Page 21 of Along Came Alice

“It was worth it,” he says. “I spend every day here.”

“Even in the winter?”

“Especially in the winter.” He unbuttons his cuffs and rolls his shirt sleeves up, revealing his sculpted forearms.

Don’t stare.

“And when it rains?” I ask.

“I bring an umbrella,” he answers quickly.

“You don’t,” I challenge.

“I do,” he fires back.

“Wow.” There’s a little part of me that warms at the thought of him out here day after day, but then I see him sitting here on his own, come rain, hail, or shine, and I feel a tinge of sadness. Why would someone close themselves off so acutely?

“Don’t you get lonely out here?” my infernal brain fires off before I can veto it. But he doesn’t seem offended. In fact, there’s almost a hint of a smile as he answers.

“Not at all.” He inhales deeply before adding, “The outdoors is the best medicine.”

I want to ask him what he means by this, but I’m distracted as Owen unclips the sides of his lunchbox and removes the lid. And I’m dumbfounded for the second time in less than a minute. Sitting in neatly organised compartments is a salad that appears not to have been compiled yet. Spinach and basil leaves are separated from what looks to be feta cheese, along with a section for croutons. And nestled in the lid is a small pot, which he shakes before drizzling the contents over the leaves. I wait for him to decant it all and mix the whole ensemble, but he doesn’t. He just frees the fork from the lid where it’s attached and begins to eat.

I feel slightly unsophisticated when I unwrap my cheese sandwich.

After two bites, I give in and ask, “You’re not going to mix your salad?”

“No,” he answers without missing a beat.

“Why not?”

“I don’t like things mixed.”

“Isn’t that the whole point of a salad?”

Owen looks up. “Who says?”

This has me thinking.

“No one, I guess.” I shrug.

“I don’t like the textures mixing.” He continues to eat so neatly and precisely that I feel I’m contaminating the air just by being here.

In my desperation to break the inadequacy, I blurt, “Why have you agreed to help me?”

My sandwich flops, bits of grated cheese falling from the confines of the bread, and his eyes track them with disdain. Picking the stray bits of cheddar from my lap, I consider him not answering until he swallows hard and his shoulders settle.

“When I saw you this morning, you looked worried.”

This is not the answer I was expecting. “People look worried all the time.”

“Not you.” He shakes his head. “I’ve never seen you looking worried. It wouldn’t suit you.”

I chuckle, thinking he’s joking, but his expression doesn’t change.

“Doesn’t everyone not suit looking worried?” I ask.

“I suit it.”