Wild Reckless Read online

  “White Christmas is my favorite,” I smile, and Gus pauses, raising his plump chin toward me before turning to glance at his grandson.

  “Did you hear that, Relish? This one’s got good taste,” he says, turning back and taking one of my hands and then the other. He holds my arms out to the sides and begins to sway me slowly from side to side, his chest humming along with the tune crackling from his record player.

  “Why do you call him Relish?” I ask, catching a glance of Owen over his grandfather’s shoulder. He’s standing in the bedroom doorway, his head leaning against the frame, both of our coats draped over his arm while he watches his grandfather dance with me. His chest rises once with a short laugh when I ask about his nickname, his hand rubbing his face, then resting over his mouth, hiding what I think is a smile.

  I wish he weren’t hiding it. I’d give just about anything to see Owen smile.

  “Shall I tell her?” Gus asks.

  “I couldn’t stop you, could I?” Owen says back.

  “Ha…I guess not,” he says, letting go of one of my hands and encouraging me to spin out and then back to his arms. “This one summer, when Owen was little, maybe four or five, before Bill died, we went to a lot of ballgames out in Kane County. Owen would beg us to take him. But then he’d get there, and the little bugger couldn’t sit still. So…I started making a deal with this kid; I said that any time he could pick the winner in the hotdog, ketchup, and relish race, I’d give him a quarter. He picked relish every time. But what’s weird, is relish won…every single time!”

  I look back over my shoulder to Owen. With lips tight, he shrugs, his smile faint, maybe a little sad. Memories seem to do that to him.

  “Well, this little son-of-a-gun, he found out that the announcers only had one video to show on the board, with one outcome. After about six dollars in quarters, I asked the ticket man about it and he told me. He’s been Relish ever since,” Gus says, a sense of fondness in his voice, despite the way his laugh taunts and teases.

  “Yep, that’s me. Relish,” Owen says, his voice more distant. “Hey, I’ll be back in just a minute. Take care of her, okay Gramps?”

  Gus spins me away from him one more time, then brings me back, waving his hand to send his grandson off. Owen steps away from the door, back in the direction of the main room. Before he turns, I notice his brow pulled in, a deep wrinkle at the bridge of his nose.

  “Have I told you about Grace yet?” Gus says, his gravelly voice so thick he has to pause our dance and reach into his front pocket for his handkerchief to cover his mouth as he coughs.

  “I don’t believe so,” I say, wondering if this is going to spin into another interesting story about Owen’s youth. I wish he enjoyed hearing them and sharing them more.

  “Ah, Gracie. I met her at the Apple Festival, ya know,” he says, and I can’t help but smile when I realize he’s talking about his wife. “She used to date one of the Wilson boys, the family that owned the orchard?”

  I nod.

  “Huh,” he chuckles. “She would have made a mint in life if she just stayed with that fella. Those boys made millions off that land. Sold hundreds of acres to developers.”

  “I bet she was happy with her life just as it was,” I say, spinning myself out for a turn during our dance now. I’ve only known him for five minutes, and already I think I would be willing to marry Owen’s grandfather.

  “Maybe so…maybe so,” he says, a shadow of sorrow falling over his eyes, his posture sinking a little. “I spent ten cents on a kissing booth to kiss her. We were schoolmates, and I loved her my entire life. Let’s just say when I kissed her, I didn’t stop when the guy said time was up. He had to pull me away. But Gracie, she never kissed another man after that. We were married in the spring.”

  Gus steps back from me, reaching for the edge of his bed, so I move with him to make sure he finds his seat safely. He looks a little uneasy on his legs. “Are you sure you haven’t heard this story before?” he asks, his eyes glossier than they were a moment ago. He’s fumbling with his hands, his fingers working for his pocket, pulling out his handkerchief again, then reaching for the small glasses hanging from a chain around his neck.

  “I’m sure,” I say, my voice soft. I’m not positive how best to answer him.

