Page 82 of Caught Up In You

“She’s so good with people,” I say, watching as she steers our mother away from Felix and toward the car. “It’s weird how attached she is to working with plants.”

“Sometimes your strengths and your passions don’t quite align,” Owen replies. He slips his hand into mine.

“You doing okay?” I ask.

Owen smiles, but his eyebrows are heading toward his hairline. “Yeah, why?”

“Because Betsy took a pretty gnarly cleat to the head and you had to deal with it,” I say. “It was a lot.”

“It’s my job, Wyatt,” he says, and even though he’s still smiling, his voice sounds low and tight.

“I know. And you’re great at it. I’ve seen you with Eden. You’re incredible with kids,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean scary situations stop being scary.”

“I’m fine,” he says like he’s slamming a door. He starts pulling me toward my truck. “Do you want me to drive to Francie’s party this afternoon?”

With all the excitement, I nearly forgot that we’re headed to Francie’s engagement party in Indianapolis this afternoon.

“Would you rather I drive?” I ask. This conversation suddenly feels like walking through a field of land mines.

“We can do whatever you want, Wyatt,” Owen says. He sounds fucking exhausted.

“We could skip it,” I offer.

Owen sucks in a breath. “No. I need to go.”

“If you’re not feeling up to it, you don’t have to. I’m sure Francie will understand.”

Owen’s jaw is set. “I’m going. She’s my best friend, she’s always been there for me, and I can go to a party for her,” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s trying to convince me or himself. He takes a deep breath and lets it out hard. “I’m fine. It was a tense moment, but everything is fine.”

“You keep sayingfinelike that’s the best you can be,” I say.

“You can drive,” he says, ignoring that. “The party’s at five, so pick me up at four, okay?”

“Sure,” I say as we approach my truck.

He reaches for the door and opens it. “You should lock this,” he says, sounding almost exasperated.

“And you should take a nap,” I snap, my frustration getting the best of me.

“Yeah” is all he says before shutting the door on me.

And then he’s gone.

CHAPTER 31

WYATT

“You don’t have to be nervous,” Owen says as we approach the grand brick two-story house with hulking white columns, one of the biggest, most impressive homes on an already-grand stretch of North Meridian in Indianapolis.

I want to tell him that it’s not the house that’s making me nervous or the fact that we’re about to walk into the engagement party of his ex-girlfriend. It’s the fact that not six hours ago, I watched this man have what looked an awful lot like a panic attack. It’s the fact that rather than talking about it, we spent the drive up here listening to one and half Debbie tapes (both from when the relationship was going well, if all the Boyz II Men is to be believed). It’s the fact that he’s practically pulling muscles trying to smile, to laugh, to pretend that everything is absolutely fine.

As if I wouldn’t notice the way he keeps flexing his fingers in his lap, like he can’t hold them still. Or the rhythmic tic in his jaw. Or the way he keeps staring off into the middle distance, lost inside a deluge of thoughts he’s expending every ounce of energy to hold back.

“I’m fine,” I say, and then jump a little when a young guy in black pants and a red vest suddenly appears at my window, his hand out.

“Valet,” Owen says.

“Right.” I dig through my purse and hand over my keychain, wishing I had time to pull the car key off the ring of keys that open various locks at the Half Pint. But maybe the grandeur of the houseisgetting to me, because I just hand the whole jangly mess over. I get out of the truck, and as the teenage valet hops in, I smooth the ruffled hem of the floral sundress I borrowed from Hazel. “This party seriously hasvalet?”

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