Wild Reckless Page 26

  “So that was awkward,” Willow says, flopping on the bed next to me, her arms and legs out in all directions, her reddish-blonde hair loose and wild.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “I get it,” she says, rolling on her side, turning to prop her head on her elbow. “My parents are divorced, too. I have to take turns picking sides. Or at least…I used to. I quit caring about offending one of them, and honestly, now that I don’t make it a big deal, they don’t seem to use me as a weapon against one another.”

  I nod in agreement, but stand quickly from the bed, moving to my closet, changing the subject. Divorce doesn’t seem to be a topic being discussed by my parents, and I don’t want to draw comparisons with Willow. I’d give anything for my mom to tell me she’s talking to a lawyer.

  “So, how formal is this thing?” I ask, flipping through the things in my closet. I don’t have a lot of in-between clothing. Dances at Bryce were always extremely formal.

  “Just wear leggings and a cute sweater or a dress or something like that. It’s cold as hell outside, and it’s going to snow all night,” she says, moving next to me and flipping through a few things on hangers. She pulls out a long gray sweater and tosses it on my bed. “That works. Wear your Uggs, and I’ll help you put your hair up. You’ll be cute.”

  I sigh heavily as I sit down next to the sweater, pulling it onto my lap. “You know, I’m totally okay not going,” I say, but Willow cuts me off.

  “Stop it. Jess doesn’t really dance a lot, and I like going. You’re coming to dance with Elise and me. It’ll be fun,” she says, tossing my boots from the box on my closet floor.

  “Fine,” I huff, but I smile when she turns, softening my tone. I’m actually happy she wants me there. I just wish Owen was up for coming, too. He hasn’t been himself lately…or maybe he has. Maybe that’s what has me feeling this way; I’m worried that the Owen I had was brief, and he’s gone back to dark.

  I decide to wear my outfit to school for the day, opting to ride with Willow instead of driving myself. I question that decision every time she slides the wheels several inches into the intersection with each stop. We don’t have early-morning practices any longer now that the football season is coming to an end. Our state competition is next weekend, so we spend every band class practicing the music, no longer worrying about marching and formations. Thank God, because it’s so cold outside. I don’t march, and only end up standing on the sidelines watching my breath create fog circles in front of me.

  Willow helps me twist and pin my hair up over my head before the end of class, and I manage not to ruin it during my independent study. I let my hands play a few classical pieces today. I wanted to see how it felt.

  It felt…like nothing. But it didn’t hurt, either. It didn’t make me angry. And it didn’t make me think of my dad. But then I let myself play my music, and I feel that all over my body.

  That’s the difference.

  With five minutes left before class ending, I do something that I’ve never done before—I excuse myself to the bathroom, to touch up makeup, to make sure I look good. I want Owen to notice me.

  This is apparently where Kiera and her friends go during second period. The smell of stale smoke is in the air, and I know they flushed something the second they heard me walk in. The scent is sweet, yet pungent—probably marijuana. I smile at Kiera, acknowledging that she and I share something in common. I guess we’re acquaintances in some sick, twisted way. She smiles back, but never talks to me directly.

  She’s sitting on the edge of one of the sinks, her legs propped up on the next one over. There’s a run in her black tights, and she’s dabbing nail polish on the end, trying to stop it from growing.

  I’m even more awkward touching up makeup in front of her, and her friends. I can feel them watching me even though they’re pretending I’m invisible. It’s like being in a room with ghosts.

  “You going to the dance?” one of her friends asks her.

  “Fuck no! Sasha’s having a party; I’ll be there,” she says, her eyes flitting to my reflection in the mirror quickly before moving back to the run on her leg. I watch as her friend moves closer to her and whispers something in her ear, something that leaves them both laughing and covering their mouths.

  Her friend comes toward me after a few minutes, and I work to pack up my things calmly, pretending I’ve finished whatever I was doing. I’m mentally forcing myself to slow down, not to look nervous. The girl smiles at me in the mirror—then pulls her purse straps from her shoulder, dropping her heavy bag on the edge of the sink. She pulls out a bottle of pills and pours two small white ones in her hand, reaching her other hand down to cup water from the sink and swallowing the water and pills down quickly.

