I stand from the table, too, walking over to Owen, his body leaning heavily on the banister. He looks like he’s been in a fight rather than just had a major university drop a pot of gold on his table. I don’t know why I thought this would be so easy. I was so sure Mr. Chessman would find a way to tip the scales away from Iowa. What I hadn’t counted on was Owen’s sense of duty.
“Hey…this…” I say, tapping my finger on the edge of the paper in his hand, “is a good thing. I know you have to think about it, but options…they’re always good, right?”
It sounds pathetic. My reasoning, it’s flawed. It’s hard to see something you want as attainable when so many things need you on the other side.
“It’s good,” Owen says, his lip pulling up enough to press a small dimple in his cheek. He holds it there as he gazes at me, his eyes holding mine while Mr. Chessman comes over to where we’re standing.
“Owen, I know you need to think this over, but it’s really a once-in-a-lifetime chance. There’s always a way,” he says, his hand moving to pat Owen once on the back.
Owen’s mom joins us then she walks Mr. Chessman to the door, their farewell exchange just as awkward and brief as their greeting.
“I have to get home. My mom hasn’t seen me yet,” I say, the voice in my head asking him what he’s thinking, what his plans are and begging for an answer—the answer I want. Inside my head—there’s a lot of begging.
Owen tips my chin up, kissing my lips lightly at first, then moves his hands to my head, pulling me closer and moving his kiss above my brow. I love when he does this, the sweetness of it all, the affection in every touch. I love it, and I’ll miss it if he leaves. He has to stay.
I wait while he steps backward a few times, moving up to his room, and I turn after he does and leave his house to enter mine. My mom is sitting in the middle of the floor, right next to my piano, with rolls of holiday paper around her and stacks of framed pictures on my piano.
“Hi, honey,” she says, her fingers holding small strips of tape, and a curled ribbon dangling from her teeth.
While I kick away my shoes and dump my coat on the floor, I watch her tape down the edges of bright red paper then tie her ribbon around one of the wrapped pictures, holding it up to show me when she’s done.
“That’s…awesome. You’re wrapping crap we already own,” I say, sliding closer to her in my socks, peering over her to the various large paintings and décor still waiting to be wrapped, I presume.
“My mom used to do this, every Thanksgiving. She’d wrap the things hanging in our house like presents, and then we’d have Christmas joy around us all season long,” she says, turning her first package to face her. She straightens the ribbon then proudly sets the picture down to the side once she’s satisfied with it.
“Yeah…that’s not weird at all,” I say, counting at least sixteen more things she needs to wrap.
“There’s some mail for you in the kitchen,” she says as she begins cutting and measuring paper for the next package.
I head to the kitchen and grab a Diet Coke from the fridge before turning to the island counter and sifting through the stack of papers and envelopes, discarding the various advertisements and coupons I know we’ll never use. Caught in between two of the bigger mailers is a heavy envelope, with no address. I look over my shoulder, and my mom’s still in manic-wrapping mode, a nearly empty glass of wine next to her on the floor, so I pull the papers from inside.
The top of the packet is labeled with an embossed masthead for Walt, Kendall, and Katz law firm, and just below that I catch the word divorce. I read on quickly, taking in enough to realize what I’m looking at, then I step into the wrapping fray, dropping the packet in front of my mom—right on top of the package she’s taping.
She sighs when it lands in front of her, but instead of speaking right away, she reaches for her drink, taking a long sip until she’s tipping the glass upside down.
“I’m sorry, Kens. I didn’t mean for you to see that,” she says, moving it to the side and continuing to tape gold paper on top of green.
I drop to the floor, sitting next to her, and pick the packet back up, flipping it between my hands a few times, waiting for her to give me more. She pretends I’m invisible.
“Does this mean…” I wait for her to finish my statement for me, but she only nods her head toward the tape, a silent request for me to help with this insane craft project. I rip two pieces off and push them onto the paper where she asks. She turns it over to face me when she’s done. It’s my baby portrait, wrapped and bowed. I don’t know how to respond to seeing it, so I just lift my brow high and smile.