Wild Reckless Read online

  “And I hope you didn’t want that dress,” she says finally, mid-tape.

  “Why?” I ask, holding the paper flat for her to fasten.

  “Because I threw that damn thing, and her letter, in the fire,” she says, her teeth tearing at the ribbon in her mouth, her eyes intent on the project at hand. I smile, and I let it beam, because she’s not looking.

  “Did you get the rest of your mail?” she asks, clearly done on the subject of my father.

  “Oh, no. I’ll grab it before I head upstairs. I need to call Owen. He might not be moving after all,” I say, my mom smiling softly and glancing my direction, but her thoughts still clearly rooted in her own drama. I look forward to the day this chapter is done, because it would be nice to have my mom guide me through some of this.

  I sweep the rest of the pile of mail into my arms and race up the stairs, positioning myself in front of the window. Owen’s waiting on the other side; I can see the top of his hat, his back resting against the window’s wall. I drop the mail in my lap in front of me and reach for my phone to text him, but before I dial I catch a glimpse of one letter—the address on it familiar, the seal exactly as it always appeared in my dreams.

  The envelope is thin, and I’m not sure how to take that, so I slide my finger along the edge, tearing one end carefully, pulling the typed letter from the University of Chicago out and unfolding it slowly.

  The first sentence stops my breath.

  We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected...

  I drop it instantly, exchanging it for my phone, dialing Owen, who picks up in the middle of my first ring.

  “Hey,” he says, turning to face me, the sight of his eyes on mine like coming home.

  “Hey, you’re never going to guess what I just opened,” I say, waiting for him to actually guess. He starts to laugh after a few long seconds.

  “I really have no idea how to answer that…a bank account. You opened a bank account,” he says, scratching his head.

  I hold the letter up, waggling it.

  “I can’t read that,” he teases.

  “I got in,” I say, and there’s silence for a few seconds until it settles in and he realizes what I mean.

  “You’re kidding,” he says, a small laugh growing into a more powerful one. “Holy shit! You got in…doing it your way! Wow, that’s…Kens, that’s amazing. I’m so proud of you.”

  “I’m proud of you too, you know,” I say, my compliment greeted quickly by silence on the other end. Owen is struggling, and I’m daft for thinking he’s ready to make a decision on this so quickly. Like my mom, he’s not in celebration mode either—I just hope he’s moving toward acceptance.

  “What are you going to do?” Owen asks, focusing on his happiness for me.

  “I don’t know. I was kind of done with the idea of going there, ya know? But then I got this envelope, and it feels real, and now…” I say, looking back to my lap, to the stamp from the school I’ve dreamed of for so long.

  “You should go, Kens. It’s what your heart wants,” Owen says.

  I slide down against the window, letting my head rest along my hand so I can look at him. Maybe once that is what my heart wanted, but now, all it craves is the boy looking back at me.

  We don’t talk about my letter any more, and we don’t talk at all for long. But we never hang up, keeping our phones next to us until our eyes can no longer stay open, so we can listen to each other dream.

  Chapter 23

  I must have heard him. There must have been some sound, something familiar that stirred my mind just enough to force it to remember that I had something to do in the morning. That’s the only explanation for the feeling that sinks my heart into oblivion the very moment my eyes open.

  I don’t remember leaving my room. I don’t remember how I traveled down the stairs. And I don’t recall how freezing the air was outside when it blasted its way inside my lungs. All I remember is my heart, how it ripped in half the second I saw the small piece of paper tucked in my car window, Owen’s truck…gone.

  Even now, two hours later, it’s like reading it for the very first time.

  I had to leave this way. If I didn’t, I would never do the right thing. I will love you…for always.

  ~ Owen

  My eyes are raw from crying, and my mom has given up on trying to help. We’ve been sitting here in the kitchen, sipping strong coffee and sniffling into tissues from the moment I woke her up with my heavy sobs. I couldn’t make it back to my room, collapsing on the door when I stepped back inside the house.

