POV Owen
Damon asks to meet me alone the way people ask for something they’ve already decided they’re entitled to. Not arrogantly. Not timidly.
“Just you,” he says over the phone. “I don’t want this to feel like a performance.”
“All right,” I answer. “Tell me where.”
We meet at a small park near the river, the kind of place designed to look neutral—benches evenly spaced, paths wide enough to avoid collision. Damon is already there when I arrive, hands in his jacket pockets, gaze fixed on the water.
He doesn’t stand when he sees me. He doesn’t smile either.
“Hi,” I say, stopping a few feet away. I don’t sit yet, as I don’t want to loom.
He notices. “You can sit if you want.”
I do. For a moment, neither of us speaks. The quiet isn’t awkward, but it’s deliberate, like both of us are testing whether silence will fill itself with meaning.
“I asked to meet you,” Damon says finally, “because I didn’t want anyone translating this for me.”
“Fair,” I say.
“I don’t need a speech,” he continues. “And I don’t need you to apologize for sixteen years you didn’t know about.”
I nod. “That’s good. Because I won’t.”
He turns his head slightly, studying me. “Why?”
“Apologies are easy,” I answer. “Responsibility isn’t. And I don’t want to confuse the two.”
He considers that. “Most adults don’t make that distinction.”
“Most adults lie more than they realize,” I say.
A corner of his mouth lifts. “You don’t. But that’s not a compliment,” Damon adds.
“I know.”
He exhales, looking back at the water. “My mom thinks you’re dangerous.”
“I am,” I say calmly.
He turns sharply. “You’re not supposed to agree with that.”
“I will not lie to make myself palatable,” I reply. “Danger doesn’t mean violent. It means consequential.”
He watches me closely. “So which one are you?”
“Both,” I answer. “Depending on how honest I’m being.”
That earns me a quiet laugh. “You’re not trying to impress me.”
“No,” I say. “I’m trying not to dominate the conversation.”
He blinks. “Is that something you usually do?”
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation.
Damon absorbs that, nodding slowly. We sit again in silence, the river moving steadily beside us.
“I’m not here to fix you,” Damon says. “Or save you. Or be the reason you become better.”
“I wouldn’t let you,” I reply. “That’s not your burden.”
“Good,” he says. “Because I don’t want that job. I want to know what you want, truly.” The question is direct and unflinching.
“I want to know you,” I answer. “On terms that don’t require you to protect me or admire me. And I want to be honest about the fact that I don’t know how to do this well yet.”
He studies me. “You’re bad at vulnerability. But you’re doing it anyway.”
“Yes, I do.” I think a bit before I continue. “Because if I don’t, I’ll default to control. And that’s not what this needs.”
He nods once. “My mom thinks control is love.”
I don’t argue. “Control is certainty. Love is a risk.”
“That sounds like something you learned late,” Damon says. He shifts on the bench. “I don’t want to hurt her. She’s not evil. She’s just… stuck.”
“I understand,” I reply. “That doesn’t make her right.”
“No,” Damon agrees. “It doesn’t.” He hesitates and then asks, “Are you going to choose her?”
The question is quiet. Not accusatory. Curious.
“No, I won’t choose her,” I answer.
He nods, accepting it without drama. “And your wife?”
“Yes,” I say. “If she still lets me.”
That answer costs me something. I feel it as I say it—how much power I’m giving up by admitting uncertainty.
Damon notices. “You’re scared of Noelle leaving.”
“Yes,” I say simply.
“That makes sense,” he replies. “She doesn’t seem like someone who stays just because it’s easier.”
“You are too smart as for a teenger,” I smile and then agree with him. “You’re right, she isn’t.”
“And if she leaves?” he asks.
I don’t answer right away. When I do, my voice is steady. “Then I live with the consequences of the man I was while I had her.”
He watches me for a long moment. “You’re not asking me to forgive you.”
“I don’t need that,” I say. “I’m asking you not to mythologize me.”
A faint smile touches his mouth. “Too late.” Then, he grows serious again. “I don’t want money or promises you can’t keep. I just want honesty.”
“You’ll get that,” I say. “Even when it’s uncomfortable.”
He leans back, looking up at the sky. “I was worried you’d try to be… impressive.”
“I’ve done that before,” I admit. “It never ends well.”
“You don’t seem interested in being liked,” Damon says. “But more of being accurate. And that might be even worse.”
I nod. “Often is.”
We sit like that for a while, the tension easing into something less sharp.
“Can I ask you something?” he says. “Were you in love with my mom?”
The question lands heavy. I expected everything but not this.
“Yes,” I answer honestly. “In the way I knew how to love then. But now, I’m in love with someone who doesn’t let me hide behind who I used to be.”
He considers that. “That sounds harder.”
“It is,” I say. “And worth it.”
Damon stands. “I think we can try this. Knowing each other without pretending it’s simple.”
I stand too. “That’s the only way I know how to do it.”
He hesitates, then extends his hand. Not a gesture of submission. A choice. I take it.
“Next time,” he says, “you can tell me about the worst thing you’ve ever done.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s ambitious.”
“I’m not afraid of the truth,” Damon replies.
I meet his gaze. “Neither am I.”
He nods once and walks away, hands back in his pockets, posture lighter than when we met.
I stay where I am for a moment, breathing in the cold air, feeling something unfamiliar settle into my chest.
Not absolution or relief, but alignment.
For the first time in a long while, I didn’t try to control the outcome. I didn’t dominate the space and I didn’t soften myself into something false. I spoke plainly. I stayed present and I let silence do its work.
I turn toward home—toward the woman who may or may not still be waiting—and this is what it feels like to meet someone without armor.
It doesn’t make you safer. It makes you real. Will it be enough?
I don’t know yet.