  “Oh, baby girl. I miss you,” he says, and I can see actual tears forming at the edge of his eyes as he looks at me. Gus is confused. I recognize it. My grandfather had dementia, and often thought I was my mom. I can see what’s coming; I am good at this terrible game of pretend. “Did I tell you Gracie died? Her funeral was so sad. Your mama was the prettiest girl in town.”

  I hear Owen slip in, and I turn to look at him, unable to mask my concern and sadness.

  “This is Kensi, Gramps. You just met her,” Owen says. He looks over the few books out on his grandfather’s side table, surveying the room without making it look like he’s snooping. Sadly, I recognize this too. My mom used to have to search my grandfather’s room for stashes of untaken pills.

  “Right, sorry. It’s getting late. I get confused sometimes. I think maybe it’s time for my medicine,” he says, trying to stand. Owen puts his hand on his shoulder and smiles.

  “I’ll get Emma for you,” he says, nodding to me to follow. We dip into the hall, and the woman who let us in is coming with a small box and a glass of water. She slips into the room with us and doles out a red pill, carefully handing Gus the glass of water and waiting while he drinks it down.

  She smiles at us again, her lips never quite making the full curve though, then she whispers something to Owen, both of them looking at each other with a certain heaviness. When she leaves, Owen reaches for his grandpa’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “I’ll be back again in a day or two, Gramps. I promise,” he says, leaning forward and kissing his grandfather on the forehead. I notice the nice leather shoes in the corner, the ones that used to belong to my father, and it makes me smile. They are in a far more deserving place, being worn by a far more deserving man.

  Gus sits perched at the end of his bed, his gaze drifting off to the quiet happening outside his window, and Owen and I move to his door.

  “You take care of my baby girl now, you hear Billy?” Gus says, his eyes never veering from the window.

  “I promise,” Owen says. What seems such a simple gesture, pretending to be someone he’s not, is so far from that. Owen stepped into his nightmare just to let his grandfather live in a dream for a minute.

  Another glance is exchanged between Emma and Owen as we leave, and when we reach the porch steps, I feel the darkness wrangle a hold of Owen even more. Everything about right now feels cold—more frozen than the ice beginning to frost the ground.

  Owen walks to my door first, holding it open for me to climb inside, and he stays there long enough to close the door for me. It’s gentlemanly, but it’s also very robotic. When he gets to his side, his face is completely void of any emotion—he’s wiped himself clean. He fires the engine and pulls away, his tires kicking up rocks as he pulls out of the long drive with too much speed. It makes me nervous, and I reach forward, gripping the dashboard’s edge with one hand. Owen’s eyes dart to my hand, and he sighs heavily, never really slowing down.

  We drive in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the clicking repetition of the blinker while Owen waits to enter the highway.

  “I’m sorry,” I say softly, wanting to show him how much I understand, how bad I feel, how I know how much it hurts—those memories, his grandfather’s illness, being called his father.

  “Don’t,” he says quickly. Softly.

  Cold.

  Everything. Cold.

  I keep my mouth shut for the rest of the trip, but my inner voice makes up for everything I don’t say. I question it all. Question what Willow told me, what others said about Owen. I think about the warnings. I think about his brother, about his father, about his grandfather.

  And I question everything I’ve felt. I still feel it though. And that’s the p
roblem. I want to scream at him, punch him, kick him and hurt him physically. I want him to feel the pain this frustration is causing me. But I love him too. And the only conclusion is that something must be wrong inside of me to feel this way. Loving Owen Harper is dangerous; yet I can’t help myself.

  “Why did you even ask me to go with you?” I ask finally, my voice shouting from the frustration of being stifled for so long. We’re pulling into the school parking lot, and the sun is setting. Owen’s mouth is in a hard line, his forearm muscles flexing. His head covered in his black beanie, hiding.

  Always. Fucking. Hiding!

  “You heard me!” I say, pulling my seatbelt from my chest before the truck comes to a stop near the bottom of the hill. He punches the brake to be cruel, and I fly forward, catching myself with my arms, bruising my elbow against the hard plastic of his dashboard. He never looks at me—not once.

  “Why did you ask me to come if you didn’t want me here?” I repeat my question, one hand braced on the seat, the other on the door handle. Owen is shaking his head, his eyes staring at the center of his steering wheel.

