Page 25 of You Owe Me

Brenda launches into another pitch, something about hidden storage and microfiber innovation, but I zone out. My watch vibrates. Heart rate’s fine, for now. Good. Because if I have to talk her through one more ugly-couch-equals-emotional-stability meltdown, I’m going to need defibrillation.

“I think we’re done,” I say, interrupting whatever Brenda’s selling now.

Ainsley perks up instantly, eyes hopeful. “Done done? Or like… giving up for now, done?”

“Done for today,” I say, already turning toward the exit. “We’re eventually getting a new couch.”

When we get to the car, I open the door for her.

She stares at me for a beat before getting in. “You know I love that couch, right?”

I nod. “I know.”

And I do. That’s why I haven’t thrown it out already. I’m trying to find something else she’ll trust the same way. Something we both fit on. Something built to last, like we are.

She sighs. “Fine. But I reserve the right to veto anything that looks like it belongs in a frat house.”

“Deal. And I reserve the right to veto anything with sequins, florals, or the words ‘shabby chic’ in the description.”

“Rude.”

“Necessary.”

She slides into her seat with a dramatic huff, as if sitting on beige couches has shaved years off her life. I shut her door and walk around to mine, giving myself a second.

She’s not just stalling on the couch. She’s stalling on letting go of what it meant—of where she started, of how far we’ve come. I know that. I respect it. But I also know we’re not the same people who survived that old living room anymore.

We’ve built something better. And if she won’t let herself feel that right now, I’ll remind her.

I start the car and put it in drive.

And take a left instead of a right.

She notices immediately. “You missed the turn.”

“Did I?”

Her eyes narrow. “Where are we going? And don’t say it’s a surprise unless that surprise is tacos.”

“Not tacos.”

“Maverick,” she warns.

“Relax,” I say, eyes on the road. “It’s a detour.”

She doesn’t respond right away. That’s how I know I’ve thrown her off. Ainsley doesn’t do silence unless she’s thinking.

Which means she knows I’m up to something.

Ten minutes later, I pull into a mostly empty lot outside a community park. Old swing set. Faded slides. Grass cut too short. It’s quiet with low traffic. Safe.

Neutral ground.

She frowns. “You brought me to a park?”

“I did.”

“Do you have a head injury?”

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