“Looks like it’s a white birthday for you,” he says, his hands held behind his back awkwardly. I step up on my toes and kiss his cold lips, then tug him into my house by the collar of his shirt. “So pushy,” he teases.
“What’s behind your back,” I say, pulling on his elbow now.
“Wow, you are like…all about the presents, aren’t you?” he says, his playful smile curling one end of his mouth as he unwraps his neck from his scarf.
“Maybe,” I smirk. “Now, gimme, gimme, gimme!”
I pull the bag from his hand and rush to the kitchen with it, Owen trailing behind me, his feet dragging and his hand running along his chin. “I was kind of hoping you would open it later,” he says, his brow pulled in as he looks from me to the front door and back again. “I saw Willow pulling up out front, and now just feels weird…”
He trails off, his shoulders slumped, and his spirit deflated. He’s embarrassed, and as much as I’m dying to crack open the bag with his gift, the fact that giving it to me alone is important to him means a hell of a lot more.
“Okay, I’ll put it in my room. Won’t peek; I promise!” I say, crossing my heart and zipping past Owen in my socks, gliding along the floor and up the stairs. When I get to my room, the box with the blue dress immediately confronts me, and its presence pisses me off. I kick it under my bed, and then pull my comforter down on the side, completely hiding it from my view.
The doorbell rings loudly as I set Owen’s gift in its rightful spot atop my pillow. I race back downstairs, trying to reach the door before Willow has a chance to push the bell again, but I’m too slow.
“Jesus Christ, you’re impatient,” I say, flinging the door open to a shivering group of four.
“It’s cold. My hand slipped,” Willow says, somehow still managing to pop a bubble between her lips despite the rapidly dropping temperature on my porch.
“My mom was sleeping in,” I explain, before my mother cuts me off and finishes for me.
“She was. She’s up now,” my mom says through an irritated yawn. “Who wants pancakes?”
“Oh, do you have more of that bacon?” Owen says, surprisingly not shy. I’m a little less upset about the bacon-sharing with my mother now that I know their early morning meeting was all about getting me a set of wheels for my birthday.
“You got it. I’ll grill up the rest of it,” my mom says, winking at Owen. My belly grows warm seeing her accept him so completely.
Willow, Jess, Elise, and Ryan start slipping out of their coats and hats and gloves in my front room, leaving a pile of winter clothing gathered around our front door, and this scene makes me even happier. I love their mess.
“We’re still carving pumpkins, right? We have to carve pumpkins! I brought my tools and everything,” Elise says, and I can’t help but quirk an eyebrow at her odd pumpkin fascination.
“It’s her favorite holiday. And she’s kind of a bad-ass pumpkin carver,” Ryan says, shrugging.
“All right then, pumpkins it is!” I say, looking over Elise’s shoulder, out the window that is growing frostier by the second.
“Oh, don’t worry about that snow. It’s not real snow. It’s supposed to stop in an hour or two and clear out until next week,” Elise says, very insistent that weather does not detour us from our pumpkin mission.
“It’s just going to be freezing-ass cold. Awesome time to walk around a field and pick up wet pumpkins,” Jess says, rubbing his eyes as he passes me and heads straight for the pot of coffee brewing on the counter. “Can we stop this mid-cycle so I can get a cup now?”
“Seriously? Can’t wait the full minute it takes to drip?” Owen says, sliding into the stool next to the counter, pulling me to him so I’m standing between his long legs.
“I’m not pretty without caffeine, yo,” Jess says, causing Ryan and Owen to bust out laughing.
“Dude, don’t talk like a gangster. You can’t pull it off,” Ryan says.
“It’s the lack of caffeine. It makes me say crazy shit,” Jess says, pulling the pot from the machine the moment it stops dripping, filling his cup and blowing forcefully into his mug, working to cool the liquid fast.
“You talk to anyone about this addiction of yours?” Owen says, smirking at Jess as his jittery hands work to tilt the cup up for his first, sloppy gulp.
“Like you should talk about addiction,” Jess mumbles, his eyebrows shooting up as soon as he fully realizes the words that left his lips. Owen’s arms grow rigid around me, and I know without looking his expression is cold. “I’m sorry man. That was crappy to say. I’m tired and grumpy. Totally uncalled for,” Jess says, pulling one hand away from his mug and reaching to shake Owen’s hand. Jess’s face looks honest and regretful, but I hope Owen can see it too.