Return To You - Leia Stone Page 0,11

at me, apprehension in her eyes. "Once a week, unless I have an appointment with him, and then it's the appointment plus our Monday night dinner. Unless he's mowing my lawn on Sunday, but that only started last month."

Twice … and, recently, three times a week? Holy shit. Anger rolls through me until I steel myself. My mom doesn’t know what went down with Owen and me. She had no reason to avoid him.

My lips purse. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She could at least have done that.

"You told me not to talk about him.”

I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t want you to ask me about him, but I’d like to have known you adopted a new son.”

She chuckles, thinking I’m joking.

My mom raises one eyebrow. “Would you have wanted to know?"

"Yes."

She cocks her head to the side and narrows her eyes. She doesn't say anything, and I know she's giving me time to reconsider my response, to respond truthfully.

"Maybe," I spit out begrudgingly.

She nods once, slowly. Still giving me time.

"Okay, fine. No. I hate this." I cross my arms and stare at the TV.

"That's more like it." She pats my knee.

I frown, wishing Owen would just fucking leave. "You still should've told me."

"You were in New York, living your dream. I didn't want to put a damper on it by bringing up something difficult."

“You don’t talk to him about me, right?” That was a line I hoped had never been crossed.

My mom raises her hand and tucks the thumb and pinky in. “Girl Scouts honor. Autumn talk is off limits.”

Relief floods through me.

"So, you filtered out the truth every time I called you?"

"Lie by omission, I guess."

"Were your scruples always this flexible?"

She barks a laugh. "No. But things change as you age. Facing death challenges perspectives."

With that one sentence, my indignation fizzles out. I am reminded of why I am here—not that I forgot.

Mom looks behind me, placing a smile on her face, and I turn around.

Owen steps into the edge of the living room, looking between us with uncertainty. This has to be weird for him too. He's been coming here once a week for years, and has probably never felt more uncomfortable and unwelcome.

There was a time when he was here constantly. Mi casa es su casa was a literal term when we were together.

Without warning, nostalgia sneaks its way into my chest. I don't like how it softens the tension, blunting the edges of the annoyance I feel at Owen's presence in my mother's life.

"Kitchen is clean," Owen announces. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his pants. "Thanks for dinner, Faith. I'll see you on Thursday." He starts for the door.

Something sharp juts into my side.

"Ow," I huff.

"Walk him out," my mom hisses through clenched teeth, her elbow in my ribs. "And be nice."

I climb to my feet, shooting a dirty look at the ground instead of at her, and hurry after him for the second time since he showed up unannounced a couple hours ago.

As I arrive at the front door a few feet behind him, he reaches for the handle, letting himself out in the warm summer evening air. Without looking back at me, he says, "I thought I heard your fairy-footed pitter patter."

The inside joke causes a smile to overtake my face.

My damn traitorous face. Fucking nostalgia. It's a powerful bitch.

"My feet are enjoying the break from stomping around in high heels." I'm providing him with an excuse instead of acknowledging the throwback to our past, to the time he told me he liked my light feet, joking how it trained his ears to listen closer for my approach when I was barefoot.

He turns around suddenly and it takes me by surprise. I can't stop my forward momentum in time. My palms rise to stop the collision, and I wind up with my hands pressed to his rock-hard chest.

He grabs my shoulders, catching me.

My mind screams at me to step back, but my heart wants two more seconds in this space.

"Autumn," Owen says my name softly.

His thick, husky voice snaps me from the moment. I rip myself from his arms. "Don't, Owen. Just don't."

His eyes plead with me. "I have a lot to say, Autumn."

"Don't you think you said enough?"

Guilt rides across his face. Good. He should feel bad.

"That's what I want to talk about. I—”

I shake my head and he stops. "I'm here to get my mom through this. I'm here to support her while she fights. I am not here