Wild Reckless Page 22

With my eyes closed, I nod, knowing that it’s already too late.

  “Hey,” Owen says, his body suddenly in front of me. My eyes start where they shouldn’t, and by the time I meet his, his crooked smile threatens to tease me, but he doesn’t.

  “Hey,” I say back, my voice hoarse and raspy.

  “So, House and a few of the guys are heading over to Sasha’s house, that place I took you for that party?” Owen’s shifting the ball back and forth in his hands, nervously. “Anyhow, we can all go, if you want…or not. I mean, whatever.”

  My stomach sinks, because I can tell Owen wants to leave with his friends, and I can also see how much they don’t blend with mine. Ryan is the only connection; the only one among us who seems to move in and out of cliques seamlessly, unaffected. House is leaning on his truck, spitting sunflower seeds into my yard, and Andrew is caught somewhere between both groups, too young to really belong.

  “I was kind of planning on hanging out here, passing out candy with everyone, until—” I say, not wanting to say the rest any longer. Not wanting to say I was planning on staying here until everyone left Owen and me alone—not wanting to say how much I just want to be with Owen, and no one else. In a flash, I feel naïve and stupid, and I think of Willow, and her warning.

  “No, that’s cool. I’ll just tell him we’re out,” he says, his fingers rapping a few times on the ball, his eyes still on me. He’s waiting for something, waiting for what? For me to tell him it’s okay?

  “Why don’t you go? Maybe…just come back, if it’s not too late. Maybe I’ll be up,” I say, throwing the maybe in there totally passive aggressively, doing a poor job of masking my disappointment.

  Willow stands quickly, slipping through the door with the excuse of helping Elise clean up. And for the first time in hours, I’m left alone with Owen, alone while his friends watch us from House’s truck along the roadside, his brother and Jess watching from Owen’s front porch, and the rest of my friends eavesdropping from inside my house. I’m alone with him, and embarrassed.

  The practice conversation happening in my head starts with me telling Owen to just leave, but it always finishes with me begging him to stay. I keep my eyes on my knees, on the toes of his Converse, while I work out my words. I’m interrupted when Owen’s hand finds my chin, and I can feel the pressure of his fingers lifting my gaze upward as he kneels down in front of me.

  “I don’t go without you. And if you don’t want to go, we’re staying here,” he says, his eyes unflinching, his focus completely on me, drowning out the nosey eyes and ears around us.

  “Are you sure?” I ask, and he starts to chuckle lightly, leaning forward and kissing the tip of my nose.

  “You know what’s hot?” he asks, making a turn in our conversation that throws me a little. I shrug and bunch my brow.

  “No, Owen. What’s…hot?” I respond, not sure where this is going.

  “When a girl knows exactly what she wants and just asks for it,” he says, his eyes daring me. My mouth is dry, and my heart is beating in my stomach. “What do you want, Kensi? I will give you anything. You just have to ask.”

  Elise’s giggle slips out, and I know she and Willow are listening on the other side of the door. I also notice Andrew’s stare as well as House’s just over Owen’s shoulder. So many outside forces at play, my head begins to feel dizzy, until Owen’s hand pulls my chin back to him again, our faces inches apart, his bare chest within reach, his face like my dreams.

  “I want you to stay here…with me,” I say, letting myself fall, letting myself trust that Owen will catch me—love me for my honesty.

  “Done,” he says, his eyes hanging on mine for a few long seconds, his cocky smile tugging at one side of his mouth before he stands and tosses the ball to Andrew across my driveway.

  “Sorry, House. I’m out,” he says, waving his hand when his friend flips him off and drives away in his truck with the rest of his friends.

  “One more game?” Jess asks, dribbling awkwardly as he and Andrew walk up behind Owen. Owen looks at me, and it takes me a few seconds before I realize he’s waiting for my approval—not in a rude way, but in a considerate one. I nod back at him and hug my legs tightly to my body.

  “Yeah, one more. Then I think we should put some candles on a cake or something,” he smirks, watching me the entire time as he falls back on his feet and joins Jess, Ryan, and Andrew for one final game in my driveway.

