
“Always. Are you kidding?” The cold wind immediately attacks my hair with malicious intent, but I don’t even care.
We make our way down toward the water. The evening breeze off the ocean brings the temperature down fast, but I can never get enough of seeing the sunlight on the water. I’ve become too acclimated to the arid Vegas heat. My internal temperatures are all discombobulated.
“Do you think you’ll ever want to move back to the coast?” Owen asks.
The question makes me smile. “Thinking about getting traded already? I thought things were going well. Besides, the Venom finally got their penalty kill sorted out after the trade deadline. I’d hate to abandon all my hard work learning systems just when I started understanding what the hell a weak-side collapse actually is. ”
Owen stares at me for a second before laughing. “You know hockey terms now. That’s still hot.”
“I had to learn. You people speak exclusively in cryptic sports metaphors and emotional repression.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“Also, the youth outreach program’s doing really well.” I smile automatically. “The League officially approved the expansion proposal yesterday. Which means your tiny hockey gremlins are now a permanent offseason initiative.”
Owen’s entire expression softens. “Our tiny hockey gremlins.”
Warmth spreads through my chest at the correction. “Our tiny hockey gremlins.”
“Right. And I’m not talking about moving back this year. I mean, someday. Longterm.” The word settles warmly into my chest instead of scaring me the way it once would have. He takes my hand in his big, calloused palm. “You ended up in Vegas for work, but you’re a New Englander at heart.”
“What makes you so sure?”
Owen winks and taps one finger against his bottom lip. “We’ve been here for, like, three hours, and your accent’s already coming through.”
“I guess it is.” Around Owen, I’ve stopped noticing how much of myself I unconsciously edit for other people.
I breathe deeply, filling my lungs with cool salt air.
The boards of the walkway creak under my sneakers.
Owen’s right: I miss the sea. I miss the squat, saltbox houses of the East Coast, the belligerence of my fellow Massachusettians, the narrow streets that date back centuries, even the unhinged way the folks out here drive.
“Yeah, I think I’ll want to come back someday.
Especially when Dad gets older. He’s only got me, you know?
I’ll want to be closer as he ages, and I can’t see him moving out to Vegas. ”
“Same with my mom.” Owen descends the steps to the beach and guides me down the rickety, salt-swept boards. “She would hate Vegas.”
Down here, we can barely hear the traffic from the roadway. It’s only the water and the screech of dump-ducks circling over the handful of ships on their way back to the harbor.
“What’s got you thinking about the future?” I ask.
“A few things. I mean, my past is here. I wasn’t specifically trying to outrun it when I joined the NHL, but was eager to get away.”
“Not anymore?” The breeze catches a few stray locks of hair and presses them against my cheek.
Owen turns to me and brushes my hair back. Then he takes my other hand in his, closing the circuit. “No. No more running, remember?”
Six months ago, those words would have sounded impossible coming from him.
“Of course.”
Owen’s hands tremble in mine. Not fear exactly. Vulnerability. “Also, I met this woman, and she’s, wow. She’s amazing. And when I’m with her, I spend more time thinking about the future.”
I stand on my toes in a not-so-subtle attempt to get him to kiss me. “I know the feeling.”
“Which is why I want to ask you something else.” His nose twitches. He takes a deep breath.
“Remy, I know it’s soon, but I’m so sure about you.
I love you. More than anything. I can breathe with you.
I want to make you happy. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.
I know I’m not the best at words, but…” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small velvet box, which he turns over and over in his fingers.
For all his growth, he still gets nervous when something matters deeply to him. “Will you marry me?”
That single sentence about being able to breathe with me almost wrecks me harder than the ring. He doesn’t kneel. There are no fireworks, no big crowd, no cameras. We won’t have photographs of this moment hanging on the wall. It belongs only to us.
“I want you to stay with me,” Owen says. “For good.”
I nod immediately. I wrap my arms around him and rest my head on his chest. “Yes. Yes, I want that.”
It’s not someday, or even maybe. It’s him. Always him.
Cara’s going to scream when I tell her. Before we left, she bet me fifty bucks and a bottle of zinfandel that Owen was going to propose on this trip.
I, of course, refused to bet against her.
* * *
Patty is already at the restaurant when we arrive. “Restaurant” is a little generous—it’s more of a shack, run by a family of fishermen who have owned the place for three generations.
“Owen, baby!” She scoops him into a bone-crushing hug. I swear I can hear Owen’s ribs creak from here. “So good to see you! And this is Remy? Oh, honey, you’re gorgeous!” Now I understand where Owen learned how to love people so fiercely.
“She’s too good for me,” Owen agrees.
Six months later, and this man still occasionally acts as if I descended from heaven specifically to confuse him.
I open my mouth to argue. I don’t get a chance to speak.
My lungs are flattened in Patty’s incredible grip.
For an older woman, she has really strong arms. My momentary discomfort is soon banished by the profound relief of getting a proper mom-hug.
I melt into her. Some small, lonely part of me I didn’t even realize was still grieving my mom melts right along with the rest of me.
“None of that self-deprecating crap, now, baby,” she tells Owen as her palm rubs a soothing circle on my back. “You’re a catch. Remy’s a catch. You’re perfect together.”
I could live in this hug. Before I can get too comfortable, I peel away. “It’s so nice to meet you, Patty. Owen’s told me so much about you.”
“All good things, I hope?”
“Mostly.” I love my voice. “Although he did warn me that you’re a bit of a troublemaker.”
“Born and bred!” She laughs. “Do you want to go inside, or wait out here for…? Oh. Hello.”
“Hey, Remy.” My dad strides up behind me. He lays a hand on my shoulder, but his attention is entirely on Patty. Oh, no. “Who’s this?”
“Dad, this is Owen and his mother, Patty. And this is my dad, Butch.”
“Butch? I love that.” Patty smiles at him and holds out her hand.
He doesn’t shake it. He honest-to-God kisses her hand, like a knight honoring the queen.
What is happening right now? My dad is not suave.
I haven’t seen him flirt with anyone since Mom died.
My father has apparently transformed into a Depression-era fisherman courting a widow in a Nicholas Sparks movie.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Dad says. “Have you been here before? Let me walk you through the menu.” He holds out an arm to her, and she takes it. He says something about craft beer and clam strips as he opens the door.
Owen and I stand side by side in the darkening parking lot, both of us gawking at the door of the seafood shack. I’ve never seen Owen look this confused in his life.
“Well,” I say, after an awkward moment, “you were worried about him threatening you, right? I don’t think that’s going to be a problem now.”
“Is he always like that?” Owen asks.
“I would have warned you. This was not on my bingo card. Should we get a table?”
“In a minute. One thing first.” Owen tips my chin up to give me a sweet, lingering kiss. His left hand settles automatically against my waist now, his thumb brushing softly over the diamond like he still can’t quite believe I said yes.
I pull him close and savor the warmth of his presence. We’re in no rush. I have a feeling tonight’s going to be strange, but there’s no one I’d rather share it with.
After everything we survived to get here, strange feels pretty perfect to me.