Page 83 of Caught Up In You

“Josh’s mom is a top executive at a pharmaceutical company, and his dad is a plastic surgeon,” Owen says, and hooks my arm into the crook of his elbow. “They were both a little disappointed that Josh decided to be an ER doctor.”

“Okay, so give me one more rundown,” I say, pausing at the foot of the steps leading up to the door. I can hear the tinkling of a piano that’s definitely being played live. The polite hum of chatter floats through the windows. There’s a floral arch over the door, spilling blooms and greenery onto the wide porch. For some reason when Owen said “engagement party,” I pictured a backyard barbecue situation: someone’s dad standing over a grill, a buffet table with a red-and-white checkered tablecloth.

I did not pictureBridgertonmeetsSuccession.

“Francie and Josh and I all met in med school. We did our residencies together. Francie and I dated for a couple of years during residency, but we broke up in our third year,” he says.

I want to ask why, but that doesn’t feel like a casual question when we’re seconds from walking into her engagement party. And when Owen is already vibrating at such a high frequency.

“Josh is so obviously the one for her.” As he says it, he seems to relax for the first time since this morning. There’s a genuinesmile pulling at his lips. “And thank god they realized it, because now here we are.”

I’ve never seen a man so sincerely delighted by his ex-girlfriend’s happiness.

Someone—a cater waiter? A party planner?—wordlessly opens the door just as we approach, welcoming us into a grand marble-floored foyer filled with even more flowers.

“Most of the people here are probably doctors, I’m sorry to say.” Owen guides me through the entrance. “A lot of med school and residency people. Francie and Josh both got full-time jobs at Riley Children’s when they finished, so our friend group stayed pretty solid.”

But you left?The question is right there on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back. This party coupled with the scene at the soccer game this morning suddenly has me realizing how little I know about Owen. I thought he was such an open book, but all this time he’s kept the attention on me, conveniently avoiding sharing details about his past.

“Owen!” A beautiful, petite Black woman, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, comes rushing through the crowd, arms out, a stunning goldenrod chiffon dress practically floating around her. She engulfs him in a hug so full of warmth and happiness that I feel a frizzle of joy just watching it. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Owen sinks into the hug, finally seeming to let out a breath. Then Francie steps back and pivots to me with a wide smile.

“And you must be Wyatt,” she says. “I’m a hugger. Can I a hug you?”

“Sure,” I tell her, and I’ve barely gotten the word out before she pulls me in. She hugs me with the same warmth she lavished on Owen, and her embrace actually calms the undercurrent of anxiety I’ve been feeling all day.

I like her instantly.

“I wish I didn’t have to charm a bunch of old white CEOs at this thing, because I’d much rather be in a corner with a margarita learning why this man is so obsessed with you,” she says with a wicked grin.

“Francie,” Owen warns, but he’s smiling too, the tension of this morning melting off of him.

“What? I’m your best friend, that’s my job,” Francie says.

“Well, I’m happy to give you the bullet points real fast,” I tell her. “I’m cool as shit, funny as hell, and I do this thing with my tongue?—”

“Oh my god, the two of you together are lethal,” Owen groans.

Francie cackles. “We havegotto arrange a double date,” she says to Owen.

A tall, thin white man strides over, and from his confidence and the comfort he seems to have with both Francie and this house, I assume this must be Josh. The man looks like a J.Crew model, all blond and blue-eyed and plaid-shirted. He definitely owns more than a few fleece vests and actually looks good in them.

“Excuse me, folks, but my great-grandmother just arrived,” he says, trying for a comical grimace, but he’s completely unable to tamp down the wide smile that overtakes his face as he makes eye contact with his future bride. God, Owen was right—it’s obvious these two are made for each other. “Unfortunately we have to go genuflect.”

“Lemme at her,” Francie says with a feisty grin. “Grandparentsloveme.”

She pulls Owen into another quick hug and whispers something in his ear that makes him smile. Then she gives me a quick wave and makes me promise we’ll hang out soon before disappearing into the crowd with Josh.

The party is lovely—the drinks are free-flowing, and the food is next-level—but two hours later, I have to admit I’m tapped out. I’ve had to delicately remove myself from a man in the over-seventy set who kept trying to touch my tattoos, but mostly it’s been doctors. So. Many. Doctors.

And do you know what doctors like to do when they’re drinking together?

Tell truly disgusting stories.

I learned about a guy who was brought in by ambulance because he was found bleeding in a grocery store, only for the doctors to cut off his pants and discover they were stuffed with raw steaks. There was a woman who was brought in from the airport because TSA spotted a bomb in her vagina on the X-ray machine. They brought a bomb squad into the operating room, but it turned out it was just a lighter. She was a very dedicated smoker, apparently, and I remain filled with questions.

And people putsomany things up their asses. I’m not usually one to yuck someone’s yum, but oh my god. A whole apple? A light bulb? A fuckinghamster?Humanity is so much more fucked up than I thought.

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