  “I have no idea,” he says, his voice an eerie calm, his head shaking with a breathy laugh. When his eyes move back to me, I see everything that’s left inside him…and in a flash, it all falls away.

  Owen. Is. Gone.

  I slam his door shut, and turn, walking fast down the walkway to the band room, willing myself to look ahead. But I’m counting. I count every step I take that I don’t hear Owen’s truck shift—that I don’t hear his engine rev, that I don’t hear his tires squeal. I get to seventeen before I hear him disappear. I turn, only to see dust, his taillights faint as he whips around the corner.

  “Goddamnit!” I yell, my stupid rebellion echoing off of the concrete walls around me. I yell because I’m alone. And I cry. I cry fast and hard, ducking into the shadows of the small outside stairwell. I hide there until the pressure of everything leaves—or at least until I’m able to hide it. All I’m left with is the sharp pain in my chest.

  I avoid Willow and Jess during warm-ups, and I busy myself in a conversation with a freshman in the band, a girl I don’t think I’ve ever talked to before. She’s telling me about her dance class, and how she learned some sort of hip-hop move. She’s excited to do it with her friends at the dance tonight.

  She’s so happy. Right now, right this second, I would trade places with her.

  I didn’t want to go to this dance before, not really at least. And now, I really don’t want to go. But I don’t want to go home either. I’m caught in hell.

  It’s the last game of the year, which means we don’t have to wear uniforms. They’re all being cleaned for competition next week, so I get to keep my hair up, to stay in my stupid flirty outfit—the one I wore hoping Owen would see me and change his mind, that he’d want to go with me.

  Stupid girl. I’m such a stupid girl.

  This is the same guy who put on a performance every day at lunch with a different girl, the same guy who provoked me with his flirtatious threats. This is the guy who cheats death, who actually seeks it out so he can laugh at that fine line—crossing it from time to time just to prove he can, other times, erasing it completely. My lips must be moving while I talk to myself, while I laugh silently about how crazy it is to think that Owen Harper wants to go to a school dance.

  “You okay?” Jess asks, his voice low. He’s trying to hide his question from Willow, and I’m glad.

  “Nope,” I say honestly, sucking in a deep breath to keep the tears where they belong, the sting coming back to the corners of my eyes.

  “Owen?” he asks, tapping his drumsticks along his jean-covered leg.

  “Yep,” I say, watching him tap out a rhythm.

  “Sorry,” he says, moving his hands over to my lap and tapping the sticks on my shoes, my feet folded up as we sit on the floor. He plays out an entire song, and it makes me smile. He’s distracting me, for a few seconds. I’ll take this.

  When Willow comes over to hold her hand out and lift me to a stand, I look at Jess, my eyes flashing a warning, and he closes his eyes with a quick smile. I know he won’t say anything, and I’m going to pretend I’m fine.

  I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.

  I walk with Willow to the field, a few of the band parents taking care of our equipment for us tonight, pushing my xylophone down the hill. I listen while she tells me about the dances at this school, how they usually go. I let her fill every second of empty air, and when I feel the conversation start to end, I ask her another question, and she begins again.

  Our team is almost winning the game, which helps keep us all excited and invested. More blank space filled. If only I drove myself…I’d shove my hand down my throat right now to make myself throw up so I could go home, play sick. But Willow’s so damned excited about this dance; I couldn’t make her miss it just to take me home.

  And again—home isn’t much better.

  The clock runs out, and our team actually wins. It’s our first win, so students rush the field. You would think we just earned a play-off berth rather than a record of one and nine. I turn my attention to my things, to the long dark hill of the parking lot. That’s when I notice the souped-up, lifted pickup in the distance. I see the glow of his cigarette in the dark, and the glare is just enough to spotlight the two girls standing with him—one of them leaning into him, hanging on his arm.

  I keep sneaking looks at him as we file down the bleachers, and I don’t even hear Willow talking to me when she finally yanks on the sleeve of my sweater, jerking my body hard toward her.

