Page 7 of You Owe Me (21 Rumors #2)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Rumor has it, he kidnapped a child at the park.

Maverick

I should’ve drugged her.

Nothing dangerous, just enough melatonin to knock her out until the delivery window closes and the new couch is already bolted to our floor. Instead, I brought her to the furniture store awake and opinionated.

“Why are we even here?” She groans. “You said this was a coffee run.”

“We got coffee,” I say, sipping mine calmly. “This is the second part of the errand.”

“The part where you betray me? Great. Just what I need after a shitty day.”

“It’s Saturday, and you literally woke up like two hours ago. How shitty could your day have been?”

She fixes me with a glare. “Do not try and make sense when I’m upset. I won’t tolerate it.”

I would laugh, but she turns, making a slow circle as she takes in the sea of staged living rooms and color-coordinated pillows. “I don’t like any of these.”

I sigh. “You also haven’t sat on any of them to know if they have potential.”

She huffs but knows I’m right. She also knows that I was not joking when I said our sofa was on the way out, whether she agreed or not. I’m tired of being poked in the ass.

The first sofa we pass is an off-white sectional with tufted buttons and a ridiculous name tag: Seaside Dusk.

Ainsley stops in front of it and crosses her arms. “This couch looks like it doesn’t allow snacks.”

I ignore her and keep walking.

It’s not like I love furniture shopping either, but we have to buy a new couch. It’s not enough. Not for both of us. Not for the life we’ve built since she moved in.

It was already falling apart when she moved in. When she was heartbroken and furious and too proud to take the bed. She bonded with it instantly.

I get it. I do.

But I’m tired of playing Russian roulette with my ass.

“This one’s decent,” I say, stopping at a slate gray couch with clean lines and actual lumbar support. “Big enough for both of us. No exposed metal.”

She side-eyes it. “That couch would correct your posture and your personality.”

I sit anyway. Solid frame. No squeaks. I bounce once. “This is a step up from the SpongeBob Band-Aids holding together our couch.”

Her jaw drops. “You did not just disrespect him like that.”

“You’re defending the couch now?”

“I’m defending the history we have together. That couch raised me.”

“You moved in a year ago.”

“And it’s been a journey.”

Brenda, the sales associate, appears like a summoned demon. “Can I help you two find anything?”

“Something sturdy,” I say. “That doesn’t?—”

Ainsley steps in. “Something that cradles your soul.”

Brenda blinks. “Right. Let me show you our modular options.”

As she walks off, Ainsley whispers, “You’re bluffing, right? You aren’t really going to replace our sofa, are you?”

I look at her seriously. “I’m not bluffing. It’s gotta go.”

She stares at me, arms crossed.

And I know this isn’t about fabric or price tags. It’s about comfort. Safety. Memory.

And I’m trying to convince her to outgrow it.

We trail behind Brenda like two hostages.

The “modular options” turn out to be a lineup of couches the size of small islands, all in various shades of socially acceptable. Gray. Charcoal. Taupe. One that might’ve been navy but gave up halfway through production.

Brenda gestures to a russet sectional like she’s presenting a prize on a game show. “This one’s very popular with couples. It’s roomy, durable, and comes with stain-resistant fabric.”

Ainsley snorts. “You mean it’s ugly.”

I run a hand over the armrest. “It’s not bad.”

She blinks at me like I’ve just slapped her.

“Maverick. That thing looks like it belongs in a basement man cave next to a neon beer sign and a dartboard with holes in the drywall.”

“Sounds ideal,” I mutter, testing the cushions. “You could actually nap on this without dislocating a rib.”

“Blasphemy,” she says under her breath.

Brenda pretends not to hear. “It comes in several configurations: L-shape, U-shape, even a pull-out bed option?—”

“We definitely need a pull-out,” Ainsley cuts in. “For when Maverick pisses me off because I can’t get comfortable on this new couch.”

I give her a deadpan look. “You’d miss me after an hour.”

She shrugs. “Maybe.”

And there it is again. The loyalty to something that’s not even comfortable anymore.

It’s not about furniture. It’s about what the old couch held.

The breakups. The breakdowns. Movie nights.

Study sessions. That week she got the flu and refused to be babied, so she built a pillow fort and declared it a quarantine zone.

She healed on that couch, emotionally and otherwise.

And somewhere along the way, she let me sit beside her without kicking me out.

I respect the attachment. I do.

But I also want a couch that doesn’t sound like it’s giving up on life every time we sit down together.

Brenda launches into another pitch, something about hidden storage and microfiber innovation, but I zone out. My watch vibrates. Heart rate’s fine, for now. Good. Because if I have to talk her through one more ugly-couch-equals-emotional-stability meltdown, I’m going to need defibrillation.

“I think we’re done,” I say, interrupting whatever Brenda’s selling now.

Ainsley perks up instantly, eyes hopeful. “Done done? Or like… giving up for now, done?”

“Done for today,” I say, already turning toward the exit. “We’re eventually getting a new couch.”

When we get to the car, I open the door for her.

She stares at me for a beat before getting in. “You know I love that couch, right?”

I nod. “I know.”

And I do. That’s why I haven’t thrown it out already. I’m trying to find something else she’ll trust the same way. Something we both fit on. Something built to last, like we are.

She sighs. “Fine. But I reserve the right to veto anything that looks like it belongs in a frat house.”

“Deal. And I reserve the right to veto anything with sequins, florals, or the words ‘shabby chic’ in the description.”

“Rude.”

“Necessary.”

She slides into her seat with a dramatic huff, as if sitting on beige couches has shaved years off her life. I shut her door and walk around to mine, giving myself a second.

