Page 3 of Owen Bailey Needs Advice

Annie

“O

h, Owen.” Grammy sighs. “I’ll start on the pancakes. You two find a booth.” But she doesn’t disappear back through the kitchen doorway. No, she shuffles farther onto the restaurant floor, standing right in front of Owen. Up on her tiptoes, she slaps him around the neck and pulls my best friend down to her level. She holds his back with her left arm and slaps his neck three more times with her right hand—Grammy’s version of a hug. “Sit. I’ll have food out in a minute.”

Owen gives me a sideways glare, but it’s O. He isn’t mad. He doesn’t know how to get mad. It’s one of the many things I love about him. He’s been my best friend ever since Jocelyn Lander tripped me walking down the hall in third grade. He pulled me to my feet, and I wanted so badly to cry—a new town, a new school, and I was getting quite the welcome—but then I looked up to his messy blond hair, crooked front teeth, and that giant smile. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t pout. I couldn’t feel badly for myself—not with Owen smiling at me.

“Mybreakup?” he whispers as we slide ourselves across from one another.

I helped Grammy recover these booths just last year—theylook fantastic. We went for a shiny, sparkling blue. It fits the diner’s vibe well. I feel a small sense of pride every time I sit in one. Even now, while Owen attempts to glare at me.

“I had to say something! And this way, if she hears us talking, it’ll sound normal. Only we’re talking about you rather than me.”

Owen’s eyes dart from my face to the kitchen door. “So,” he says, the coast clear. “Why’d you dump James?”

“I did notdumpJames. It was mutual—mostly. Mr. Buttman and I weren’t going to last, so...” I shrug, unable to finish that sentence. I don’t like saying the truth out loud. And I’ve never said it to Owen.

“Mr. Buttman.” Owen smirks and scratches at his neatly trimmed beard. Yes, sometimes he is still a twelve-year-old boy. I love that about him too.

But I don’t let him know it—not now, anyway. “You’re a child.”

“Me? You broke things off because of hisname.”

“Not true!” I bark, but I did hear it everywhere we went.

Reservation for Buttman.

Here’s your paper, Mr. Buttman.

Buttman takes the lead.

“You didn’t? Because you keep referring to him asMr. Buttman.”

I swallow and nibble on my inner cheek. Yep, I’m doing that. Maybe because James Buttman, after only two months of dating, looked at me like I was an old hat—comfortable, but nothing to get excited about. And then, he had the audacity to ask me if I ever thought about the future.The future. As in, one day he’d like there to be a Mrs. Buttman, all while looking at me as if I were…unlovable.

Geez Louise. I hate that word.

Maddox Powell described me that way years ago, and it’s never left my head—Annie, you’re just unlovable.

“That’s his name,” I say, swallowing down a whole load of feelings. “And apparently, he doesn’t hate it because everywhere we go, he refers to himself that way.”

My knees jolt, knocking into the underneath of the table with the swinging open of the kitchen door.

“Grammy!” I squeak. “You’re back.”

“I already had the batter made up.” She sets a plate in front of each of us. And becauseOwenis the one suffering, he’s got three more pancakes on his stack than I do.

Well, that’s not fair.

I’ll steal one off his plate the minute she turns around.

But in less than thirty seconds, she’s back. “I brought you my homemade butter syrup.”

“The butter syrup!” I yelp. That’s the good stuff. The stuff she brews once a year and bottles. She doesn’t sell it, and she only lets us use it on special occasions.

“That’s right!” Grammy sets a hand over top of the closed Mason jar. “Not for you, Miss Annie. This is for Owen. You can wait until Thanksgiving.”

My shoulders slump. A little butter syrup would really cheer me up right now.

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