  “Okay, that was hot,” Willow whispers after barely opening the back door behind me. She slips out with Elise this time, and they sit on either side of me.

  The boys play at least six more games while the three of us watch, taking turns making commentary on their play, mocking Jess’s inability to score, and Ryan’s pale white skin when he pulls his shirt off. We laugh when Andrew tries to make a layup six times in a row, failing each and every time, until everyone makes a pact not to guard him, just to watch him miss again.

  We laugh. Owen laughs.

  And suddenly, there’s a moment when he’s smiling—his eyes find mine, and the connection tugs on me, on my heart. This is the worst and the best year of my life, all at once, yet this single frame, my eyes on his, his mouth curved just right, the perfect smile, the perfect mix of darkness and light—it’s winning.

  “Yes, Willow,” I say, my voice slight.

  “Yes, what?” she asks, still laughing at the last play Jess attempted in front of her.

  “That question you asked…yes,” I say, just loud enough for her to hear.

  “I know,” she sighs. “And I know you won’t be careful either. Can’t say I blame you.” She leans into me slowly, putting enough pressure on my side to embrace me, and not alert Elise. I lean back, and I watch Owen while I draw on Willow’s strength, hoping like hell I can survive loving him.

  As soon as the sun kisses the horizon, tiny ghosts, superheroes, ninjas, and small princesses fill the streets. Every birthday I’ve celebrated has been in the city, every Halloween in the city. This day, in the city—it’s different. People trick-or-treat in buildings, never leaving their hallways or sometimes floors. When I was little, my mom would walk me down our small street, up the two or three flights for the row homes connected to ours. I visited maybe twelve households, rung twelve doorbells, took home a small pillowcase of candy.

  My mom was looking forward to tonight. She went to Costco, bought the big candy bars. And as the night wears on, and less kids ring our doorbell, my mom starts giving out two bars at once. After thirty minutes, and several Snickers of our own, the night seems to be done, and my mom sends Willow, Ryan, Jess, and Elise home with a pack of chocolate bars each.

  Owen waits behind, heeding my mom’s orders that we stay downstairs, and that he goes home before midnight. When her door closes, Owen sweeps me into his arms, lifting my legs from the ground and kissing me as he carries me to my piano. My friends gave me a few new music books for my birthday, not really knowing about my silent protest against this instrument. That’s the beauty of independent study—I can pretend I’m actually still practicing, and there’s nobody there to witness and counter my lie.

  “So, explain these things to me,” Owen says, settling on the bench with me still in his lap. He pulls one of the books over and flips through a few pages.

  “Well, this line here,” I start, pointing to the top ledger for one of the Mozart books, “is for my right hand. The one on the bottom, with this symbol, is for my left.”

  “And you can read this?” he says, brow pinched, finger tracing the lines of notes while his other hand trails up and down my back.

  “Uh huh,” I say.

  “Prove it,” he says, pulling the book forward and placing it on the music stand for my piano. He’s trying so hard to be smooth, and part of me wonders if he also planned this out in a conversation with my mother.

  “Ohhhhh nooooo,” I chuckle, closing the book and sliding it back along the top of the piano. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

  “What?” he
asks, his face an expression totally foreign to him. It’s fake, and Owen can’t pull off fake. He’s clear about everything, and I like that he can’t pretend with me. “Yeah…all right. You’re right,” he says finally, pushing the book a few inches more away from me. “But you haven’t played, not really, not since—”

  “I know,” I answer without him finishing. “I can’t explain it, but…I just don’t want to anymore.”

  “But you love this. You love music,” he says.

  “I did,” I say, looking down at my keys, my right hand finding familiar—hating it and loving it all at once.

  Owen studies me, his left hand still stroking my back, soothing me—lulling me. “Bullshit,” he says.

  “Owen, it’s not bullshit. The piano, me playing, studying it—that was always my dad’s dream for me,” I say.

  “Bullshit,” he says again, his eyes a little darker, challenging.

