Today's the day.

I hate to admit the number of outfits I tried on this morning. In the end, it was pointless as I went with my same black jeans and old flannel unbuttoned over my T-shirt. At least the dark liner circling my eyes pairs nicely with my sleek black hair. It's my comfort vibe -my gothic-but-not-too-gothic vibe.

Still, staring in the mirror, I can't help but panic.

An entire afternoon with Owen. Sure, we're mainly sampling foods for Patch Fest -picking key flavors and things and there won't be a ton of opportunity for word exchange. And yes, other actual human beings will be present. But still, the panic is real.

I tear through the downstairs hallway and grab a caramel waffle from the kitchen table. Even the breakfast tastes like fall. There is literally no escape.

...

Alex wishes me luck before retrieving his bike from the front lot and taking off on our usual route home.

Owen and I meet in the front courtyard after last bell. It's almost 3:30 PM and the tasting is at 4 PM across town.

"We're walking?" Owen asks.

"Yes, it's only at that bakery in the square. You're wearing sneakers." I can't help but look down at his legs and really just at his whole self in general. I'm surprised he's wearing jeans instead of his usual gym shorts. I suddenly hate my choice of flannel, realizing how close it is to his.

"Fine with me, lead the way." Owen ushers me forward.

We exit the school parking lot, circumventing stares from almost everyone who sees us passing. I swear I saw the Bitchy Witches glowering from the bleachers.

It's a pretty short jaunt to the town square -only 4 or 5 city blocks.

"Everything should be ready. We'll just have to pick the palate and then they make all the other decisions like the appetizers and desserts and-"

"You don't seem too excited for this," Owen says, crossing his arms.

"Don't I?" I feign concern.

"Not at all," he says. "Isn't Halloween your thing?"

"Not exactly... maybe. Some parts of it." I shrug.

"Ah," he nods. "And let me guess it's not the fundraising-student council part?"

"I don't mind it, plus I needed the credit. But if I had it my way, Patch Fest wouldn't have flavors. It'd be all about the gore and lore." I tuck my loose hair behind my ear.

"Less pumpkin spice and more bloody bodies?" Owen raises his eyebrow at me.

"Something like that," I admit.

"Huh." A sliver of a smirk settles on Owen's lips.

"What?" I ask, defensive.

"It's just... I seem to remember you dressed like a princess one year. Fourth or fifth grade was it?" Owen asks.

"Oh my god," I exclaim, internally mortified, yet secretly pleased he remembered my fourth grade Halloween costume of choice. "In my defense -princesses were very in that year."

"Oh, were they?" Owen teases, laughing.

"Yes. Plus I didn't know any better yet!" I shake my head, smirking. "And don't make fun. Weren't you a cowboy or pirate or some other outlawed profession?"

"Both, actually. I had to practice for all my bank-robbing," Owen says matter-of-factly.

We cross the street at the corner and walk to the other side of the town's square. We come up on the row of miniature shops that line Raven Grove's picturesque courtyard.

"Here it is," I say, stopping abruptly. I almost didn't notice we arrived at the bakery, except the perfumed scent of cinnamon hits me like a ton of pumpkins.

"Goode's Shoppe. Oh I've been here," Owen says, nodding. "Love their bagels."

"No bagels for Patch Fest, I'm afraid. Come on."

The window is filled with a colorful pastry display and outlined with fake strands of foliage. I pull the door open and step into the sweet shop.

"Can I help you, dears?" The older woman behind the counter stares from behind horn-rimmed glasses.

"I'm -We're here for the Patch Fest tasting. Today at 4 PM." I say timidly. I am well aware of Owen looking at me.

"Oh, sure sure." The woman claps her hands.

I suppose our book-bags and Owen's RGH jacket were clear indicators, since the woman started nodding right away.

She walks halfway around the counter and shouts into the back room. "Hank! Hank, they're here!"

I shift awkwardly next to Owen, stealing a quick glance. I'm amused to find him rolling his eyes. A short bald man emerges from the back room holding a stack of papers and receipts.

"Hiya," the man says. "Amber Kim? Here for the tastin'?"

"That's me," I nod.

"And I'm Owen."

"Yes, yes." The man, Hank, consults a clipboard. "I have here the 7 flavors. Yer to select 3 or 4 for themes. Up to it, eh?" He asks, way too merrily for it to be acceptable. This is Halloween, not Christmas.

"I'll manage," I say, unable to fully expel the sarcasm from my voice.

"We will manage. It may be hard to pick only 3." Owen flashes his golden smile.

It seems to placate Hank, who directs us to a quiet corner table at the back of the shop.

"Yer sit here. I have everythin' prepared in the back. I'll bring it all out at once and yer can taste. Then let me know when yer leave the selections," Hank says.

He disappears into the back room and I let me eyes wander around the crowded bakery. More people are coming in by the second. It must be the afternoon rush.

