Chapter 3 - Ivy
*Be brave with me.*
I stare at Owen's outstretched hand like it's a live grenade.
This is insane. He's insane. I'm insane for even considering this.
He's been back in town for a few hours, and he's already said more things that have turned my entire understanding of my life upside down than I've heard in fifteen years.
He remembered our conversation on his back porch.
He remembered what I drink. He kept my copy of Jane Eyre with my embarrassing margin notes and little hearts.
He looked for me when he came back to visit.
None of this makes sense. Owen Harper is a successful doctor with a life in the city, and I'm a small-town librarian who still lives in the same house I bought when I was twenty-five because change is terrifying. We're not... we don't...
Except he's standing here telling me I'm beautiful. Telling me I matter. Looking at me like I'm someone worth looking at.
Maybe I did hit my head when I jumped in the car earlier. Maybe I'm actually unconscious in the Honda right now and this is all some elaborate stress dream.
"Ivy?" Owen's voice is gentle. Patient. His hand is still extended, waiting. "You okay?"
"I'm trying to figure out if you're drunk," I blurt out.
He blinks. Then laughs, this surprised, genuine sound that catches me off guard. "I had one whiskey."
"You had it really fast."
"Because I was nervous."
"You're nervous? You're a doctor. You probably talk to people all day long. Important people. Sick people. People whose lives depend on you being calm and collected."
"Yeah, but none of them are you." He says it so simply, like it's obvious. Like it should make perfect sense.
It doesn't make sense. Nothing about this makes sense.
"Owen." I grip my wine glass like it's a life raft. "I don't understand what's happening right now."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean—" I gesture helplessly between us. "This. You. You're talking like... like you came here just to see me. Like the reunion is just some excuse. But that's crazy because we barely knew each other and I'm just, I'm just me. I'm nobody."
His face changes. Something flashes in his eyes that might be frustration or maybe hurt, and he pulls his hand back. For a second I think he's going to leave, and panic seizes my chest.
But he doesn't leave. He sits back down, and when he speaks, his voice is a tone lower. Measured. "Can I tell you something?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"The invitation to this reunion showed up two weeks ago.
I threw it away immediately because the idea of coming back here, of seeing everyone and doing the whole 'look how successful I am' dance, sounded like torture.
" He's looking down at his empty whiskey glass, tracing the rim with his finger.
"Then Levi called and I told him about it.
He told me you still live here. That you work at the library.
That you ask about me sometimes. That, for once, I should stop being an idiot. "
My face goes hot. "Levi has a big mouth."
"He does. But I'm grateful for it." Owen looks up, meeting my eyes. "Because that's when I decided to come. Not for the reunion. For the chance that maybe, possibly, I'd get to see you again."
"But why?" It comes out almost desperate. "Owen, we only talked a few times. Fifteen years ago. That's not… People don't hold onto that. People don't remember that."
"I do."
"But why?" I ask again, because I genuinely don't understand. Because in my experience, people forget me as soon as I leave the room. Because the idea that someone, that he has been remembering me all this time is so far outside my reality that I can't process it.
Owen is quiet for a long moment. Then he takes a breath, like he's making a decision. "Do you remember the fall festival our senior year?"
The question throws me. "Vaguely?"
"It was October. You came with Levi. You guys were always together.
I was there with my study group because we were supposed to be taking a break from cramming for the SATs, but mostly we just ended up talking about the SATs anyway.
" He smiles at the memory. "You were wearing this green sweater.
You had cider, and you got whipped cream on your nose, and Levi laughed at you. "
I do remember that. Suddenly, vividly. The sharp autumn air, the smell of apple cider and cinnamon, Levi teasing me about the whipped cream while I tried to wipe it off with a napkin.
"I watched you guys from across the festival," Owen continues. "I kept telling myself I should go over and say hi, but I never did. I just... watched. And I remember thinking that you looked happy. Really happy. And that when you smiled like that, you lit up the whole festival."
My throat is tight.
"Then Mark Driscoll came up to you. Do you remember him?"
"Unfortunately." Mark Driscoll was a football player. Loud, cocky, the kind of guy who thought every girl should be grateful for his attention.
"He started hitting on you. I could tell you were uncomfortable. You kept stepping back, looking for Levi. But Levi had gone to get more cider or something. And Mark kept getting closer."
I remember this too, now that he's saying it. The way Mark had boxed me in near the apple bobbing station, the way his smile had felt predatory. I'd been terrified.
"I started walking over," Owen says. "I was going to tell him to back off. But before I got there, Levi showed up. He put himself between you and Mark, told him to get lost. Do you remember what happened next?"
I shake my head.
"Mark said something about you. Something crude. About your body." Owen's jaw tightens. "Levi punched him. Got suspended for three days. Principal wanted to kick him off the baseball team, but granddad talked them down."
"I didn't know that," I whisper. I knew about the fight, knew Levi had gotten suspended because of me, but he'd never told me what Mark said.
"Mark deserved it. He deserved worse." Owen's hands are clenched on the table.
"But what I remember most is after. After Mark left and the teachers broke it up.
You and Levi sat on the curb outside the festival, and you were crying.
Not because you were scared, because you felt guilty that Levi got in trouble for you. "
"I did feel guilty."
"I know. I watched him put his arm around you and tell you it wasn't your fault. That guys like Mark were assholes and he'd punch him again if he had to." Owen's voice goes softer. "And I remember standing there, seventeen years old, realizing three things all at once."
I'm frozen, barely breathing.
"One: that I wanted to be the one sitting next to you. Two: that my brother was a better man than I'd ever given him credit for. And three: that I was completely, terrifyingly in love with you."
The world stops.
Owen Harper just said he was in love with me.