  She leaves her gaze on me, her smile never changing, never growing or shrinking. It’s just there—like a dare. Her eyes are just the same—taunting, bait. She’s waiting for me to flinch, to be offended or question what she’s doing. But I don’t. A lot of the girls at Bryce did drugs in the bathroom, usually expensive designer ones. What she’s just done isn’t shocking to me. What’s making me uncomfortable is the amount of lips in this room that have kissed my boyfriend.

  I smile back at her reflection, amused internally over how hard she’s working to intimidate me, her gaze staying on me, her brow lowering. I pull my things together slowly, and then I take the extra step of pulling a towel from the holder and wiping the few drops I’ve left behind on the sink. Nobody breathes a word when I leave. But the second the door closes, the room behind me erupts with laughter.

  I shake my head and roll my eyes. But I also stand still, letting my back slump against the wall around the corner, letting my breath leave my chest in one long exhale, some of my confidence slipping away with it. Their laughter…it still feels bad. I can convince myself of a lot of things, but I think we all want people to like us—like us, or let us be invisible. Right now, I think I’d be happy to have left that room unnoticed.

  The bell rings seconds later. I pull my backpack over my body and make my way to class, blending quickly with the backpacks, hats and chatter, shedding everything that made me feel as if I stood out—not in a good way—seconds ago. I step into our English class where Owen’s feet are on my chair—waiting for me. My mouth can’t help but smile seeing them there. As quiet as he’s been, these small gestures are still there. I’m grateful for them.

  They let me breathe again.

  “Missed you this morning,” I say as I slide into my seat, my hip cozying up next to his ankles, my body wanting any kind of touch. Owen’s eyes stay on me as he leans forward, sliding the hood from his head. His feet finally fall to the floor.

  He tilts his desk as he leans far enough forward for his lips to reach me, but he passes my mouth, moving right for my neck. “I like your hair,” he says, his eyes a little hazy. His hot breath on my neck sends shivers down my arms and back.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Willow did it. It’s for the dance.”

  He pulls away, but keeps his eyes fixed on me, on my bare neck.

  “I’m visiting my grandpa after school,” he says. “Wanna come? I’ll bring you back before the game.”

  “I’d love to,” I say, my heart thumping so heavy with hope. This is the first time Owen’s done something different from the routine of his house, from checking on James, from being short with me. It’s the first time in a week he’s initiated the conversation, and it’s made me feel happy enough to cry. I’m not sure why, but the sensation almost chokes me, suffocating my lungs quickly. I think it’s because I’ve been afraid of losing him.

  I’m saved by Mr. Chessman’s entrance, and I turn to face the front, keeping my head down until the swell of emotion leaves my chest and I’m able not to act so desperate for his attention.

  Owen’s quiet for the rest of the day, holding my hand briefly in the hallway—sitting at our table for only part of the lunch period, kissing my cheek and telling me he’ll see me after school before joining House outsi
de. For a minute, I think I see him taking a drag from House’s cigarette, but I can’t tell for sure.

  He skips science, and I notice the teacher put a packet to the side for him, his name scribbled on a sticky note slapped to the first page. It looks like notes for everything we’ve covered. This happens a lot. I wonder who delivers these to him, how his work gets done.

  I’m already half expecting his truck to be gone when I walk out at the end of the day, so I move toward Willow’s car, meeting up with her in the parking lot. “So what’s the plan, chicka? Dinner with me, then the game tonight?” she asks, Jess coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her body, pulling her close. Everything about them is so easy. I hate them for it right now.

  “Uh, I don’t know…I was gonna go with Owen somewhere, but…” I stand on my toes, looking around, but I don’t see his truck anywhere. I pull my phone from my pocket, hoping there’s a message. But there’s nothing. “I don’t see him, so he must have gotten busy.”

  I say these words, but what my gut feels is that he forgot. It hurts, but I can’t get mad, because I’ve seen what life is like inside his house.

