Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(102)

Owen smiles, the curves never quite making it fully up his cheeks, then tosses his pencil in the crease of his book, closing it, and pushing the papers to the side to make room for me. I crawl into his arms obediently.

“I’m a little behind. Just trying to catch up,” he says, his nose cold as he nuzzles against my cheek.

“That’s nice that the school got this for you. Nobody’s really saying anything. You know, about what happened?” I say. Owen lifts his hand, running it through my hair and stopping at the back of my head to pull me to him for a kiss. He backs away a little after and sighs, his chest rising and falling in a pattern that he’s kept up for days. Every breath he takes is heavy, an attempt to cleanse himself from how he feels inside.

“Mr. Chessman brings things over for me every couple days. He lives a block or two away. He’s cool like that,” Owen says, his eyes sculpting my face, looking at me endearingly. His affection for me has never waned, not once, through this tragedy. I think he’s clinging to it. And I’m clinging to him.

“How’s my boyfriend, Gus?” I ask. I’ve been wondering about Owen’s grandfather, how his role in their house fits now.

“He’s good. He misses you,” he smirks.

“Well, he and I…we sort of had a fling. He’s a really good dancer,” I say, sucking my top lip in. Owen leans forward and gives me a chaste kiss, his lips grazing over mine until I let my lip free.

Owen pushes himself up to sit, and I join him, my hands spreading out a few of the assignments stacked on his bed. I notice Owen’s math homework, and I pull it out from a folder, looking at the problems that he’s already completed. His homework, it’s different from mine. It’s more advanced.

“Just one of many,” he says quickly, taking the folder from my hand and pushing it back into the pile with everything else. He flips his English book open again, pulling the pencil out and tucking it behind his ear.

“I’ve gotta stop in at home, check in with Mom. I’ll let you get to some of this. Maybe next week, you’ll be at school with me?” I ask, standing from his bed. Owen smiles quickly, his eyes full of a fake kind of hope, pretending for my benefit.

“Maybe,” he says. “I’ll text you later, ‘kay?”

“’Kay,” I say, my eyes on his for a few extra seconds. Every look feels like he’s drowning, and I’m trying to pull him back ashore.

I grab my coat and stop by my car for my backpack on my way back to my house, rushing up to my room before my mom has a chance to stop me. She’s on the phone and nods with her finger up as I fly by her on the stairs. She’ll come find me soon, but maybe I’ll have a few minutes to log onto my computer, to be alone first.

My computer isn’t where it should be when I get to my room, which sends me back downstairs, back to my mom, who ends her phone call and turns my computer screen around for me to see when I enter the kitchen.

“Why do you have my computer?” I ask, reaching for it. She snaps the screen shut and slides it back a few inches with her fingertips, just out of my reach.

“Why do you have a listing posted on Craigslist for the piano?” she asks.

Shit! How did she find that?

“It’s my piano; I can sell it if I want to,” I say, reaching again for my computer. This time she picks it up with both hands and hugs it to her chest. “Mom…”

“That’s enough, Kensington. You have been stomping around here, acting like the adult of this house, for weeks. You may be eighteen, but this attitude needs to stop right here. Now tell me, without your new brand of sarcasm, if you don’t mind, why the piano is on Craigslist?” She’s doing that thing where her eyes blink at me slowly. She’s pissed. And I still don’t know how she found out about the piano listing.

“How did you find it?” I ask.

“Doesn’t matter,” she says. Her answer is fast. Too fast.

“Uh, no…I kind of think it matters. I put my phone number on there, and my personal email. So…” I wait for her, my head leaned to the side, my brow pulled in tight. And then it hits me.

Dad.

“He saw it, didn’t he? That’s what this is about,” I say, shaking my hand, my feet shifting and beginning to trail back to my room. Fuck it. She can keep the computer.

“Yes, your father saw it. You know he’s always looking for good buys on instruments for the program. He recognized this immediately and called me. Kensington, you cannot sell something that’s your father’s,” she says, and I stop in my tracks, spinning on my heels, my blood boiling.

“His?” I shout. “His piano? Mom…are you…are you joking?”

“Kensington, you need to take this down…now,” she says, opening the computer and spinning it around for me.

“No,” I say, folding my arms. I’m throwing a fit. A staunch, standoff kind of fit—like I did when I was four and didn’t want to eat my green beans—but a fit nonetheless. This is ridiculous.

“Yes,” she says, the word coming out slowly, her eyes scrunched, wrinkling at the corners. We stare at each other like this for several minutes, and the longer I look at her, the longer I think about what she said, the angrier I get.

“You said it was mine. Mine! You said that was my piano. You told me when I was ten, after I won my first competition. Grandma died and left that piano to you—your mother, not his! And then you said it was mine. You told me that it was always meant for my hands, and you loved the joy it gave me. You don’t get to take it back. And if I want to sell it, because it doesn’t give me joy any more, then I’m going to! And he doesn’t get any say in things! You can sweep those awful things he’s done under the rug if you want to, but I will never forget. And I will never forgive him!”