I trail behind him, thanking him as he holds the door for me.
“I’m over here.” I motion with my head. The cinema is surprisingly empty so Owen follows me.
“I doubt they’ll care if I switch,” he says from next to me. “Do you mind?”
“By all means,” I respond, signaling for him to take a seat next to me. I open my Maltesers, then tip them into my popcorn bucket before taking a huge handful and shoving them into my gob.
Owen starts munching himself, both of us settling into a comfortable silence before the adverts commence. I begin to zone out when the movie starts, not really caring for the plot. Owen, on the other hand, seems enthralled, listening to every word, eating it right up.
In some ways he reminds me of a small child at Christmas, his innocent enthusiasm for things like this. I’ve met this man a handful of times and I don’t even know him yet, but the desire to is there.
I spend the better part of two hours inhaling my food and then some of Owen’s when he taps out. I try to pay attention but it’s a lost cause when the characters start shrinking, my mind having no clue what is going on.
Owen makes us stay past the credits, practically on the edge of his seat waiting for little clips of the film at the end. Again, I’ve got no idea what’s going on, but I don’t mind—it was two hours relaxing and vegging out.
“So, what did you think?” he asks as we exit the theater.
“It was good.” I try to lace my words with extra enthusiasm, but I think he sees through it.
“They’re not for everyone.” He shrugs. “I did love it, though.”
“I’m glad, puppy.” I feel a yawn building, quickly catching it with the back of my hand. “I’m knackered. Thanks for the company, but I should get going.”
“Let’s go,” he says, beginning to walk in the direction of my place. Usually this would be a red flag that he knows where I live, but he’s close with Stana so I know he’s not a creep. If anything, he’s the complete opposite. A good lad raised by his mum.
“I can get home myself, you know,” I tell him.
“Oh, I have no doubt,” he replies, voice full of cheer. “But it’s late, and what kind of guy would I be if I let you go home alone?”
“I don’t even know you,” I quip back.
He lifts a shoulder. “Don’t you?”
“Whatever.” I laugh, knowing I’d probably be more comfortable with him than a lot of the other lads I know. Before I can stop myself, I playfully nudge his side, then instantly regret it until that smile of his comes into view. I can’t help but reciprocate.
My stomach does a small somersault, and I know I’ve just crossed some invisible barrier I created for myself.
I decide to ignore it, though, as we walk together in a comfortable silence for about five minutes until my flat comes into view.
I slow down, motioning with my head toward my place. “Well, this is me,” I say, my voice suddenly breathy. Owen stops next to me, turning so we’re facing one another.
We stand close, the tips of our shoes almost touching. Far closer than anyone who’s just met would. It’s intimate, as though somehow we’ve known each other a lifetime. The thought is corny, ridiculous, and something I’d never say. Hell, I wish I had alcohol to blame it on, but alas, Coke is all that’s in my system. Well, that and the fire brewing from his presence.
The warm summer air has a slight wind, brushing tendrils of my hair around. That seems to be the only thing moving.
Owen’s stare digs into my soul, sparking a fire that I thought had been put out months ago. Scratch that—this is a fire I never knew existed. I’m not one to lie about how many people I’ve dated; there have been plenty. But in all that time, I’ve never experienced a pull as intense and quick as the one I feel when I’m with him.
I know, I just know this wouldn’t be nothing. This wouldn’t be your average “one night and never speak again.” It would be more. And more is dangerous.
So instead of letting either of us take that step, breaking the invisible barrier between us and crossing into more, I move back.
I notice the surprise on his face, Owen probably having pinpointed me as game for a good time. He wouldn’t be wrong, and perhaps if he were anyone else, anyone less, maybe I would forget about returning my car and hail a cab with him right now. But that isn’t the case.
“I’ll see you around.” Despite wanting to say “come inside,” I hold off. Because I can already see that, despite the bravado he puts on in front of everyone, in front of women, he wants it. I can see it in his eyes. He wants the one thing that people spend their whole lives searching for, the one thing that manages to elude so many.
Love.
Owen Bower can deny it all he wants, but it’s clear. He wants to be loved.
And that’s something I can’t give him, can’t give anyone right now.
So, for that reason solely, I turn and walk inside. Alone.
The weeks post my return to London continue to slip by. It’s coming up on six weeks since my return, Stana herself having been home for nearly a month.
Today she’s moving in with Ali, and the entire cavalry has come to help. Well, everyone except Emilia. I’ve yet to see Owen again solo since our movie, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been on my mind.
“So, tell me again why Em isn’t here?” I call out to Stana as I attempt to organize her spice rack. Some would say this is a pointless exercise, but some would be wrong. Who knows, you could mix up curry powder and cinnamon, then what are you gonna do, have curry-flavored porridge? Exactly, my time is put to good use.
I lift up a dark brown powder before dumping it into one of the labeled bottles I picked up along the way.
“Her new flatmate is moving in today. She wanted to help but apparently the girl didn’t have keys yet, so Em decided to stay and help her out.”
I nod, my attention still stuck on if I’ve just put the curry powder in the cinnamon box. Fuck. I sniff it, hoping to differentiate between the two.
Curry powder! Fuck yes, I’m a spice genius.
“I give up,” Owen says, walking out of Stana’s bedroom. He’s been helping build their new bed, but from the look on his face, it isn’t going too well.
“It’s practically all in German. How is a bloke supposed to read all that?” He huffs, his usually tan face slightly flushed.
“It’s Swedish,” I call from the kitchen, trying to swap the mixed-up labels.
Owen’s attention turns toward me.
“Uh, you’ve got something.” He motions to my nose. I attempt to see what he’s pointing out, but no one can actually see their nose.
I look at him expectantly, waiting for a clue as to what he’s saying.
Grinning, he walks over, and his thumb brushes across my nose, dark orange powder coating the back of it.
“Thanks,” I tell him, feeling my ears heat at the action. Dumb, absolutely ridiculous, Lottie.
I internally chastise myself for having a reaction to something so small. I pray he doesn’t notice because the last thing I need right now is getting tangled up in a friendship-to-romance gone wrong. It may have worked for Stana, but I’m not on that path.