Page 9 of Sparks Still Fly

5/

anywhere. everywhere.

maeve

august, 7 years ago

This isn’t how I imagined seeing him in person again, especially since we’ve spent the last several months avoiding the comment he made about kissing me.

His shoulders are slightly slumped, though he’s trying to put on a brave face. His father died suddenly days ago, and I insisted on flying from Los Angeles with Bon. We moved there right after graduation, and I think this is the first time in the last three months that she’s regretted that decision. She’s been quiet, much too quiet, and I have a feeling she’s shutting down.

My eyes are glued to Owen, even though it’s Bonnie’s hand I’m holding. His eyes are dull, and the scruff on his face shows it clearly hasn’t been shaved in days. He’s hardly looked up, other than when he gave the eulogy, which was heartbreaking. The urge to reach out to him is so strong, but he still doesn’t know, and I’m on my own with this knowledge that we’re meant to be. That I’m his in every way imaginable.

The sun is just getting ready to set when I walk out to the backyard after ensuring Elaina is sound asleep in her bedroom. It was a long day for her, and I didn’t leave her side until minutes ago when her soft snoring told me she wouldn’t be awake again anytime soon.

I don’t feel him until I’ve sat on the step, the chill chasing the warmth up my spine.

“Sunshine.”

One word. That’s all it takes from this man and the Earth ceases to spin. My heart threatens to beat through my ribcage. My grip on the edge of the step tightens as I hold my breath and listen for his footsteps. One heartbeat. Two. Then he’s here and the wood creaks beneath his weight as he settles next to me.

“Hello, Owen.” What a stupid greeting. “I didn’t know you were out here. I can go, if you’d like some privacy.” I move to stand, but he takes hold of my hand and keeps me low to the floor beside him, shaking his head. “Okay. I’ll stay then.”

He lets my hand go, flexing his fingers before running them up and down his leg as if he’s scrubbing away the memory of touching me.

We’re both silent for a few minutes. My hands are in knots on my lap, and his hang loosely as his elbows rest on his knees.

“Is Lainey asleep?” His voice is raspy and quiet, so unlike the roaring confidence I often hear on his calls with Bon, and when he talks to me, too.

“Yeah, she fell asleep about half an hour ago.” We both keep our gazes locked on the backyard in front of us.

“You know, he taught me how to throw a ball right there.” One finger rises to point straight ahead where we’ve been looking. “And he used to have a vegetable garden over there.” He waves his hand over to the right, where a worn, raised garden bed sits. “He always made sure we grew potatoes. Said it made him feel closer to his family, to his Irish roots.” His brows remain close together, his face so clearly full of tension as every muscle seems to tighten as he speaks. There’s a tone in his voice I’ve never heard, not even when he seems to need cheering up while deployed. This feels different. It feels... painful. Hopeless.

“Go on.” I reach for the hand closest to me, surprising myself, then further surprised by the fact that he lets me link our fingers together. It should feel monumental to be holding his hand like this, but all I feel is the weight of his loss. All I want to do is to take it away.

“He wasn’t feeling well, so he went to have a nap while I took Ma to the store. The stroke was so massive, we wouldn’t have been able to get him to the hospital fast enough even if we’d been there.” He squeezes my hand a little tighter, and I squeeze back, shutting my eyes tightly when I hear his sniffle. “Fuck, he was the best dad. I don’t think I ever told him that.”

“He knew, Owen. Your dad knew you loved him.” He turns his head and meets my gaze head on, those deep green eyes looking almost muddy with the fogginess of this loss clouding them. A tear rolls down my cheek, and he reaches up with his free hand to wipe it away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m the one crying. I shouldn’t?—”

“Don’t apologize for showing how you feel, Maeve. At least one of us is feeling something. Fuck, I haven’t even cried yet. What the fuck does that say about me, right?” His broad shoulders tense, then drop slightly in a subtle shrug, his gaze darting back to the backyard as he turns his body. The gesture is slight, but it brings with it a subtle shift in the atmosphere as he inches toward me until his leg touches mine, our hands clasped together on my lap.

“It says you’re not ready yet. And that’s okay, Owen.” I lick my lips, feeling completely unprepared and unqualified to comfort him, but my mouth keeps moving, anyway. “Your parents visited often. I really liked your dad. He was funny and kind, and I swear his eyes sparkled when he talked about you. The pride in his voice was a visceral living thing, like it had its own arms and legs. He adored you and Bon.” I take a deep breath, feeling slightly unsure of how to speak about a man I only knew for a few years but who felt more like a father figure to me than any of the men my mum brought home when we were kids. “She was his princess and his best friend. He worried about her so much. Wanted to protect her, you know? But you, Owen? He was in awe of you. Inspired by you. He talked about you like you had been the one to lasso the moon and hang it in the sky yourself.”

I’m about to keep going when he pries his hand away from mine and wraps his arms around me, turning me so my head is in the middle of his chest. His scent hits my nose, and I don’t hide the depth of the breath I take. He smells like leather and wood with a hint of mint, and the combination shouldn’t work, but on him, it’s heavenly.

“Thank you, fengári mou.” His heart is a steady thrum beneath my ear, and his arms pull tighter around me as his cheek rests on top of my head. Our size difference has never been as obvious as it is right now, but somehow this feels just right.

“All I want is to be like him one day. To make my kids feel as loved as he made me feel.” My insides twist at the thought of Owen as a dad. I do my best not to imagine myself as the woman next to him and his brood of beautiful blonde-haired and green-eyed children, but I fail. We sit in the silence of a summer evening, listening to the crickets until Owen speaks again.

“Want to come somewhere with me?”

Anywhere. Everywhere.

I nod silently as we part ways.

“Meet me at my truck in a few minutes.” He walks into the house, and after a few seconds I do too, grabbing a sweater and my phone in case Bon needs me.

When I climb into the passenger seat, he tosses something into the back. We drive in silence, nothing but the low twang of country songs coming through the speakers as the sun sets behind us. Within twenty minutes, we’re at a beach. Owen exits the truck, grabs whatever was in the back seat, and motions for me to join him.

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