Page 73 of Wish You Were Mine
Younger than me.
Maybe his mom had checked back in when his dad died. Hopefully, he and his siblings were able to rely on each other.
Was Owen the oldest? Youngest?
Or in the middle?
It would definitely affect any responsibility he would feel like he’d need to take on if he had younger siblings at that time.
I wanted to ask him those things, but since I still had no response, I didn’t want to overload him with messages.
Hopefully, he just got busy serving drinks.
Hopefully, we could talk some more soon.
20
OWEN
Light was already slippingthrough the blinds in my small bedroom when I woke on Sunday morning, cutting across the comforter in long, lazy lines. My head sank deeper into the pillow as I stretched one arm across the mattress, still half-asleep.
After giving my body a few minutes to decide whether it wanted to drift back to sleep, I rolled onto my back and reached for my phone on the nightstand.
Notifications filled the screen—group-chat updates from Bash, Ky, and Miles; a few emails; a reminder about a meeting with Dean Harris on Monday—and then one that made my stomach twist a little.
Lucy.
Right. Our conversation from last night.
I scrolled up, trying to remember where I’d left things…and immediately winced.
She’d replied to my text about my dad. Twice.
And I’d just left her onRead.
Not because I meant to. Not because I didn’t care. Just…The Garden got slammed after that big birthday group walked in, and by the time I remembered to check my phone again, it was well past two. Too late to reply without seeming like a total creep.
Still, a pit of guilt settled in my stomach as I opened our thread again.
Her messages were sweet. Gentle. Exactly the kind of responses I didn’t know I needed until I read them.
But then I scrolled a little farther up and saw the other part of our conversation. The part where the late-night version of me—the looser, more open, bartender me—was behind the wheel.
Yeah…in the light of day, those messages suddenly felt reckless.
And I probably shouldn’t have said half the things I’d said.
Not because I didn’t mean them.
Just…because I knew better. She was my student.
And this was complicated.
Even so, I found myself tapping out a reply.
Me: Hey, sorry for leaving you on read last night. Got slammed at The Garden and didn’t get back to my phone. But thank you—I really appreciate it.
Then I decided to add another text.
