Wild Reckless Page 24

  “Why doesn’t Owen’s mom kick him out? Or take him to rehab?” I ask, opening my door and moving one foot inside.

  “They can’t afford rehab, Kens, come on,” he says, and I wince because he’s right, I should know better. “And James may be a drug addict, but he’s still her son. She loves him.”

  “Is that where Owen is? Right now? Is he at home?” I ask, and I don’t have to wait for his answer, because I know that’s where he is.

  I leave Ryan with his lips parted, ready to speak, and squeal my tires backing away from my parking spot. I hear the whistle from the teacher on parking-lot duty, but I ignore it, maneuvering my way to the front of the exit line, turning right on a red light, into a rush of traffic.

  Somehow sparing my car any new dings or dents, I weave through dirt alongside the road until I get to a street that I know goes to my house. I pull up, and immediately I see Owen’s truck, and the car I now know belongs to James. But I also see something else.

  My father’s car is at the end of the driveway, far enough forward to make room for my car— like he’s planning on staying here a while. I slow, quietly turning into my driveway, positioning my car near the edge, out of the way so my father can exit. And, near my own escape—I leave my hand on the keys, not sure I should commit to turning the engine off.

  On one side, I have Owen’s house, and as I roll down my window and listen, everything seems quiet—as it always is. There’s silence surrounding my house, too, even though my mom’s car is also in the driveway. Both of my parents are in that house. Together.

  Waiting for me, I can only presume.

  I didn’t text my mom that I was planning to stay for Owen’s game. I thought she would be gone, and I assumed she wouldn’t care. But clearly, her ambush screams otherwise.

  The divorce conversation was bound to come. At eighteen, I hardly feel I need things explained to me. Given the circumstances, I can’t see any other end for this game. The moment my father’s face shifted when I asked him about the affair, asked him about some other woman—the first thing that flowed through my head was this very conversation my parents are sitting in there waiting to have. That’s actually what sickened me most in that first few minutes. How quickly things changed though when Gaby also became a part of this story. It put things into perspective, made this conversation not only unnecessary, but a joke.

  I’m not having this talk today. And I’m a little disappointed in my mom for trying to force it on me.

  With ease, I push my car door closed, latching it enough to make the dome light flicker off, then I jog to Owen’s front porch, and I tap my key ring on his front door, wanting to keep everything quiet. When nobody answers after my second attempt, I try my hand on the doorknob, and when it twists, I push lightly, letting myself inside.

  “Hello?” I call out, the downstairs lights dim, only a lamp on in a corner by a reading chair. The living room is dark as is the kitchen, but there’s a glow from the rooms upstairs. “Hello? Owen?” I say loudly, my voice directed up the stairs. I hear footsteps coming down the wooden floors of the hallway, and soon I see Andrew’s sock-covered feet.

  “Hey, Kens,” he whispers, gliding down the steps quickly and meeting me on the bottom. “You here for O?”

  “Yeah,” I whisper back, taking his lead. “He left school, and he has a game today. I…I was worried.”

  Andrew smiles, his hands hanging in the front pocket of his hoodie, his hair disheveled, like he’s been sleeping. “I came home sick today,” he says, running his hand a few times through his hair when he notices me looking at it, his smile reflecting his youth. “My mom came to get me, because she didn’t want to bother Owen. But when we got home…”

  Andrew turns to look over his shoulder, back up the stairs, and Owen is standing at the top, his eyes on mine, his face showing a look of disappointment. “Andrew, go back to bed,” he says, sighing. He takes a few steps, and meets Andrew in the middle of the stairs.

  “See ya later, Kens,” Andrew says, a small wave over his shoulder. Owen keeps his back to me, pointing to his brother’s door down the hall, and he watches until his brother is back inside, the door closed, before turning back to face me.

  “Kens, what are you doing here?” His sigh is heavy, and he looks like he’s been mugged, a small bruise forming on one cheek.

  “Owen, what happened?” I say, reaching to touch it. He jerks back, moving up and away from me.

  “It’s nothing. I’m fine,” he says, his eyes rolling a little with his temper. “Didn’t Ryan find you? I’m coming back for the game. I was just going to meet you at the gym.”

