Chapter 2 - Owen
Fifteen years. Fifteen goddamn years since I last saw Ivy Rose, and the second her fingers touch mine, it's like every day between then and now just evaporates.
Like I'm eighteen again, standing in my grandfather's kitchen watching her laugh at something Levi said, wondering why my chest felt too tight.
Except I'm not eighteen anymore. And I know exactly why my chest feels tight.
"One drink," she says again, like she's trying to convince herself.
"One drink," I agree, even though I'm already planning to make it two. Maybe three if I can figure out how to be charming instead of the awkward idiot I apparently become around her.
She steps out of the car, and I have to stop myself from staring. She's wearing jeans and an oversized cardigan that looks soft and lived-in, her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. No makeup that I can see. Glasses that keep slipping down her nose.
She looks exactly like herself, and she's beautiful. I realized that my senior year of high school, and I've been carrying it around ever since.
"I really am just in jeans," she says, pulling the cardigan tighter around herself. "Everyone else is going to be dressed up."
"So, we'll be the comfortable ones." I close her car door, then gesture toward the inn. "Come on. Before we both drown."
We make a run for it across the parking lot. Well, I run. Ivy does this half-jog thing that makes her laugh, breathless and surprised, and the sound hits me square in the chest. When was the last time I heard her laugh? Actually heard it, not just the memory of it?
Too long. Way too long.
The Blackwater Inn looks different than I remember.
They renovated it a few years back, according to Granddad.
Turned it from a rundown hotel into something worthy of the historical register.
The lobby is warm and bright, all polished wood and vintage fixtures, and I can hear music and conversation coming from the event room down the hall.
Ivy stops just inside the door, water dripping from her cardigan. She's looking at the event room like it might bite her.
"Hey." I touch her elbow, gentle. "We don't have to go in there if you don't want to. We can just grab coffee somewhere."
She turns to me, and there's something in her hazel eyes I can't quite read. Uncertainty, maybe. Or fear. "You came here for the reunion. I don't want to—"
"I came here hoping to see you," I say, and it's out before I can think better of it. Before I can dress it up as something casual, something that doesn't make me sound like I've been thinking about her for fifteen years.
Her eyes go wide. "Owen."
"Too honest?"
"I just... I don't understand."
"What don't you understand?"
She makes a helpless gesture. "Why would you want to see me? We barely talked in high school."
That stops me cold. Because she actually believes it. She actually thinks she was invisible to me. God, I was even more of an idiot than I thought.
"Ivy." I take a breath, trying to figure out how to say this without sounding insane. "We talked plenty."
"At your house, maybe. Because I was friends with your brother."
"Is that really what you think?"
Before she can answer, someone calls my name from down the hall.
I turn to see Marcus Webb heading toward us, beer in hand, wearing the same letterman jacket he wore in high school because of course he is.
He was quarterback back then. Peaked in high school and has been reliving it ever since, from what I can tell from his Facebook posts.
"Owen Harper! Holy shit, man!" Marcus pulls me into one of those aggressive bro-hugs that I've never quite figured out how to reciprocate. "When did you get into town?"
"About an hour ago." I step back, trying to put some distance between us. "How've you been, Marcus?"
"Can't complain, can't complain. Still living here, working at my dad's dealership.
You know how it is." He takes a long pull from his beer, then seems to notice Ivy for the first time.
His eyes slide over her, past her, like she's part of the wallpaper.
"Man, you've gotta come meet everyone. Half the team is here.
We've been talking about the championship game.
Remember when you caught that pass in the end zone? "
"I was wide receiver for one season, Marcus."
"Yeah, but what a season! Come on, let me buy you a drink." He's already pulling me toward the event room, and I'm torn between politeness and the overwhelming urge to tell him to fuck off.
I glance back at Ivy. She's already retreating toward the door, her face blank.
No. Absolutely not.
"Actually, Marcus, I'm here with someone." I pull free of his grip and move back to Ivy's side. Not just next to her, close enough that it's clear we're together. "This is Ivy Rose. We went to school with her."
Marcus squints at her like he's trying to place her face. "Oh yeah? Sorry, I don't really remember—"
"She was in our graduating class," I say, and there's an edge to my voice I don't bother hiding. "Same homeroom as you for four years."