  I follow Willow and Jess to Willow’s car, and we all climb inside, me taking the small seat in the back. I pull my phone to my hand and watch the screen, waiting for a message from Owen, for anything.

  “Burgers?” she says over her shoulder.

  “Yeah…that’s fine,” I say, not hungry in the least. We head to Joe’s Burgers, and as we pull into the parking lot, I swipe my screen and open a message to Owen. I want him to know where I am.

  I probably want him to feel badly about it, too. It’s selfish.

  You weren’t here, so I left with Willow. We’re grabbing dinner.

  I keep the phone clutched in my hand, waiting for it to buzz, and the instant I feel it, I step up out of the line for food.

  “It’s Owen. I’m not that hungry, so I’ll wait for you guys out in the car,” I say to Willow, her eyes focusing on me harshly for a few seconds before finally giving me her keys.

  “I know. I’m not being careful,” I roll my eyes. Willow knows a little about what happened with James, but I would never be able to give her the full picture. You can’t understand unless you live through something like that—see it for yourself. I start reading Owen’s message before I get to the car.

  Shit, so sorry. Time got away from me. I came home to check on James. Mom had an appointment. Can I come get you? Where are you?

  I text him back quickly.

  I’m at Joe’s. I’ll wait out front.

  I rush back inside and find Willow sitting at one of the window-counter tables, her feet swinging back and forth underneath—so carefree.

  “Owen’s coming to get me,” I say to her, dropping the keys on her tray and moving my phone into the side pocket of my bag.

  She grabs the keys and slides them in her jacket pocket, but she keeps her eyes on me the whole time. She hasn’t actually said anything. In fact, she’s been nothing but supportive. But that look she gives me makes my stomach feel sick, like I’m letting her down, letting myself down, breaking rules meant to be followed.

  “What?” I sigh, unable to take it any longer. Willow’s lips part, but she doesn’t speak, instead her teeth catch the tip of her tongue and her lips roll into a soft smile, one that tries to erase every message her eyes have been giving me.

  “Will, come on,” I say, sliding into the seat next to her, my eyes shifting between the driveway out front and her. “Tell me now, before Owen gets here.”

  She breathes in long and slow, through her nose, filling her lungs. I know that breath—it’s the one used for courage.

  “Jess saw Owen buy drugs from a guy out in front of the movie theater last night,” she says, letting her words fall out all in one breath, her body heaving forward with the loss of the weight of this secret. “Owen was with House. Jess said he couldn’t tell what it was, but he could tell it wasn’t something…well, something normal. It was really weird, and Owen didn’t look right, and…he’s been smoking. I see him smoking with House in the morning, behind the school. Did you know he smoked? I know…I know; it’s not that big of a deal. It’s just…I didn’t know he smoked, and now I’m wondering what else he does. And his brother…”

  She stops there, just short of accusing Owen of being an addict too.

  I stare at her with my mouth a little open, my eyes wide, my brain working to find a place to put everything she just said—to file it and make sense out of it. I want to argue with her, tell her she’s wrong, what Jess saw is wrong.

  But I can’t.

  Then I see Owen’s truck pull up outside behind her.

  “I…I have to go,” I shake my head, standing and trying to wake myself from the shock. “I…I don’t know. I’ll see you at the game. But I’ve gotta go.”

  She doesn’t speak, and I leave before we even have a chance to look at one another again. I carry this new twisted feeling right into the truck cab with Owen, slamming the door closed, shivering from the outside air and the cold feeling still lingering inside his truck.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says, shifting into drive quickly and peeling out of the lot. I smile and buckle up, then I sniff for any sign of cigarettes, alcohol—anything.

  “How’s James?” I ask.

  “Same,” he says, his usual, one-word answer. He’s chewing gum, and I can’t help but overanalyze that now. I’ve never seen him chew gum—at least, I don’t think I have? His mannerisms are nervous, almost jittery, and I find myself noting every single twitch. I’m staring at him, and he keeps glancing with his periphery, never fully giving me his eyes.

