Page 80 of Things You Save in a Fire
He let out a good sigh. “It’s Owen. My first name is Owen.”
“You want me to call you Owen?” I asked, like it was the craziest idea ever.
“Yeah, actually,” he said. “I kind of do.”
I gave him a serious nod. “Okay, Oscar,” I said. “I respect that.”
He didn’t let himself correct me.
Triumphantly, I rested my head on Owen’s shoulder—and that’s when I saw his whole family watching us.
“All that worry for nothing,” I said then. “Your mom is fine.”
“She’s always fine on the surface,” Owen said. “I’ll get an earful later, though.”
In truth, I was glad to have him to hold on to. I felt a little woozy.
“Hey,” I said then. “Is there any chance those virgin daiquiris I just shotgunned weren’t totally virgin?”
Owen stretched up to take a look at the bar. “That’s my cousin Alex bartending at a party full of Irish, so, yeah, actually, there’s a pretty good chance.”
But the wooziness wasn’t alcohol. I knew that.
It was Owen. I was drunk on Owen. His name, his tie, the ironed, slim-fit dress shirt clinging to his pecs. His kindness. His hands on my hips.
The song was ending.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “Do you want to get some air?”
I nodded, and he led me off the floor.
Word about us had spread like a gas fire. As we made our way back across the room, Owen got high fives and cheek slaps from his cousins, and comment after comment, like, “Nice work, buddy,” and “Better lock that up,” plus plenty of teasing, like, “Your fly’s unzipped.”
We had the exit in our sights when I caught the edge of my platform shoe and my leg went out from under me. I twisted and fell, but Owen caught me right before my knee hit. I started to say, “Thanks,” and scramble back up, but his arms locked, and he held me right there in place, my eyes even with his belt buckle.
I got my feet under me, and I was just about to push up and say, “What the hell, man?” when I heard Owen say, “Hello, Captain Murphy.”
Then I heard Murphy’s voice, like a nod. “Rookie.”
I froze.
Then, after a second—and presumably after taking in the sight of my head at Owen’s crotch, the captain went on. “Looks like you’re having a fine evening.”
“Yes, sir.”
“See you next shift.”
“Yes, sir.”
A beat, and then I felt myself hoisted up, clutched against Owen’s chest, and hustled straight into a coat closet.
The door clonked closed behind us.
“What the hell?” I said, as Owen released me, blinking my eyes in the blackness.
He sounded amazed that I would ask. “That was the captain.”
I knew that already. “I thought he RSVP’d no.”