  The sun wasn’t up yet, the clock reading only four in the morning. And I just knew. What I keep playing over and over in my mind is how close I was to stopping him. He only could have been gone for minutes.

  I want to stay home from school, but I also want to talk to Mr. Chessman. I need clues, and I need him to stall Mr. Mathison. I’ve dialed Owen’s number at least sixty times, every single time my call going right to voicemail. I’ve only left a handful of messages, each time my words come out broken, my sentences only halves.

  When it’s time for school to begin, I drag my bag along the driveway with me, my eyes on the ground most of the way until I reach my car door. Andrew is standing in his driveway, a heavy coat pulled around his body, his backpack by his feet.

  “He’s coming back, Kens. He has to,” Andrew says, rubbing his hands together and blowing into them for warmth. Andrew’s been crying; Owen must not have said goodbye to him either. I wonder if he got a note, too.

  “Come on. I’ll give you a ride,” I say. He tosses his bag in my back seat and slides into my passenger side. Seeing him there hurts. It hurts because he looks like his brother, dresses like him…smells like him. But he isn’t him.

  I take Andrew to his school, then drive the few miles back to my own, pulling in next to Willow’s car. I can’t bear the thought of seeing my friends right now, talking to Will, so I hide low in my seat until the morning bell rings, then make my way from my car to Mr. Chessman’s classroom. He has a class, but when he see’s me peering through the small window slit in his door, he excuses himself and meets me in the hall.

  He knows the moment he sees my face.

  “He’s gone,” I say, my lip shaking just saying the words. “I can’t get him to pick up his phone. He’s going to miss that meeting. I…I don’t know what to do.”

  Mr. Chessman pushes his hands into his pockets, looking down at his feet. He kicks at a crack in the hallway floor, his shoe scuffing against the roughness a few times before he nods his head and purses his lips. When he brings his eyes back up to mine, he’s resolved in the fact that Owen isn’t coming. I wait for him to slip back into his classroom before retreating to the girls’ bathroom.

  Instead of the one near the band room, I climb the stairs to one on the third floor, where I’m more confident I’ll be alone. Once inside, I pull my feet up, hiding them from view while I sit in the stall. I bring my phone to my lap and type a few more texts—I type them because he’ll see them, and maybe if I say it enough, he’ll come home.

  I love you.

  I love you.

  I love you.

  I look at my history and count. I’ve sent the same message to Owen seventy-four times.

  When the bell rings, I wait for everyone to rush by, holding my breath when a few students enter then leave my small restroom. When the bell rings again, I exit my hiding place, opening the band door and putting on my game face just long enough to fool Mr. Brody.

  “Sorry, I was sick to my stomach. I feel better now,” I say as I pass his office quickly. He nods and holds up a hand before going back to his computer. I continue down the hallway to my practice room, my hands reaching for the surface of the piano and my face collapsing against my arms, the tears coming out in another rush against the raw skin around my eyes.

  I give in, and I let myself cry hard for a solid five minutes, and then I cut it off, rubbing my nose along my sleeve, forcing myself to breathe in
long, steady inhales and exhales. This is the same way I deal with anxiety over getting shots, and the longer I control my breathing, the funnier the comparison seems to me, and eventually I’m laughing to myself.

  With my head slung forward, my fingers travel lightly along the keys, walking a finger at a time and somehow finding all of the sharps and flats. I’m setting the sad notes free.

  “It’s probably good you didn’t audition with that.”

  My stomach drops the moment the sound of Owen’s voice hits my ears. Everything in me falls apart in an instant, the tears running down my cheeks and my body losing strength as I turn and reach for him, clinging around his waist until he’s sitting next to me, holding me in his arms, his lips kissing the top of my head.

  “I couldn’t go. I couldn’t do it. I’ll find a way to make it work. For my mom, and Gramps. I’ll find a way, get a job here,” he hums in my ear. “I couldn’t go.”

  I pull away just enough to look at him, and his smile is tight, his eyes on mine, his hand stroking the skin just under my eyes.