  “He found me. He said…” I’m interrupted by the sound of open wailing—heavy cries filled with swear words and a few nonsensical things.

  “Owen!” James finally yells, his voice broken, sounding nothing like the intimidating figure from before.

  “Just…stay here,” Owen says forcefully, his hand held up to my face as he turns quickly and takes the steps two at a time, rushing down the hallway to where I’m assuming his brother is.

  At first, I do as he asks, letting my hands grip either side of the banister, my body swaying back and forth with indecision—to go up or down. I hear the sound of scuffling at first, then something heavy knocked to the floor, followed by the sound of running water. It’s as if my feet carried me on their own volition, and somehow I find myself standing in front of the bathroom. Owen is kneeling, his body leaning over the bathtub, steam coming from the blast of running hot water, and he’s soaking towels. He doesn’t notice me until he shuts the water off, and begins to twist one of the towels, wringing it of excess water.

  “Kens, I told you to wait there!” he yells, his face angry and his eyes stern. He’s trying to use his aggression to dominate me, as I’ve seen him do to others.

  “How can I help?” I ask, taking a step into the bathroom, then stopping dead in my tracks when I realize James is lying naked around the corner, his head resting on the side of the toilet, vomit…everywhere. I cover my mouth and nose, both to hide my shock and to stifle the smell. Owen was trying to keep this from me, but it’s becoming apparent that he’s also trying to keep it from everyone—leaving no one there for Owen.

  James begins weeping the instant he sees me, his eyes not able to focus on me entirely, the puffiness almost swelling them shut. Owen slides back against the side of the tub, his hands dropping the wet towel on the floor, his long legs stretching out as he flips his hat from his head, tossing it out into the hall.

  “Shit!” he yells, pushing his head forward into his hands, his fingers digging roughly into his hair, wrapping through strands and pulling until he finally releases and lets his head fall back against the edge of the tub. When he rolls it to the side slightly, his eyes catch mine again, and his strength is gone. Owen isn’t falling apart; he was never together.

  “Let me help,” I say softly, my lips quivering with nervous energy, my mind putting the pieces together while everything before comes into focus. I have options, I have help—and it’s going to be painful. But Owen can’t do this…whatever this is…on his own. Not if he still wants to live his life.

  “Where’s his room?” I ask.

  Owen nods to the right and looks in a direction toward the end of the hall. I move closer to him and lift the wet towel from the floor, then pull my sweatshirt collar up over my nose and mouth, hiding the gagging I can’t help but do underneath. I reach for Owen, and he looks at my hand, his eyes blinking slowly. Everything in his expression shows his acceptance of the fact that he has run out of options, that he isn’t as strong as he pretends. His eyelids quiver as they close, Owen fighting not to feel the gravity of what is happening any more than he has to. He takes my hand finally, and lifts himself to stand with me, grabbing the towel from my hands and going to work cleaning up the mess from his brother’s frail, pale, and thin body.

  He tosses it back into the hot water of the bathtub then turns to me. “I’ll deal with all of this shit
later. Just…help me get him in his room,” he says, and I nod.

  I won’t leave you, Owen.

  We each take an arm, and James works to bring his legs under his body, his frame swaying awkwardly, his balance nonexistent. He probably weighs less than I do, his tall body is so thin, but his length makes it hard to direct him and move him the few feet it takes to get him to his room. He slips on the floor three times, each time fighting to grip our arms on the way down, his own swinging wildly. This must be how Owen got that bruise.

  Once we get him to his bed, he grips the sheets and claws his way to the middle before finally letting his weak muscles give way to the coolness of the bed, his lips parted and dry. He looks half alive, and he’s shivering uncontrollably.

  “Make it stop,” he says, the dull look on his face slowly melding into sorrow, then torture. Tears stream from his eyes, his nose running into the edge of the pillow, his head never making it to the top of the bed. “Owen, please. Make this stop! I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…”

  He keeps screaming, his hands clutching the fabric beneath him, fists grabbing blankets and pulling them to his chest. Owen fights to cover his body, the entire time James working against him, his arms jutting, his legs kicking.

