Page 54 of Pumped

I’m left standing in the hall with Mom and Dad.

“How are things, dear?” Mom asks, pulling me into a belated hug.

I hug her back, sinking into the comfort of her embrace. Dad wraps his arms around the both of us and we all just stand there, enjoying the moment.

A part of me wants to complain, to spew out all the sharp-edged and shadowy worries eating away at my insides and blameit all on Owen. But that’s not fair. Today was a bad day. But otherwise… “Actually, things are okay. Better than okay.”

Mom and Dad both look surprised.

“Really?” Mom asks skeptically.

“Yeah. Really.” A sense of peaceful contentment settles over me, smothering the last remnants of my irritation.

“What about Owen?” Dad asks.

Owen. It always comes back to him, doesn’t it? If I’m having a good day, it’s usually because Owen and I are getting along. If I’m having a crappy day, it’s because Owen’s being an asshat. More than Ivy, Owen’s become this measure of how things are going in my life. When did that happen? When did everything start revolving around him?

“Owen’s… good.” I’m not sure what else to say. I’m certainly not going to tell my parents that we’ve been fucking each other on the DL. But he brings up so many feelings inside me, many that I’ve never experienced before, that I don’t understand or have a name for. He makes me feel things that I didn’t know were possible to feel.

He pushes me and pulls me. Living with him has been so much harder than I thought it would be. But I can tell that I’m changing. I’m growing. I’m becoming a version of myself that I don’t quite recognize, but I like.

Owen’s making me a better person.

“Really?” Mom exclaims under her breath. “Because we thought you two were going to murder each other the second we left you alone.”

I chuckle, remembering the early days when I thought we were going to murder each other too. “You know, maybe I didn’t give him a fair chance before. He’s not that bad. He’s…”

I search for the words to describe his unique mix of surly and strict and vulnerable. I don’t know if there’s a word that woulddo him justice in the English language. “He’s more than I gave him credit for.”

Mom and Dad exchange a look. They don’t believe me, but that’s okay. It doesn’t matter what they believe. All that matters is I’m beginning to know the real Owen underneath all his bluster. And I’m finding that I like what I see.

CHAPTER

TWENTY

OWEN

The basement is split in two with a large games room housing a pool table and dartboard. Sliding glass doors lead out to the backyard pool. The other half is a media room with a giant wall-mounted TV and a large modular sectional.

The sectional is normally set up in a U-shape with an ottoman in the middle as a coffee table. But Mom’s already rearranged it so it can be slept on like a bed. It’s plenty big enough for two grown men, but the only way to climb in or out of the thing is to scramble on and off the narrow end.

I drop onto the couch and hold my head in my hands.

I’m a little embarrassed, to be honest. I had a bad day at work and took it out on Everest. There were complications with my morning surgery and we lost the kitten we were operating on. Then I had to recommend euthanasia to a pet parent who lost it in my office. Then I got pulled into an emergency surgery on the dog who we ended up losing too.

It’s just been a completely shit day and I’d actually been looking forward to seeing Everest and Ivy at home. I’d wanted the comfort and reassurance of their presence, something goodafter so much bad. But then he opened the door, throwing attitude in my face, and I couldn’t stop myself from lashing out.

I was an asshole. He didn’t deserve it. And now I’ll need to apologize. Ugh. I hate apologizing.Especiallyto Everest. But I seem to be doing it a whole hell of a lot.

Heaving a sigh, I push myself to my feet and trudge back toward the stairs. I’m halfway up when I hear my name.

“What about Owen?” Everest’s dad, Graham, asks.

I freeze in between steps, hand gripping the banister as my ears strain to pick up the conversation. They’re talking about me. Why are they talking about me?

“Owen’s… good,” Everest says.

I put a hand to my chest and my heart skips a beat. Good. What the hell is good supposed to mean? Good at what?

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