  “These are puffy,” he says, bending down and pressing his lips to my tender skin. “I’m so sorry, Kens. I did that. I was trying to do what was right, but I don’t know.”

  My lips form a sloppy grin and my body shakes with happy tears, and every time I shudder, Owen holds me tighter.

  “I made it all the way to the border. Do you know how far the border is? I kept trying to make the hard choice, thinking I had to. But all I wanted to choose was you. And then it hit me,” he says, his hands finding my shoulders. He turns to the side, forcing me to face him, my legs lying across his, my fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt, wrapping it tightly within my hands, not wanting him to disappear. “I was running scared, Kens. I’ve never run scared in my life, even when I should. But I did. I was afraid I would fail, that I would be selfish, and then it would cost those I love.”

  He leans forward, his forehead on mine, his hands finding mine, which have now become fists stuffed with his shirt. He chuckles when he pries them loose, bringing them into his lap, holding them tightly.

  “Losing you, the thought that I could love you and lose you too—that scared me—so I figured what was the point if it was all going to just end up hurting me in the end. And then I realized how much it hurt to give you up,” he says, stopping to watch the reaction in my eyes. I suck my bottom lip into my mouth, taking quick shallow breaths through my nose, telling my brain, my body—my heart—that this moment is real. “And those texts…you kept sending those texts,” he laughs. “What were there, like…sixty?”

  He pulls his phone out and holds it in front of me, his hand on my neck as he leans forward and presses his lips to mine, his smile against my mouth warming my chest, numbing the pain and healing the brokenness.

  “I got a ticket. Two hundred and eighty dollars, you believe that shit?” he says, pulling a folded, pink paper from his other pocket, a court appearance date stapled to the top. “I drove so fast. I didn’t even see the cop on the side of the road. And I picked right back up after he wrote me this, because I had to get back here…back to you!”

  The relief continues to wash over me, every minute a wave crashing and pulling away more of the fear and worry and pain that consumed me when I woke this morning. Owen and I stay here, me in his arms, for the entire period, ignoring the bell when it sounds, and passing on the next one too.

  A few students come and go from the band room, the lunch hour now, and some people open the door to our tiny haven, hoping to squeeze in some practice. Everyone leaves us alone, though. They don’t know our story, or understand how long it took for us to get here, but they let us have our moment anyway. No comments because it’s Owen Harper, no questions over my tears, and no lame jokes about needing to get a room. Our affection is chaste, more of a never-ending embrace, and our love for each other the realest damn thing I’ve ever known.

  We stay here, hidden from Owen’s past, for as long as we can, finally slipping back into the masses as the lunch hour ends. Owen walks with me to our algebra class, passing Mr. Chessman’s classroom along the way, and he sees us. His chest fills slowly with air, and his hand rubs at his neck as I pause at the doorway to our next class, holding my hands together in front of me, praying a thank you to him. He closes his eyes, and I know he’s saying it back.

  Owen’s feet slide into their rightful place, his heavy shoes leaving chunks of dirt and debris next to my leg on my seat. When he threatens to pull his foot away, I cling to it, and he laughs.

  “All right. I’ll leave it,” he says.

  After the first few minutes of class, the door opens and one of the student aids passes a note to our teacher, both of them looking to Owen. I’m not surprised when they call him to the office. I look at him as he stands, tugging quickly on his arm before he leaves.

  “What are you going to tell him?” I ask, knowing Mr. Mathison is waiting for his answer, wanting Owen’s commitment just as much as I do. Owen doesn’t answer me, but he bites his lip and lets his smile slide up one side of his mouth, winking as he backs away, turning to take the slip from our teacher then make his way out the door.

  He’s gone for the rest of the class period, and I waver between believing this time is a good sign and a bad one. I practically race from the classroom when the bell rings, and my eyes begin searching for him as soon as I step into the hallway. He pulls me back against him, his body leaning along the wall just outside the door.