  Then Owen makes it all stop. He kicks his shoes from his feet and climbs into the bed next to his brother, pulling his flailing body into his arms, onto his lap and holding him to his chest, his arms flexing and working so very hard. At first, James pushes from him, fighting to get back to the bed, pulling and asking for the floor, to go outside, to get to his car. Every time he fights, Owen just pulls him to his chest harder, his chin resting on his brother’s head. Owen’s eyes find mine, locking on me. It feels as if I’m his anchor.

  “You can do this, James. This is the hard part. You can do this; I’ve got you,” Owen says, over and over, until his brother’s body grows tired, and he starts to stare off into space—not asleep, but no longer fighting against him.

  “I need you to call Ryan; I’m going to miss my game,” Owen says to me, his eyes full of regret, shame, disappointment—so many familiar emotions.

  “What about your mom?” I ask. This isn’t fair, and Owen shouldn’t have to give up something for this.

  It isn’t fair.

  “She had to work. She’ll lose her job if she doesn’t show up. She’s…she’s called in for this before. Last time was the last time, according to her boss,” Owen says, his eyes starting to show his exhaustion.

  “Owen…” I say, my head falling to the side, not wanting to see him lose so much, to hurt so much. His brother’s pain is killing him.

  “He’s in withdrawal. If I leave him, he’s just going to do something worse. I…can’t…” Owen doesn’t finish his words; instead, swallowing hard, fighting to keep the water I see building in his eyes from falling, to make the redness in his eyes go away. He wants to stay strong, to stay hard, to stay dark.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say, looking at him long enough for him to believe that I will be right back. But I don’t go to his room, to his phone. I don’t call Ryan. Instead, I leave his house and walk into my own hell, to my parents who are sitting in my kitchen at opposite ends of the counter, not speaking, but waiting for me. They’ve been waiting long enough when I step in the house, the first words from my father’s mouth are asking what’s taken me so long, followed by accusations that my mother doesn’t know how to take care of me. Within seconds, they’re bickering with one another, not looking at me at all, and if it were any other moment, I would turn around and leave.

  But I can’t. I can’t, because I need my mom. She is the only person who can help Owen.

  “Stop it!” I yell, my hands held above my head, waving to get their attention. When they both snap their gazes to me, I drop my hands to my head. “I’m eighteen. I had a birthday…which you didn’t acknowledge,” I say sternly, pointing to my father who opens his mouth to rebut my accusation, but I keep talking, cutting him off before he can begin a single word. “You don’t have any right to say anything about me, to me, on my behalf! You gave that all up the moment you fucked my best friend, you piece of shit. You don’t get to be my father ever again, and when I think about it, you never really were.”

  There’s a feeling of power that comes over me the longer I talk, the words I’m saying freeing, my voice growing calmer, stronger. There is so much I want to say to this man; so much I want to say to my mom, too, for even letting him in the house. But Owen needs me. Those things are going to have to wait.

  “Mom,” I speak to her, holding my hand up to my father’s face, my gesture cruel and insolent, but I don’t give a fuck, because Owen needs me. “I need you. It’s personal, and I don’t want to talk about this in front of him.”

  I hold her gaze, watching her mind process what she’s able to read in mine. Please, Mom. Just this once, stand up to him. Don’t let him charm you; make him leave.

  “Kens, can we just talk first, then when your dad goes back to his hotel, you and I can talk about anything, whatever you need?” she’s trying to make us both happy. That’s no longer possible, though—we both don’t get to be happy.

  “No,” I say. Nothing more. I won’t talk about Owen in front of him, and I won’t sit here and listen to them try to talk about me, their marriage, fake apologies, my dad’s rights or wishes for me, his role in my life. I’m not having that conversation—not ever.

  “Dean…” my mom sighs, her head leaning to the side, her eyes falling on him. She’s exhausted, and I can tell he’s probably been here for hours, wearing her down.

  “Karen, have you forgotten who the parents are in this house? My god…” my dad says, kicking away from the counter, his stool crashing to the floor with his temper. “Are you pregnant? Did that little thug next door knock you up? That’s what this is, isn’t it? Jesus, Karen!”