"Take a seat," Owen says, ushering me to the far seat.

"After you."

Owen laughs and rolls his eyes but takes a seat at the corner table. He stretches out and I catch a glimpse of the skin above his waistline. He's too busy yawning to notice my blush.

"Didn't realize we'd be waited on. Good gig." Owen looks at me.

"Great gig," I say. Again, my voice seeps with sarcasm. I pretend to be deeply engrossed with something on my phone.

"Something wrong, Amber Kim?" Owen asks.

"Course not. I'm positively thrilled to be at this tasting with you, Owen Carr," I say, folding my hands across my chest.

"Words like venom," he says, pretending to clutch his heart. "Something tells me you may be a little bit thrilled. No?"

"OK, kids. Here's yer goods!" Hank reappears just in time, dropping a heaping tray on the table between us.

"Holy-" Owen begins.

"Now, just give us a holler if yer need us for any-" Hank trails off, already retreating behind the counter.

"Thanks," I mumble.

"Dang, this smells incredible." Owen wafts the sugary aroma towards us.

My stomach churns. "It does."

"Here's the list," Owen says, picking up a piece of loose-leaf paper from the tray. "They're numbered for our convenience."

"Well I'm glad they idiot-proofed it for you," I quip. I brush my hair behind my shoulders and try to grab the list from his hand.

"Contrary to your belief, I can read," he says, smirking. "Allow me."

He pretends to clear his throat. I sigh loudly and tap my fingernails on the edge of the table.

"Fall flavor palate options, 2021: Smoked Salted Caramel, Toffee-Nut Butterscotch, Honied Fig & Pear, Fresh Farm Stand Apple, Sweet Cinnamon Pumpkin, Maple Molasses, and last is Caramelized Cranberry. Of course, these can all be tuned to drinks, pastries, dishes, etc."

"Of course," I say.

"Shall we?" Owen asks, glancing at me and then the tray. "This is number one, the Smoked Salted Carmel."

I take the tiny cookie-looking pastry and pop it in my mouth. The bitesize treat offers instant gratification for my tongue.

"Oh my god," I exhale, almost moaning.

Owen laughs, head tilted back. "I know. Wow."

"So this is a definite yes." I laugh.

"Sold." Owen finishes chewing.

We breeze through the rest of the fall flavor palate options. The Honied Fig & Pear tartlet was a sweet surprise, but the Maple Molasses bacon lollipop was the true diamond in the rough.

Somehow, two whole hours manage to escape us before we finally select our final four flavors. We thank Hank and give him our selections for Patch Fest. The entire fates of everyone's tastebuds lie in our hands. We exit Goode's Shoppe into the crisp October night, each carrying a caramel apple favor thrust into our hands by Hank.

I'm never going to get this smell of cinnamon buns out of this flannel. I'm also never going to forget this night.

...

"So we agree then?" Owen asks me, point blank.

"If you're finally admitting that a cowboy would 100% defeat a pirate at bank-robbery, then yes, we agree," I say, laughing into my caramel apple.

"No, I'm saying a cowboy could, not would. If the robbery were at sea, then it totally goes to the pirate," Owen explains.

"So victory is contingent upon location of the bank," I say, bidding. I roll my eyes, stretching my arms and stifling a yawn on my porch swing.

Owen insisted he walk me back to my house post-flavor party. I was not about to argue. What I didn't expect was to then sit on my pumpkin-infested front porch for another two hours debating the criminal tendencies and idiosyncrasies of various rebellious outlaws.

"So, Amber Kim, are you reprising your role of princess for the Halloween ball?" Owen asks, teasing.

"Absolutely... the last thing I would do," I smile. "Better chance me being a pirate."

"I could be the cowboy to your scallywag," Owen suggests.

"You did not just say scallywag," I laugh.

I put my hand down on the cushion and am suddenly aware how close it is to Owen's -how close I am to him right now. "Plus, you'll be a prince again and be Pumpking, just like last year."

I hope my voice doesn't sound too revealing.

"You make it sound like an insult," Owen scolds. He licks caramel off his fingers and I lowkey die inside.

"Isn't it?" I raise my brow. "Who's to say?"

He looks exceptionally good tonight -with his mischievous smirk that matches his eyes glinting under the misty moon and sitting beside me on the cushion still smelling like maple and bacon -all of it pairs well.

"You know," Owen says, standing and stretching, "You're kind of surprising."

"You make it sound like an insult," I admonish, smirking.

"Not at all," Owen says. "Far from it."

Dead.

...

I crawl into bed and pull my phone out to text a novel to Alex -in response to his 27 missed messages. I tell him all about the flavor tasting and share some details about my time with Owen. I even admit he walked me home. We agree that Monica would just implode if she knew how well the tasting had gone and how long my one-on-one time was with the golden QB. 

What I don't share is our porch session. That time was just for us. And I want to keep it that way for as long as possible.