"Huh. Small world." Marcus has already lost interest. "Anyway, man, come grab a beer when you get a chance. It'll be like old times."
He wanders off, and I feel Ivy tense beside me.
"See?" she says quietly. "Invisible."
"He's an idiot."
"He's everyone. I went to school with these people for twelve years and they don't remember me." She's trying to sound tough, but I can hear the hurt underneath. "It's fine. I'm used to it."
"Well, I'm not used to it, and it's not fine." I turn to face her fully. "Ivy, I remember you. I've always remembered you."
"Because I was Levi's friend."
"Because you were you." I'm saying too much, but I can't seem to stop. "Do you remember the spring of senior year? April, I think. You came over to study with Levi, but he got called into work at the hardware store."
She blinks. "I... maybe?"
"You stayed anyway. We ended up sitting on the back porch, and you told me about the books you were reading. You were on this gothic literature kick—Bronte sisters, Daphne du Maurier. You said Rebecca was the most romantic book ever written, even though it's also terrifying."
Her mouth opens slightly. She remembers. I can see it in her eyes.
"You asked what I was reading," I continue, "and I told you it was all organic chemistry textbooks and medical journals. You said that was sad, that everyone should read something just for the joy of it. So, you loaned me your copy of Jane Eyre."
"You never gave it back," she whispers.
"I know. I still have it." It's in my apartment in the city, on my bookshelf between a book about anatomy and a collection of poetry I pretend I don't own.
I've read it four times. "It has your notes in the margins.
You underlined all the parts where Rochester says something romantic, and you drew little hearts next to your favorite quotes. "
Ivy's face has gone pink. "That's... God, that's embarrassing."
"It's not. It's you." I smile, remembering the way I'd traced those little hearts with my finger, wondering what it would be like to be the kind of man she drew hearts for.
"We talked for three hours that day. About books and med school and what we wanted our lives to look like.
You said you wanted to be a librarian in a small town, somewhere quiet where you could make sure kids always had books to escape into.
I said I wanted to be a surgeon in a big city, somewhere I could make a difference. "
"I remember," she says.
"You told me both of those things mattered. That helping people didn't have to look impressive to be important." I take a breath. "That stuck with me. When I was drowning in residency, working hundred-hour weeks, I'd think about what you said. It helped."
She's looking at me like she's seeing me for the first time. Or maybe like she's trying to reconcile the boy I was with the man I am. "You remembered all of that."
"I remember everything about you, Ivy." It's the truth.
The whole, terrifying truth. "I remember that you drink your coffee with too much cream and not enough sugar.
I remember that you bite your lip when you're thinking.
I remember that you have this smile, this real smile that only comes out when you forget to be self-conscious, and it's the best thing I've ever seen. "
"Owen." She says my name like a prayer. Or a question. Or maybe both.
I'm standing too close to her. Close enough to see the gold flecks in her hazel eyes, close enough to count the freckles across her nose. Close enough to do something stupid.
The smart thing would be to step back. To make a joke, lighten the mood, pretend I didn't just lay out fifteen years of feelings in the lobby of our high school reunion.
But I've spent fifteen years being smart. Building the life I thought I was supposed to want. And right now, standing here with Ivy Rose looking at me like that, I can't remember why any of it mattered.
"One drink," I say. "But not in there." I gesture toward the event room, where I can hear Marcus's loud laugh echoing off the walls. "Somewhere we can actually talk. Is that okay?"
She nods, not trusting herself to speak.
The inn has a small bar off the main lobby: quieter, dimmer, with leather chairs and a fireplace that's actually burning.
Only a handful of people are scattered around, none of them from our class.
We claim a corner table, and when the bartender comes over, Ivy orders white wine.
I get whiskey, neat, because my nerves are shot and I need something that burns.
We sit in silence for a moment after the bartender leaves. Ivy's fidgeting with the edge of her cardigan, and I'm trying to figure out what the hell I'm doing.
This isn't the plan. The plan was to show up to the reunion, say hi to a few people, maybe work up the courage to ask Ivy if she wanted to get coffee before I left town. Something casual. Low stakes.