  “Stop it,” I say, my tone angrier. “Don’t say that.”

  “Because it’s true,” he says. “You might associate this with your dad, but there’s a part of you, a part of your heart, that loves your talent. I know it.”

  “Owen, I know you’re just trying to be supportive, or whatever, but please don’t. You don’t understand,” I say, and he runs his right hand over mine, pressing my fingers into the keys slowly until they make a sound, a sound that breaks my heart and fills my chest.

  “Yes I do,” he whispers into my ear. “I understand, Kens. You know how I know?”

  “How?” I ask, a breath in response to him.

  “Because I heard you,” he says, his eyes boring into me, like he’s reaching inside me, rattling my heart back to life. His right hand holds my fingers into the valleys of the pressed keys. “Play for me. None of this,” he motions to the books spread out on my piano top. “Play what you love, what you want to hear. Please, Kens. Just this once, for me, for your birthday.”

  “Do you know how fucked up it is that you are asking for a present on my birthday?” I tease, my heart rapid in my chest, my fingers rigid, not wanting to do this. I’m frightened.

  “Not a present,” he says, his lips sliding into a smile, a new smile. “A gift.”

  I roll my eyes, but let them settle on our hands together, mine still resting in their position on the keyboard. Slowly, I slide my hand out from under his and crack my knuckles against my chest. With a deep breath, I nod once to Owen, then move my hands back into a different position—one far away from the usual classics I’ve been forced to practice. I move them into a loose position, comfortable, barely touching the keys. Eyes closed, I begin to drag them slowly around the middle of the keyboard, my foot pressing the dampening pedal, trying not to play loud enough for my mother to hear. It’s pointless, though—the music echoes in the cavern of the tall dining room and front foyer of the house.

  Owen’s hand stays on my back, his rhythm constant, fingers gliding up and down, until I finally let myself have this small break, allowing my fingers to fly further up the keyboard, breaking rules, changing time, changing speed.

  What comes out is completely out of my head, something bluesy, and something that never repeats. I play for maybe a full minute, and somewhere along the way, my mouth curves into a smile, and I don’t realize until I open my eyes; Owen is looking back at me. I stop abruptly, my smile collapsing fast.

  “What?” I ask, embarrassed, feeling foolish, feeling as though I betrayed myself somehow too, giving in to my protest.

  “You’re something else, you know that?” he says, his eyes bright, his smile full, and his hand never breaking its soothing touch. “What was that?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, pulling my hands back into my lap, closing them into fists. “I made it up.”

  “Wow,” he says, and when I look at him, he’s still smiling.

  “Stop it; you’re embarrassing me,” I say, a small giggle slipping out. I tuck my face into his shoulder.

  “All I know is you…you loved that,” he says. I look long and hard at the keys, my mouth a faint smile, afraid to give in to Owen’s temptation, afraid to admit that I did love it, that I still love music, that I still have this connection to my father.

  “Stop thinking it’s for him,” Owen says, reading my mind. My eyes snap to his. “It never was—your gift? It was never for him. So don’t go giving it away to him now. He doesn’t deserve it.”

  I lay my head back along his chest, and just breathe. Owen holds me, and we sit still in the silence of the enormous room for almost an hour, my hands never crossing over onto the piano again. I let my eyes take it in, though, mentally playing every sound in my head—my sounds, the songs that were always for me.

  Owen is right.

  “I never gave you your present,” he says finally, snapping me back to the present, bringing me out of the dream I was so happily falling into while resting in his arms. “You think we can make it upstairs?” he asks, nodding up, toward my mother’s door, the one that comes before my bedroom.

  “You go up first, I’ll turn off the lights and lock up,” I say, not able to fully look him in the eye. The thought of having Owen in my room, alone with me, has my body feeling alive and warm and electric. I’m also nervous and scared—of being caught, yes, but also of being that alone with Owen.

  We’ve never been so alone.

  I watch nervously as he glides up the stairs, pulling his shoes off halfway, so he can slip quietly past my mom’s room. I wait a few extra seconds, making sure he’s in my room, then I lock the back door, walking the length of the house from the back to the front, flipping every light switch off along the way.

