Page 7 of Letting Go

"Yes," I say, trying to authenticate a smile.

"It's so good to see you," he goes on, a little too loud. Everything about him is too loud: his voice, red cheeks, bright blond hair, and bright purple shirt. The only thing subdued are his pants, faded, stained, and dull blue jeans. Freckles stand out on his arms.

"Man, I'd like to catch up with you," Owen starts right in.

Bryce stiffens next to me and there is something about that slight arrest in posture, his almost imperceptible intake of breath—I feel instantly protected. I don't think I've ever felt this before. Maybe with my father, years ago when I was little, and some stranger would reprimand me in public. My father would step up and say, not your kid buddy, back off.

"Well, I've been back for just a little bit. A month or so," I say. "I'm working at The Inn." I smile at Bryce because he, too, sort of works at the Inn. I want it clear to Owen that I will not be having drinks with him.

This seems to be the morning for unwanted mindreading.

"I'd love to have drinks with you, girly girl. Man," he says, shaking his head, "It's been too f-- long." After his aborted curse, he turns to the pale kid and says, "Tim, go and meet the Proxy Queen and help them."

Out the little square glass window, a lobster boat chugs along, idling toward the peer, loaded with traps.

Owen turns around. "So what are you doing at The Inn?"

I glance at the price flashing on the electronic register. "I'm the chef," I say. Usually, I tell people I just cook, but lately, Finn has been grooming me to say I am the chef. He finally convinced me the public needed The Inn to have a "chef," not a "cook." But it still feels weird. I'm not a trained chef and my previous kitchen experience was not of choice but under duress. Let's put it this way: I didn't enjoy cooking at the previous place and I was cooking for about a hundred people. Every day. Every meal. Just me.

"Are you making your mom's pies and stuff?"

"Yes," I say hoping he just drops it. I don't want Bryce to know anything about Owen Curtis and our history. But the mind-reading goes on and my ears begin to burn more.

"Do you remember prom that spring?" Owen kind-of gives a nod, with his mouth open, as if ready to wink at Bryce and me simultaneously but for two different reasons. For Bryce, it's to warn him off. For me, it's to unite us.

I shiver.

Owen grins broadly. "We ate that entire pie afterward, remember?"

"Can I just get the oysters?" I say. "Another five pounds."

"I remember it. The pie."

Please stop.

"So when are we gonna grab that drink?"

Fuck me.

Owen hoists the last of the meshy bags of oysters and at that moment Bryce clamps one massive hand over the guy's wrist and says, very quietly, "I think she made it clear she doesn't want to have drinks with you."

Again, there's that little thrill of feeling protected, but I'm also very embarrassed. "Bryce, it's fine. It's okay."

Bryce lets go of Owen's wrist. Without removing his gaze from Owen's startled face, he says to me, "It's okay now. I think it's perfectly clear this guy's not going to ask you out again."

Owen's face turns an even brighter red. "I didn't mean anything by it," he says, flustered and defensive.

"That's great." Bryce's voice is even. "Keep it that way."

Outside, I peel off my Orono college sweatshirt and tie it around my waist for the walk back, and adjust the large, plastic, rectangular tote I carry for the load of fish.

"Gimme that," says Bryce and in one fluid motion, he lifts it from my shoulder. He already has the mussels and clams in his other hand. I'm left with the lowly bag of gleaming white oysters

His hand brushes the top of my bare shoulder where the tank top makes a large "O" around my arm. I shiver.

"You okay?" he says suddenly concerned.

I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. How do I explain to him I don't know how to trust the small thrill of hearing concern in his voice? Of believing he cares? I left college right before graduation with a man with blond hair and depthless blue eyes, who told me he had a plan for me. And I believed him. I left my family for him. He didn't have a plan for me—he didn't care for me. All he did was provide a framework for a life I didn't believe in and it took me nearly a decade to leave.