  I turn into him, and his hands find their place along my face quickly, his lips on mine within seconds, his mouth consuming me until his smile forces itself to break free. I love the way his smile feels against me.

  “Well, does this mean you’re going? Did you commit? Everything’s…good?” I ask, pressing myself closer to him, students bumping into me as they leave the class and hurry through the halls.

  “Everything’s…very good,” Owen says. His eyes look up to the ceiling as his grin takes over again, the smile somehow growing bigger than him. He looks back at me, his tongue caught between his teeth, something important waiting to spill from his lips. He’s staying. Owen is staying, and he’s going to DePaul and life is going to be amazing. It’s in his face. I know it—just looking in his eyes.

  “How do you feel about orange?” he asks finally, and the only reaction I have is a firm shake of my head, my eyes closing with confusion. But my heart—it still feels happy.

  “Orange. Orange is good…I guess,” I say, my eyes on him with playful suspicion.

  “I’ve got an idea to run by you,” he says, his hand sliding down my arm until he finds my fingers, threading his with mine and tugging me toward the door. “We should go home to discuss.”

  My legs follow willingly. But my heart follows first. It can’t help itself. Owen—he owns it. I gave it to him.

  And I will follow him anywhere.

  Chapter 24

  One Year Later

  “Leave her drum alone,” Willow says, slapping Jess’s hand away from the harness and snare drum on my floor at the end of my bed.

  My roommate this year has been very tolerant. I knew the second I was accepted to the University of Illinois’s jazz program that I would also join the marching band. Turns out, though, that playing the snare drum is harder than it looks. I’ve had to practice, and my roommate Shay invested in some seriously awesome headphones to block out my constant noise. I think she was excited to meet Willow, mostly because she knows I’ll be rooming with her instead next year.

  Jess pulls my drum over his head and raps out a quick rhythm. Seconds later, Shay stuffs her books into her backpack leaving us for the library.

  “Bye. Nice meeting you!” Willow yells over the loud sounds popping off of the drumhead in front of Jess. As soon as the door closes, she grabs the sticks from Jess’s hands and passes them to me. “You ran her off; what’s wrong with you?”

  Jess shrugs, pulling the harness back over his head and resting it on the floor. “Some chicks do
n’t dig drummers. Not my problem,” he says, jumping backward to lie on my bed. Willow tosses his feet to the side when he does.

  “You’re getting shit all over her bed,” she says, rolling her eyes.

  “Great to know you two are still getting along so well,” I joke, straddling my chair and sitting as Willow moves to sit next to Jess. She pulls her legs up and sticks her tongue out at him. He reacts, grabbing her quickly and pulling her on top of him, tickling her until eventually they’re kissing. “Wow. That’s my bed you’re on,” I say, standing and closing the clasps on the sleeves of my uniform.

  “I can’t believe you’re marching. I can’t wait to see this,” Willow says, beaming with pride, as if she is responsible for me being able to walk and pound a plastic surface at the same time. Actually, that took practice too, but thankfully the instructor and I get along really well. Both of us play the piano and love jazz, which has made him more tolerant of the two left feet I seem to walk on.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to read a text from Owen.

  I’m at the stairs.

  “He’s here,” I say, picking up my drum and ushering my friends out the door. I lock up just in time to see Owen step through the stairwell door and walk toward my room. College has been good to him. I swear he’s an inch taller, if that’s possible, and his face and body—all of him—more of a man than he was a year before.

  More than the physical, though, is the peace that seems to have come to him. It didn’t happen all at once, and there were times when I thought this idea—this plan he concocted during a two-hour drive from the Iowa-Illinois state border back to Woodstock—was going to explode and ruin us both forever. But Owen stuck with it. Something changed during that drive, an idea found its way into his head, and it invaded his heart, and he wasn’t going to let it go.

  I was happy with the thought of him going to DePaul. I would have been happy in the city, studying with Chen. Not my music, but music still. And I would have seen Owen, our schools only an hour or so away from each other.