Page 43 of The Thought of You

“What?” I press. The quiet brute will be the death of me. Half of every conversation we have is me prying information out of this human vault of secrets.

“I’d rather mind my own business.” He attempts to shrug me off and walk away, but he should know better by now. I’m never easy to evade.

I fist the back of his jacket and yank him backward. “Austin Kyle—you better tell me what you know, or I will tell your mama you’re the one who broke her favorite antique vase last year and not the storm.”

“You wouldn’t.” He glares.

“I’m surprised you got away with the lie to begin with. What storm rattles a house hard enough to shatter a vase but leaves everything else intact?”

“That’s none of your concern, Addison.”

“Use my whole first name all you want, but it won’t save you. Only the truth will.” I mimic his seething glare, daring him to blink first as I stand my ground.

“Owen,” he says simply.

It’s like talking to a freaking wooden chair.

“What about him?” I pry.

“He asked me for your address after float Thursday night.” He works his jaw back and forth, and his words raise the hair at the back of my neck. “He also wanted to know… your favorite meal from Lucy’s,” he says, shifting from one foot to the other.

“You’re telling me that Owen Conrad dropped off dinner for me?” I blink. I don’t think I’ve ever been more confused. Not even biophysics is this baffling.

Austin only offers an incoherent raspy sound, but it’s enough to confirm this phenomenon. There’s no other way to describe it.

“Why would he do that?” I ask.

“Why do geese fly in a V-shaped formation? The reason can be complicated, but there is an answer.”

“Spare me the lecture,” I mumble. It’s times like these when I realize as much as we have in common, Austin and I could not be more different people.

“If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

I wave him off and take hesitant steps toward Owen, my mind clambering for an explanation. My emotions run from one end of the spectrum to the other over the short distance to reach him.

As I approach, another guy steps away from Owen to high-five a friend and laugh over something I can’t hear. My ears are ringing.

“Dick,” Owen mumbles.

Now that, I definitely hear.

I wait for him to finishing tossing back what appears to be… is he drinking water? What happened to his offensive flask of whiskey?

“Who are you talking about?” I ask, jolting him in place as if I shocked him with a taser, not that I’d ever take my distaste for him so far.

“Just stupid Lorenzo.” He waves a finger around his glass toward the guy who just left. “Do you remember him? He played baseball too.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.” I shrug, but the truth is, I’m too distracted by Owen to focus on whether or not I remember “stupid Lorenzo.”

“Let’s just say he was a jerk in high school,” he continues.

“Oh, there were more of you?” I toss back.

He drops his narrowed gaze onto mine. “He was jerkier than I was.”

“As a professional teacher of English, I can’t allow you to ever repeat that word.” I cluck my tongue against the inside of my cheek, my chin angled upward. “But as a woman, I have to say you were the jerkiest jerk of all.”

“Is that why you came over here? You’re seeking me out to insult me now?”

---