In love.
With me.
"That's not—" I start, but I don't know how to finish. That's not possible? That's not real? That's not something that happens to people like me?
"I know," he says quickly. "I know it sounds insane.
We barely talked. We were kids. But that's what it felt like, and I didn't know what to do with it.
I was already planning to leave—pre-med, scholarships, the whole thing mapped out.
And you were Levi's best friend. Off limits. Practically family."
"Owen—"
"I tried to convince myself it was just a crush.
That it would go away once I left for college.
But then we had that day on the porch, and you loaned me Jane Eyre, and I knew I was screwed.
" He runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up in all directions.
"So, I left. I went to college and then med school and I built this whole life, and I dated other people, and I told myself I was over it. Over you."
"Were you?" My voice is barely audible.
"No." He laughs, but it sounds pained. "Not even close. Every relationship I had, I was comparing her to you. To the idea of you. Which is insane because I didn't even really know you. But I couldn't help it."
I'm gripping my wine glass so hard I'm surprised it doesn't shatter. "You can't just… You can't say things like this."
"Why not?"
"Because it's not real! Owen, you didn't love me. You didn't even know me. You loved some idea of me, some fantasy version that doesn't exist."
"That's what I told myself too," he says. "For fifteen years, that's exactly what I told myself. But then I saw you tonight, standing next to your broken-down car, and it all came back. Except it wasn't a fantasy version. It was just you. Real, actual you. And I realized I've been an idiot."
"You're being an idiot right now," I say, but there's no heat in it.
I'm too overwhelmed to be angry. "You don't know anything about me.
About my life. I'm not… I'm not some romantic heroine.
I'm boring and quiet and I spend my Friday nights reading the same books over and over.
I haven't been on a date in three years. I've never—"
I cut myself off, but not fast enough.
"Never what?" he asks gently.
I shake my head, mortified. There's no way I'm telling Owen Harper I'm a thirty-three-year-old virgin. Absolutely not. I'd rather die.
"Ivy, whatever you're thinking, it doesn't change anything."
"It would if you knew."
"Try me."
We stare at each other across the table. The fire crackles. Someone at the bar orders another round. And I'm sitting here with Owen Harper, who apparently spent fifteen years thinking about me, and I have no idea what to do with that information.
Part of me wants to run. To call a cab, go home, pretend this never happened. It would be safer. Easier. I'm good at safe and easy.
But another part of me, the part that used to draw little hearts in the margins of books, the part that dreamed about someone looking at me the way Owen is looking at me right now, that part wants to be brave.
"One question," I finally say.
"Anything."
"Are you drunk? Even a little bit?"
He doesn't laugh this time. "Stone cold sober. Unfortunately."
"Unfortunately?"
"It would be easier to blame the whiskey." He leans forward. "But the truth is, I've been wanting to say all of this for fifteen years. The only difference is tonight, I finally have the guts to actually do it."
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. "This is crazy."
"Completely."
"We barely know each other."
"I know. We should fix that."
"Owen—"
"One night, Ivy. Give me one night. We'll go to this terrible reunion, we'll suffer through bad music and worse small talk, and we'll get to know each other.
The real versions. Not the fantasy, not the memory.
Just us." He extends his hand again. "And if by the end of the night you think I'm crazy, if you want nothing to do with me, I'll leave.
I'll go back to the city and I won't bother you again. But at least give me the chance."
I look at his hand. At his face. At those warm brown eyes behind simple glasses, looking at me like I'm the only person in the world.
This is the moment. The choice.
I can say no. I can protect myself. I can go home to my quiet house and my predictable life and I'll be safe. Invisible. Exactly what I've always been.
Or I can say yes.
I think about the girl I used to be. The one who read romance novels and dreamed about someone seeing her. The one who drew hearts in margins and believed, despite everything, that maybe love was real.
I think about Levi, who's been telling me for years to stop hiding.
I think about Owen, standing in the rain to look at my car engine even though he was dressed for a reunion. Owen, who kept my book for fifteen years. Owen, who looked for me every time he came home.
Maybe he is crazy.
Maybe I'm crazy too.
I reach out and take his hand.
"Okay," I say, my voice shaking. "One night. But I reserve the right to bail if this gets too weird."
"Deal." He stands, pulling me up with him. "Fair warning: it's probably going to get weird. I have very limited social skills when I'm nervous."
"You're a doctor. You talk to people all day."
"Yeah, but they're patients. I know what to say to patients.
'Does this hurt?' 'Take two of these.' 'Stop eating garbage and you won't feel like garbage.
'" He's still holding my hand, and he doesn't seem inclined to let go.
"Beautiful women I've been hung up on for fifteen years? No idea what to say."
"You're doing fine so far," I manage.
"Yeah?"
"Well, you haven't scared me off yet."
"The night is young." He grins, then glances toward the hallway where music is still thumping from the event room. "Ready to face the masses?"
"Absolutely not."
"Me neither. Let's go anyway."
We walk toward the event room, our hands still linked. My heart is racing and my palms are definitely sweating and I'm wearing jeans to a reunion where everyone else is dressed up, but Owen is beside me and he's looking at me like I matter and for the first time in possibly ever, I feel brave.
The music gets louder as we approach. I can hear people laughing, talking, the bass line of some early 2000s pop song that was probably popular when we were in high school.
Through the doorway, I can see people clustered in groups: the popular kids who are still popular, the athletes who still look like athletes, the pretty girls who are still pretty.
I start to slow down.
Owen squeezes my hand. "Hey. You with me?"
I take a breath. Look at him. At this man who somehow thinks I'm worth remembering.
"Yeah," I say. "I'm with you."
"Then let's go show them what they missed."
And we walk in together.