to answer. “No.” Then after seeing my doubtful face, he repeats the word with more conviction. “No! It’ll be fine. He probably just wants to talk about … you know … replacing his garden gnome. His mother is undoubtedly pissed that you broke it.”
This makes me laugh. It feels good. I’m suddenly glad I confided in Owen.
“Good Vibrations” by the Beach Boys fades away and “Do You Believe in Magic” by the Lovin’ Spoonful comes on. Owen turns up the volume.
“Do you really think it’ll be okay?” I ask. Despite how much I love this song, my voice still breaks with uncertainty.
“Do you believe in magic?” Owen asks me in return, half speaking, half singing the question.
“Thanks, that’s reassuring.”
His eyes light up. “Oh! Speaking of!” He digs into his backpack by his feet and produces two plastic-wrapped fortune cookies. “I was so distracted by your shambled life I almost forgot about our Monday morning ritual.”
Owen buses tables at the Tasty House Chinese restaurant on Sundays for extra cash. And he makes a lot of it. I think it’s his irresistible baby face and the boyish charm he turns on when he refills water glasses. Customers set aside additional tips just for him. He’s been bringing us fortune cookies on Monday mornings ever since he started working there.
“Choose your tasty fortune,” he trills.
I admit, the familiarity of the gesture does wonders for my frayed nerves. I hover my hand over the two cookies, wiggling my fingers majestically, before finally opting for the one on the left. Owen unwraps the remaining one and cracks open the crisp shell.
“If your desires are not extravagant,” he reads aloud from the tiny piece of paper tucked inside, “they will be granted.”
He snorts and crumples up the fortune, tossing it into my backseat. “My desires are always extravagant.” He pops the pieces of cookie in his mouth and chomps down. “Your turn.”
I unwrap mine and bust it open. The small strip of paper reads:
Today you will get everything your true heart desires.
Owen leans in to read over my shoulder. “That sounds promising.”
I fold up the paper and slip it into the side pocket of my door. Then I throw the car into drive and pull onto the street. “I sure hope so,” I mumble.
But Owen is barely listening. He’s too busy singing along—completely off-key—to the song. “I’ll tell you about the magic. It’ll free your soul.”
You Better Slow Your Mustang Down
8:10 a.m.
As I pull to a stop at the corner of Owen’s street and Providence Boulevard, I lean forward and scowl up at the gray sky. “I really hope it stops raining before the carnival tonight. Tristan and I are supposed to have this big romantic date and the rain will totally ruin it.”
Owen ignores my lamenting. He usually does when Tristan is the subject line. “Did you ever get around to watching the season premiere of Assumed Guilty?” he asks.
I avert my eyes in shame. “I have it DVR’d,” I offer as if this redeems me, even though I know it doesn’t.
Assumed Guilty is our favorite legal drama. We usually watch it live and text each other during the commercials, but last night I missed our weekly screening party because I was busy throwing fairy-tale creatures at my boyfriend’s head.
Owen bangs his fist on the dashboard. “Bollocks! You need to get on that.”
“And you need to stop saying things like ‘bollocks’!”
“You missed the best episode.”
“I’m sorry, I’ll watch it tonight,” I promise.
“You just said you’re going to the carnival tonight.”
“I’ll watch it after.”
Owen looks out the rain-splattered window. “No you won’t,” he mumbles.
I don’t think he meant for me to hear but I do. And the guilt punches me in the stomach. Just another thing on my overly crowded plate that I can’t keep up with. The truth is, ever since I started dating Tristan at the end of last year, I haven’t had a ton of extra time to do much of anything, including keep up with Owen’s and my busy television schedule. Tristan’s band had almost nonstop gigs this summer and I volunteered to help with promotion. It only made sense. I’m more organized than any of the band members. When I found out they didn’t even have a mailing list, and Jackson, the drummer, asked me how to “tweet the Instagram,” well, it was just easier to do it myself than try to explain the art of Internet marketing to a group of musicians who call themselves Whack-a-Mole.
But hanging out with Tristan