She’s not just stalling on the couch. She’s stalling on letting go of what it meant—of where she started, of how far we’ve come. I know that. I respect it. But I also know we’re not the same people who survived that old living room anymore.

We’ve built something better. And if she won’t let herself feel that right now, I’ll remind her.

I start the car and put it in drive.

And take a left instead of a right.

She notices immediately. “You missed the turn.”

“Did I?”

Her eyes narrow. “Where are we going? And don’t say it’s a surprise unless that surprise is tacos.”

“Not tacos.”

“Maverick,” she warns.

“Relax,” I say, eyes on the road. “It’s a detour.”

She doesn’t respond right away. That’s how I know I’ve thrown her off. Ainsley doesn’t do silence unless she’s thinking.

Which means she knows I’m up to something.

Ten minutes later, I pull into a mostly empty lot outside a community park. Old swing set. Faded slides. Grass cut too short. It’s quiet with low traffic. Safe.

Neutral ground.

She frowns. “You brought me to a park?”

“I did.”

“Do you have a head injury?”

“Not currently.”

She crosses her arms but doesn’t get out. “Why?”

I put the car in park and glance over at her. “Because you’ve been ready to fight everything with a pulse today, including me, and I figure maybe we both need a reset.”

She stares at me for a long second. Then, quietly, “I don’t like surprises.”

“You’ll like this one.”

That gets her. Not because she believes me, but because she’s too curious not to test it.

We step out of the car, and I head for the swings. She trails behind, arms still crossed, jaw still tight, watching me like I might try to sell her a beige sectional out here in the wild.

“This better not be some metaphor.” She eyes the swing set like it insulted her.

“It’s not,” I say, settling onto one. The chain creaks, but it holds. “It’s just a swing.”

She hesitates just a second too long. Then she sits beside me.

Her feet scrape the ground. She sways but doesn’t lift off. Not yet.

“You know, I haven’t done this since middle school,” she mutters.

“Yeah? Then you’re overdue.”

I push gently with my feet, just enough to rock the swing. She mimics me without meaning to. Muscle memory. The human brain remembers joy, even when we try to pretend it’s childish.

After a beat, she starts swinging higher. And higher. Until her hair’s whipping into her face and her legs are kicking like she’s daring the sky to push back.

I don’t say anything.

I just watch her being loud and free and chaotic in the most beautiful way. Like the weight’s gone for a second. Like the stuff she won’t say out loud about why she needs that couch and how hard it is to let go of something that’s carried her through hell is still there, but lighter now.

She looks over her shoulder. “You just gonna stare like a creep or what?”

“Definitely stare.”

She slows her swing just enough to make a face at me. “You’re weirdly sentimental today. It’s freaking me out.”

“Coming from the woman who threatened to stab someone over a couch spring the other day.”

“It’s not the spring I care about,” she mutters, kicking at the mulch under her feet. “It’s... everything else.”

I nod, even though she’s not really looking at me. “I know.”

She glances sideways. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I nudge the ground, letting my swing sway. “It’s the first place that felt like yours. I remember.”

Ainsley’s quiet again, but this time it’s not suspicious. It’s soft.

She drags her toes to a stop, staring down at the worn rubber of the swing like it’s holding the answers to every argument we’ve ever had. “It was the only place I felt like I could breathe that first week. Like, really breathe. Not fake-it-and-smile breathing.”

“I remember that, too.” I keep my voice level. “You wouldn’t go near the bed.”

“It smelled like Tucker.”

“Everything smelled like bad decisions back then.”

That earns a half laugh. “Including you.”

“Still does,” I say. “But you stayed.”

She finally looks at me. “Yeah. I stayed.”

There’s a stretch of silence. Not awkward. Just… heavy. Comfortable in its own way.

“I’m not trying to erase anything,” I say. “I’m just trying to make space for new stuff. Better stuff.”

She blinks a few times, then nods. Not dramatic. Not sarcastic. Just… nods.

“So,”—she tips her head toward me—“are we getting snacks next, or are you going to keep emotionally manipulating me with rusty playground equipment?”

I smirk. “You mean bonding?”

“Sure. Let’s call it that.”

She pushes off again with her feet. The chains groan a little, but hold strong. Just like her.

“Okay.” Her breath catches as she lifts off the ground. “Tell me something embarrassing.”

I raise a brow. “Like what?”

She grins mid-swing. “Middle school trauma. Weird habits. Secret love of Hallmark movies. I don’t know. Give me something to mock to make me happy.”

I consider it for half a second before deadpanning, “Sometimes when you’re not home, I jerk off to that voicemail you left, threatening me when I didn’t answer your text in a timely manner.”

She balks. “You do what?”

I smirk. “You heard me.”

Her mouth drops open, but no words come out.

Which is rare. And satisfying.

“I—okay, no. You don’t get to just say that like it’s normal.”

“It’s not?”

“No, it’s… I mean—” She blinks at me. “That’s hot. Weird. But hot.”

“Which part?”

She gives me a look. “Don’t make me choose.”

“Would you rather I said I reorganize my sock drawer?”

“I’d rather you tell me how often you do the voicemail thing, actually.”

I flash her a smirk. “How often are you not home?”

Her eyes go wide. Pink creeps into her cheeks.

And just like that, the power shifts.

“You’re ridiculous,” she breathes.

“You asked for something embarrassing.”

“That wasn’t embarrassing; that was unfairly charming. I was aiming for awkward teenage confessions. Not full seduction with confessions of love.”

“You’ve met me, right?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

She tries to glare, but she’s still blushing, and I count that as a win.