  I check the front door, bolt it and glance at the clock on the wall. It’s already well past midnight, and my mother never once came downstairs. I’m pretty sure she’s fallen asleep. She trusts me. And I’m about to take advantage of that—a tinge of guilt squeezing at me from the inside, a tinge that I bury and ignore and replace with anxiety over all the what ifs that come along with being alone with Owen.

  Holding my breath, I pause at my mom’s door, listening for the familiar sounds—the buzz of her humidifier, the dull sound of the low television, the constant stream of infomercials that I know she isn’t watching. All signs point to her being asleep, to the risk being minimal, so I continue on into my room. I close the door and turn the light out quickly, surprising Owen.

  “Okay, so I know I’m ugly, but really? You have to keep me in the dark, too?” he jokes.

  “You’re not ugly,” I say, reaching to the end of my bed and throwing a pillow at him where he sits. He clutches it in his arms and sets it next to him, on the floor—the space where I usually sit to watch him through the window. I notice his gaze pauses at that window, his smile quirking up. For some reason having him here, knowing I watch him from this room, embarrasses me, so I quickly turn my attention away from that space.

  His back rests against the headboard of my bed, his feet stretched out in front of him, the small bag with his gift in his lap. When he pats the space next to him, I swallow loudly, kick off my shoes, and crawl next to him, folding my legs up in front of me. My fidgeting hands and feet create a small barrier between us, a barrier Owen is quick to crash down when he lets his hand graze along the inside of my leg, stopping at my knee.

  “Present time?” I ask, my voice a whisper. I’m sure if I speak any louder my mom will crash through the door. I’m not sure what she would do if she caught Owen here. She’s not the type to get angry over things like this, and I think a small part of her would be glad to see me do something so typical and teenager. But I also know she wouldn’t trust me anymore. And that would make me sad.

  Owen holds the bag in his lap for a few seconds, turning it and folding over the top a few times. I can tell whatever is inside is small, but heavy.

  “I told you how my grandpa raised us, right?” Owen says finally.

  “Yeah,” I say back. We’re both still whispering, and the fact that Owen is—without me asking him to�
�fills me with relief.

  “He was a fixer,” Owen says, and I quirk my head to the side, pinching my brow.

  “A…fixer?” I repeat.

  “Yeah…I mean that’s not like his official title or job or anything. He worked in the warehouse with my dad. That’s how my parents met, actually. My dad worked for him,” Owen says, his fingers wrestling with the strings on the gift, tucking them in and out of the fold nervously. He doesn’t share these stories often, and I don’t dare speak or interrupt him.

  “When he wasn’t working, and even more after he retired, my grandpa did odd jobs for people, fixing things. Not really a handyman, because he didn’t go to houses or climb ladders for people. But people brought him things. And sometimes, they’d forget to come back and collect whatever it was he was fixing for them,” Owen says, his lips curved into a soft, affectionate smile, his eyes showing nothing but fondness for this memory.

  “So…” Owen starts, sliding the bag from his lap onto mine. “This is from my grandpa’s collection. He saved a few special things, things that sort of spoke to him. He never really knew why he kept this thing in particular. But then, when I was visiting him at the home the other day, I noticed it again. I’ve probably stared at this thing for four years, both on the shelf at our house and in his room at the home when we moved him there. It never meant anything…until now. When I asked him if I could give it to you, he lit up. He doesn’t light up often anymore.”

  Owen pauses, his hands folded nervously in his lap, his thumbs tapping one another, his eyes cast down on the gift in my lap. The light through the window is dim, but it’s bright enough to see his expression. He’s anxious, and maybe also a little happy. I unbend the fold in the top of the bag and untwist the knotted strings, pulling out the crumpled tissue paper from the top. When I reach in, my fingers feel something cold, made of a heavy metal. I pull the object out slowly, holding it in front of my face, resting it on my palm. It stands only a few inches tall, and the shape is similar to a small grandfather’s clock, but I know what it is immediately.