  “Where the hell are you?” she says, her eyes scrunched, her lips flat in a straight line. She follows my gaze to House in the distance, then turns to me again. “It’s just House,” she sighs.

  “I know,” I say back, my eyes still on him, my response barely a response at all. I watch as a few more people join him at the end of the parking lot. It’s the regular crew. Everyone. Everyone but…

  “Owen,” she says, getting my full attention.

  “Where?” I ask, looking around the lot, trying to find him.

  “This…you. How you’re acting,” she says. “This is about Owen.”

  I keep my eyes on hers, unable to blink. I don’t even know how to articulate what’s wrong, but something is just…wrong. And it won’t feel right again until I see him.

  “I have to go,” I say, my eyes still wide on hers. I’m begging her with them.

  “This is what I meant,” she says.

  “I know,” I say, looking back at the crowd of shadows, the faint sound of roaring laughter and House’s voice in the distance. “But it’s different, Will. I can’t explain it, but I just know it’s different.”

  “Whatever,” she says, her eyes rolling as she turns to walk away from me.

  “Willow, please…” I start, but she holds up a hand, her pace steady, toward Jess. I feel like a lousy friend. I feel selfish. I am selfish, because all I want is my Owen back, the sweet one—the guy who sat on the piano bench with me and forced me to remember things I loved.

  The Owen I love.

  I pull my arms around my body tightly, my hands nearly numb from the cold. My coat is in the band room. But I can’t risk going to get it now. House—he might be gone by then.

  He doesn’t see me coming at first, and I pick up on hints of their conversation as I approach.

  “Sasha is such a fucking skank,” one girl says, pulling the cigarette from House’s hands and putting it between her lips, dragging in slowly and letting a smooth trail of smoke stream from her lips as her chin tilts up to the sky.

  “You’re just jealous,” says another girl.

  “Whatev. I could be like her, totally hold some party so I could fuck Owen Harper,” she says, handing the cigarette back to House, leaning forward toward her girlfriend. “But I don’t need to…been there, bitches!”

  The other girl laughs loudly in response. They saw me coming, and that conversation was
for my benefit. This morning, it might have been enough. But tonight, my issues with Owen are so much bigger than some girl trying to make me jealous. I’m close enough now that House notices me coming, too.

  “Ken Doll,” he says loudly, an exaggerated laugh coming from the girl sharing his cigarette. “You ditching the punch bowl in the gym for some real shit?” He holds a bag out toward me, several rolled joints weighing it down. His eyes stay on mine with a heavy stare—he’s trying to provoke me. But he has something I need, so I ignore his efforts.

  “Where is he?” I ask. He pushes the bag back into the front of his sweatshirt, then drops his cigarette to the ground. The girl sitting next to him pouts, so he leans over and kisses her hard, his hand running up her leg and stomach until he’s squeezing her tit in front of everyone.

  That was for me, too.

  “Get in the truck, baby,” he says to the girl, and she slides from his hood, dragging her hand over his crotch while she walks by, her gaze on me the entire time. She thinks she’s marking her territory. She can fucking have House.

  He steps forward, his heavy black shoes stomping the glowing ash into the pavement, then he spits to the side before bringing his eyes to me.

  “He’ll be at Sasha’s,” he says, his smirk lingering. I wait for him to offer more, to say something more. But instead, he smiles—that stupid fucking obnoxious smile that’s only halfway really there—his eyes barely slits, sleepy from whatever he’s been drinking or smoking. I don’t care how long he’s known Owen—House is a dick.

  “Give me your keys,” I say, and he leans back, looking up to the sky, laughing hard once.

  “If you wanna ride, get your ass in the truck. But I ain’t giving you my fuckin’ keys,” he says, holding them on his thumb in front of me before clutching them. I stare at him, daring him. But House isn’t Owen; he honestly doesn’t have a line between right and wrong.

  “Fine,” I huff, brushing by him, giving his body a hard jab with my elbow as I pass. I climb in through the driver’s side and slide to the middle, the girl waiting inside staring at me with a look as though I’ve just made her drink bleach.