  “Something wrong?” he asks finally, his arms working to turn his steering wheel onto the highway. The truck swerves with his jerk on the wheel as another car veers into our lane. Owen presses his hand hard on the horn, his fist pounding on the window as we fly by the other car. “Fucking asshole!” he screams.

  My pulse is drumming throughout my entire body from adrenaline, and I keep my hands gripped around the material of my seatbelt, my palms sweaty now despite the quickly dropping temperature. Owen seems to have forgotten his question of me—or maybe he no longer cares. I don’t dare bring it up, instead holding on for dear life and watching out the front windshield as we pass exit after exit, finally getting to ours.

  His grandfather lives in a home that’s been converted from one of the old farmhouses on the edge of town. The gravel drive is slushy from the rain and snow. There are two wheelchairs on the front porch as well as a plush seating set and a space heater. The home seems old, but it’s painted nicely, and it looks like it’s cared for. When we step from the truck, I scurry to the front and reach my hand forward, expecting Owen’s to meet mine.

  But it doesn’t.

  He stuffs his hands into his front pockets of his coat and walks up the path to the door, spitting his gum out into the rocks along the way.

  My heart aches from his cold shoulder, and I feel the dark shadow overpowering us.

  Owen rings a bell, and a woman answers, her hair pulled under a bright orange cloth. Her accent is thick, and it sounds Polish. She welcomes us inside, and hugs Owen, his rigid muscles softening under her touch. I’m grateful for whatever her embrace just did.

  She welcomes us in; Owen takes my coat. There’s a fire and a few people sitting in chairs watching TV. The room is warm and inviting, but the people in there feel lifeless, their faces lost somewhere in the past, their vision not quite focusing on the screen. Any activity happening around them isn’t real to them at all. As homey as this place feels, it feels equally as sad.

  I follow Owen to a room down the hall, and he knocks twice before turning the knob.

  “Hey, Grandpa,” he says, his body puffing up again with stress, his shoulders stiff and his breath held.

  “Is that you, Relish?” An old man stands slowly from a sitting chair that’s facing the window, leaning forward three times before finally getting enough st
rength to get to his feet. He reaches for the cane propped up against the table next to him then slides a pair of glasses on his face, his head covered in one of those plaid hats that snap in the front.

  “It’s me. I brought a friend. I’d like you to meet Kensi, Grandpa,” Owen says, his voice no longer hard and angry, everything about him softening, as if his grandfather is a flame to his ice.

  “Oh, yes…yes…Kensi. This is the one, the girl you…the metronome, right?” Owen’s grandpa says, his feet shuffling forward, his weight being assisted by Owen’s hold on him. I meet them in the middle of the room and look to Owen, whose eyes flit to me briefly with a smile. It disappears just as fast.

  “Yes, Grandpa. That’s the one,” Owen says.

  I reach my hand out, and Owen’s grandpa squeezes it in between both of his. His skin is dry, and his hands are cold. His gray eyes are cloudy, and I wonder how old he is. “Well, aren’t you lovely,” he says, his smile so much like Owen’s that I can’t help but giggle a little seeing it.

  “Thank you, sir,” I say.

  “Call me Gus. Tell me, Kensi…do you like Rosemary?” he asks, and I look to Owen for help. He shrugs and steps back as his grandfather hands over his cane and slides toward a small dresser against the far wall.

  “I guess so…” I say, wondering what he means. Every step he takes is small and cautious, and his hands hover out in front of him, shaking a little. I slide closer, my hands ready to catch him, but when I look to Owen, he just winks and gives a small shake of his head. Gus pulls a record from a paper sleeve on top of his dresser, then lifts the lid on an old turntable sitting next to it, leaning forward, his hand shaking with the weight of the player’s needle and arm. He drops it down with careful precision on the record’s edge, and soon, soft music spills out into the room.

  It’s Rosemary Clooney. I recognize it immediately, and it makes me chuckle. “You know, not many people your age appreciate things like this. But I had a feeling you might. Owen says you’re quite the musician,” he says, reaching both hands out, his fingers twitching, calling me closer to him.