  I don’t answer. My father couldn’t be more off-base, and it takes every breath in my body to stand here and keep my eyes on my mom, not to acknowledge him at all. But he just isn’t worth it.

  “Dean, I think you need to leave,” she says, standing and putting her hand slowly along his shoulder. My dad shrugs her off, his brow low and hard, shirking her touch. “Dean, it’s time to go.”

  “A goddamned mess. You…both of you! You did this to yourself!” My father points his finger back at me as he leaves, his face glowing red, his anger radiating.

  When the door slams shut behind him, I turn back to my mom, her eyes wide and staring at the door, her face flushed. She stumbles on her feet, her balance failing her, and then grips behind her for her stool, looking for anything to save her. I wait as long as I can, but time is moving, and Owen needs me.

  “Mom, I need your help,” I say. She shakes her head, rubbing her temples before nodding a few times and bringing her eyes to me. “It’s Owen…”

  I can see her face flash with panic, worry that my father’s guess was right.

  “I’m not pregnant!” I blurt out, relief washing over her quickly. “But Owen needs you. It’s his brother, James. He came home, and he’s…” I don’t know how to say this in a way that doesn’t shed more negative light on the Harper family. I don’t know what my mom has heard, and I don’t want to contribute to those terrible rumors, but damn if so many of them aren’t true.

  “James is an addict, Mom. He’s detoxing, and Owen’s mom has to work, so Owen’s at home, by himself, trying to take care of James. He doesn’t want Andrew to see any of it, and it’s killing him. Mom…oh god, Mom, it’s so bad,” I fall apart a little, remembering everything I just saw, knowing how hard it is on Owen. I place my palms flat on the counter and breathe deeply, closing my eyes, finding my strength. “Mom, Owen has a game tonight. It’s all he’s got, and he has nobody to help him. Can you just, I don’t know…come take a look? I don’t know what to do, Mom. Please…help.”

  My mom stares at me for long seconds, the air around us quiet and cold. I can’t tell if she’s judging Owen and
his family, or if she’s just disappointed in me, that this is the person I’ve decided to connect with, the one I’ve decided to love. And I wonder if she knows I love him? She finally stands, silently, and holds a finger up, leaving the kitchen and moving to the stairs. She climbs them and disappears into her bedroom for a few minutes before coming down with a small bag.

  “Let’s go,” she says, everything about her shifting into professional. This is the person I need right now, but I know this person is only here because my mother loves me.

  I lead her out the door, across our driveways, and into Owen’s house. It’s quiet when we enter, and I’m glad that James isn’t making noise. I’m hopeful that he’s fallen asleep, but I doubt that’s the case.

  When we get to the top of the stairs, I hold my hand up, wanting to go in first. My mom stands against the wall, and I look into the room, Owen still cradling his big brother, both of their eyes glazing over, staring into nothingness—each for different reasons.

  “Did you get Ryan?” Owen asks, his focus coming back quickly. His arms looking tired.

  “No,” I say, and his posture deflates immediately. “But I got help. Please, don’t be mad. She can help.”

  His eyes look terrified, and when my mom comes around the corner, Owen actually looks sick with embarrassment. My mom doesn’t let him feel it for long, though, moving quickly into her medical-care mode.

  “How long?” she asks, and Owen cocks his head, his forehead creasing with his confusion, his desperation and all of the hurt. “How long has he been detoxing?”

  “Oh…uh, maybe a day or two? He was here a few days ago, and I gave him money. I just…” Owen swallows, the guilt swallowing him back. “I just wanted him to leave. But it wasn’t a lot, and I don’t think he bought much.”

  “Heroin?” my mom asks, Owen nodding as she rolls James’s listless arm in her hands. “Looks like he’s been getting high for a while.”

  My mom sees a lot of junkies. Her hospital is in the middle of Chicago, and she used to take a lot of rounds in emergency. Since she’s been a practitioner, though, she’s seen less, her work more with regular appointments. But addicts come in all shapes and sizes, and she still sees them, at least once a week.