Chapter 6 Owen
Owen
I miraculously find street parking directly in front of Liv’s apartment ten minutes before six. And I had to actively try not to arrive any earlier.
After Liv and I said goodbye this morning, I went upstairs to see Eli.
We talked for a while about writing, but when it became clear that he didn’t want to discuss his non-progress, I tried to convince him to come with me into the City for the afternoon.
After yesterday’s strange rainfall, today was lovely.
Despite what Andy had said earlier, Eli wasn’t a complete shut-in.
He goes to the gym every day, wearing noise-canceling headphones and talking to no one.
Even though his entire diet consists of only five items, he procures them himself.
Occasionally, he visits the planetarium in Golden Gate Park.
The stars, he says, reminded him that there's a bigger world out there, even if he didn’t always want to be part of it. But I was worried about him.
He shut down my idea of Chinatown dumplings, but I left with a promise—or maybe a threat—to return tomorrow.
I had been buzzing all day to get back here.
Despite knowing it was a fake date to placate her mother, my time with Liv in the garden earlier was the most enjoyable date I’d had in months.
She was charming, funny, and probably the smartest person I’d ever met.
And that was saying something, since I represented two senators, a global humanitarian, and a Pulitzer Prize-winning author—even if the latter wouldn’t leave his apartment.
I couldn’t believe Liv needed someone to pretend to be her date.
That men weren’t banging down her door to date her for real.
“Yes?” Her voice cracks through the speaker, and it is still the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.
“It’s Owen.”
The door clicks, and I enter the building. I’m about to knock on 1B when a tall man jogs down the stairs in running clothes.
“Hey, man,” he gives a cliché dude-chin-tip, but I catch the way he slows to watch me, his eyes flicking to the bouquet in my hand. “You here for Andy?”
“Um, Liv, actually.”
“Really? Good for her. I’m Cal,” he says, holding out his hand. “I live upstairs. I’ve seen you here before, though?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m friends with Eli…in 3A,” I offer.
“Right, sure. How’s he doing?”
“Fine.” I don’t want to make small talk with this guy. I want to see Liv.
“Sorry,” Cal ducks his head. “I’ve lived in this building for a long time. I guess I kind of look out for everyone. Anyway, enjoy your evening. Tell Liv I said hello.”
A strange taste coats my throat bitter and acrid like jealousy. I know I will not tell her that her neighbor, who looks like a taller Hemsworth brother, said hello.
Just as I raise my hand to knock, the door swings open. I open and close my mouth a few times, like a stupid guppy, at all that is Liv Arden in front of me.
“Hey, Owen,” she says, and I can’t form words.
Her dark hair, untamed this morning, now falls in elegant curls over the shoulders of her deep wine dress.
It has a high collar, long sleeves, and stops just below her knees, but it’s the damned sexiest dress I’ve ever seen.
“Thanks for coming,” she adds when I still don’t reply.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d go through with it. ”
“Of course,” I stammer. I can hardly tear my eyes away from the way the dress hugs her every curve. “I promised I would.”
“Right.” Her voice clipped, and I’m not sure what I said, probably because I was gawking at her like a psychopath. “Should we go?”
“These are for you,” I say, regaining enough composure to hand her the pale pink peonies.
“These are my favorite.” She looks stunned. “But you didn’t have to. This isn’t a real date.”
Right.
I smile at her, but I feel like an idiot. This is not a date. She is not my girlfriend, and she certainly isn’t my fiancée. Shit.
“Then you’re going to hate the next thing I brought you,” I say, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a small box.
“Owen.” She says with a rush of air when I open the ring box.
“It’s nothing, it’s from Chinatown,” I backpedal. “I thought it would help the story.” But now I’m kicking myself for doing something so stupid.
“It’s perfect,” she laughs. The laugh I’m already starting to crave. She holds out her left hand, and I slide the round, brilliant-cut cubic zirconia onto her finger. My throat goes dry at the sight of that nineteen-dollar ring resting there like it belongs.
“Alright,” she sighs, “Let’s get this over with.”
Right, I scold myself again; this is a fake date. Get it together and act like you’re faking it. She ducks back inside her apartment to leave the flowers, and when she returns, I offer her my arm. “Shall we, dear?”
“Aw,” she glances up at me, taking my elbow, “I kinda like Button.”