Snapshots

Chapter Two

The thing about summer is that you always associate it with sunshine. In England, this is a pretty dangerous trap to fall into. Especially living in the lakeside community of Hearst Basin, a place practically famous for its perpetual greyness.

I pulled my hood up over my head, opening up my umbrella as a second reinforcement. It wasn't quite torrential - at least, not yet - and so I figured I had just about enough time to get to work before I was caught in the downpour. Or at least, I thought I had, until Owen showed up.

"Hey, Listen! Wait up!" Yanking my headphones out of my ears, I turned just in time to see Owen's smiling face grow closer to mine as he took the umbrella from my hand and lifted it higher above our heads to accommodate his height. "I've been calling after you for like half a street - I think Mrs Michaels thinks we've had a fall out."

I looked over my shoulder, where sure enough our elderly neighbour was just visible striding off into the distance, towing her energetic Dalmatian behind her.

"Good," I said, my eyes still on her retreating back. "Maybe she'll finally stop thinking that we're dating."

Owen turned his head back towards her at the same time I swivelled my gaze forwards, a small grin on his face.

"I don't think so," He said, as we started walking again. "She just winked at me,"

"Saucy," I grinned, and was rewarded with a punch on the arm. "Why do I get the feeling there's an ulterior motive for joining me?" Owen stopped suddenly, placing a hand over his heart.

"I'm shocked Listen. Shocked, and hurt," He proclaimed loudly.

"So am I," I countered, rubbing my arm. "That's okay though: I'll let you share my brolly, and I won't even make fun of the relationship blossoming between you and your eighty-year-old neighbour,"

"How very kind," Owen said drily, falling back into step beside me. "But it's actually more ulterior than sharing your umbrella."

"Wow," I sounded out the word, looking at him out of the side of my eyes. "Covert."

"I know right," Owen grinned, and when nothing more seemed forthcoming, I prodded him on the shoulder. "What?" He frowned.

"Your ulterior motive?" I prompted, raising my eyebrows slightly.

"Oh right, right," He said, nodding vigorously.

"Well, what is it?" I asked. And then I noticed he was blushing.

I've seen Owen blush only two times. The first was when his mum confronted him after he broke one of his brother's football trophies. The second time was at prom, when we were sat side by side in the limo with a group of our other friends - or, in my case, a group of Owen and Brienne's other friends. At first I'd thought he was sick: despite his red hair, Owen hardly ever blushes. It was only a few hours - and a few too many spiked glasses of punch -later that he had told me he thought I'd looked very pretty.

"Owen?"

"Yes," He said, obviously eager to delay the subject.

"What is happening with your face?" Immediately he slapped his spare hand up to cheek. He tried to play it off as a casual gesture, but already I was suspicious. "Owen, what have you done? Have you punctured the piping bag again? I knew I shouldn't have let you take inventory after last time-"

"Listen, don't panic, okay? I haven't punctured the piping bag again, and anyway you can't hold that against me, it was one time, and even then it was an accident and-" I cut him off with a well-timed quizzical look, and he let out an exasperated breath in the style of a deflating balloon. It was only then that I realised he was nervous.