Page 85 of Stud

Owen had proven his devotion time and again, but I couldn’t see those photos for what they’d been—proof his ex-wife was a nasty, vengeful woman—because I’d been waiting for him to mess up the whole time.

Owen wasn’t too good to be true. He was truly good.

Now here I was, another woman hurting him.

Shaken, I studied Rachel and Jimmy’s bungalow, my safe haven the past five days. The large windows bathed the plants and overstuffed red sectional (and Kleenex and magazines) in sunlight. Stacks of her viticulture textbooks filled a bookcase next to her desk. Jimmy’s badass motorcycle boots were at the front door, next to her Mary Janes. The couple also had a killer wine cellar in the lower level that had come in handy.

But my favorite was the framed quote hung in the entryway:

“If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun.” ~ Katharine Hepburn.

The space was warm and inviting, and I was thrilled Rachel had found contentment in her life. I’d only find my happy if I released the hurt I’d nurtured, quit assuming I wasn’t capable of sustaining a healthy relationship. Owen wasn’t Brandon. Trusting him would be so very hard, but living without him would be harder.

It was harder.

My mind clearer than it had been in weeks, I rescued my phone from the couch and went to pull up his name, only to find a text from him. The ceiling pressed closer. The walls inched toward me. It was like I was back in the Evil Bathroom, air trapped in my throat.

Swallowing hard, I read his message: We need to talk.

I relaxed slightly. That better be the I forgive you for being a moron we need to talk, and not the I need closure we need to talk…unless he truly was seeking finality, wanting to put an official end to our relationship. It couldn’t happen. Not like this. Not when I’d finally woken up and understood the extent of my baggage. And not the Samsonite carry-on variety. My issues would barely fit into a Tumi Alpha luggage set.

Rachel walked in as I was about to detonate. Eyes wide, she dropped her keys on her table by the door. “Why do you look radioactive?”

“I screwed up.” So, so badly.

“Were you infomercial surfing again? Do I need to confiscate your credit card?”

“The Clever Cutter was a great purchase.” The sauna pants were maybe over the top. And ugly. I had a problem. “This is an Owen emergency. He messaged.”

She sat on her barstool and patted the one beside her. “Tell Auntie Rachel everything.”

I rolled my eyes, but obliged. “I’m self-sabotaging.”

Kicking my dangling feet like a child, I spewed my sad realization, reliving how I’d derailed my relationship. Each admission made my mistakes more blatant. Rachel sat in her chinos and ironed buttoned-down, nodding and listening. My chin trembled.

When I finished, she tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear. “You owe him an apology.”

If he took me back, I’d owe him a kidney. “He was right to push me away. I mean, his mother abandoned him, his ex-wife is making his life hell, and I didn’t stand by him. Why would he forgive me?” I spun my phone on the counter, my head spinning with it.

“Before you reach nuclear freak out, you should sit with this for a bit. I know you love him, and I’m pretty sure he loves you. But if you guys get back together, you have to trust him. Like I trust Jimmy. Like your mother trusts your father. Without that, it won’t work. You need to be sure you can give him all of you, for both your sakes.” When I didn’t reply, she added, “Gwen will be here Friday. We’ll have the weekend together, then you’ll be back in San Francisco Monday. That’s another five days to get your head straight. Tell him you’ll talk then.”

“What if he decides I’m not worth waiting for?” Five days could be the difference between keeping him and losing him.

“He loves you, Ainsley. Give yourselves the time you both need.”

Unsure it was the right move, I flipped over my phone and typed. I’d like to talk. Meet Monday at noon at our picnic table? I hit Send before I overthought it to death. Please be the right move.

I’ll be there. The speed of his response buoyed my mood, but the reply was short. There were no sweet endearments. No clues as to how he felt.

It was the wrong move. Definitely wrong. I should have written more, apologized, grovelled. “I don’t need time. Time is silly. I’ll just tell him I’m madly in love with him and will never hurt him again and want to have his babies.”

Rachel swiped the phone from my hand. “Consider this confiscated.” She strutted toward the front door and ransacked my purse next, stealing my credit card. “And this. You’ll get them both back Monday. No rash decisions. Nothing will change in five days.”

So why did it feel like my vital organs were migrating to my throat?

My five-day sentence was a challenge. Gwen turned up on day two, and I pleaded with her to get my phone from Rachel. She compromised by returning my credit card, but the traitor parroted Rachel, claiming if I couldn’t return to Owen with clear eyes and a full heart (Friday Night Lights forever) we’d be doomed to fail.

I was ready to open up to him, excessive baggage be damned, but they were right. Ten days apart was nothing in the scheme of life, and I hadn’t fully decompressed from the past week’s shock. It also gave me time to finally make my special gift for him.