Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(121)

But I also know Andrew Harper, and I know if there is a number to beat, he’s going to. I spent most of this morning talking to him. He doesn’t talk back, which I jokingly told him was refreshing. Owen was in the room, and he just moved his phone low enough to raise a brow at me, then went back to texting his girlfriend.

When Owen stepped outside for a while, I whispered in Andrew’s ear that I reported Graham. I needed to say it out loud, even in a whisper. I needed Andrew to hear it. I finally let myself exhale a little—the weight lifting for just a moment.

With every hour that’s passed, I’ve watched him like a hawk, waiting…knowing any second I’d hear him. It’s why I’ve ignored the raging growl building in my belly. The floor at my feet is lined with emptied cups, and my breath tastes foul, and the growling—it’s getting harder to ignore, until finally one lingers so long I can actually feel the pang work around my intestines and climb up my esophagus.

“Okay, either you’re shifting into a vampire and the sun coming in through that window is secretly melting away your skin, or you need to feed that monster in your gut,” Owen says, his phone flat against his leg again.

“What?” I ask. My stomach betrays me, growling again—with a vengeance.

“It’s gross. You sound like my grandfather. Seriously, go eat,” Owen chuckles. I shrug and roll my eyes, standing, but stopping at the door. He raises a hand, never looking away from his phone screen. “I know, I know…text you the second something happens.”

“The. Second,” I point at him.

I’ve been very positive this morning. It’s the first time I’ve felt this full of hope since my parents pulled me out of high school to head to the hospital for my surgery. Things feel brighter, and breathing feels easier.

Andrew is going to wake up today.

I have zero doubts.

I head down to the break room on the first floor where a few kids are lined up, all dressed in various costumes—ghosts, goblins, and superheroes with hospital gowns underneath. I’d lost track of time lately, and I realize it’s Halloween.

I notice a line of doctors and nurses, all with pockets full of candy, positioned at tables around the cafeteria, and the scene paints a smile on my face. The girl closest to me is wearing wings, her bald head painted with beautiful designs and glitter. I’m amongst real fighters.

Andrew is right where he belongs.

I rush through the line at the gift shop across the hall, grabbing a granola bar for myself, and a row full of candy—the big bars—for the line of trick-or-treaters waiting in the hallway. I ask a nurse if it’s okay if I help, too, and she smiles, nodding yes.

“The more we can do to remind them of life’s good parts, the better,” she grins.

I pause and watch as she moves to a table, placing her basket of small, crocheted angels in her lap, handing one along with a Hershey kiss to every kid that comes by.

“Hope and love,” she says to me, laughing lightly. “I’m sure they just see the chocolate. But a few of them…they see the hope and love, too.”

“I like that,” I say. “Mind if I…take one? I know someone who could use it.”

She nods, and pulls a blue angel from her stash, wrapping its soft arms around two kisses.

“You deserve something sweet, too,” she says, winking at me.

“Thank you,” I whisper, taking her gift and tucking it in the front pouch of Andrew’s sweatshirt. I pull a chair out from the next table over and pour my candy bars on the table, loving the light in each child’s eyes as they step up and whistle through missing teeth “trick-or-treat” and “thank you.”

This is most definitely a good part.



* * *





Andrew


It’s Christmas, and I’m eight. My grandpa bought me a pedal car from the Goodwill, and Owen and he are in the garage fixing it so I can ride it. The pedals were bent, so they’re taking the ones from Owen’s bike and putting them on for me. Owen always gives me his things. I hope I have something for him one day.

I’m waiting at the back door, my feet dangling outside over the stoop, but my body inside where it’s warm. Mom keeps yelling to shut the door. We have a fire going, and I’m letting out heat I guess. But I want to watch them work. My other brother, James, didn’t come to Christmas. We all woke up in the morning, and he wasn’t home.

Owen told me James is lost, but he seems to find his way home. I think he didn’t want to come here because we don’t make him very happy. There’s a lot of yelling when James is home. And my mom cries a lot, too. I feel terrible, but I’m sort of glad he wasn’t here for Christmas. It was a really nice day.

My grandfather just swore and threw that wrench thingy down on the ground. I giggle, and he and Owen both turn to look at me. I pull my feet inside and start to shut the door, hoping I didn’t make them mad, but Owen catches the door before I can close it.

“You think you can do better, hot shot? Come on out; let’s see you give it a try.” Owen hands me his work gloves and a screwdriver. I stare at them, and the box of tools spread around the garage floor, then look up at Owen’s face. He’s smirking, so I know he isn’t mad. And I would like to be in the garage—with the men, doing man things, like swearing and stuff.