Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(103)

I turn around the second my last word is uttered. With a calm but quick pace, I climb my stairs, turning back only after I’ve made it up the first few. My mother is frozen in her place, her hand just where it was on the computer, her mouth slightly parted, her eyes wide and on me…almost. I may as well have slapped her.

I get to my room and slam the door, like a child, and move to my window, putting my headphones on and pulling my knees up to my chest while I unzip my backpack and pull out my pile of homework. I look up every few minutes, waiting for Owen to look back, and after an hour, I can’t take the waiting any longer, so I send him a text and ask him to come over.

My mom must have let him in, because I never hear the doorbell or knock, just the sound of him slipping through my door moments later.

“Homework done?” I ask, everything inside me still churning, still fuming.

“Uh huh,” he says, his head tilted to the side as he moves toward me a little apprehensively. “You’re pissed about something. Your dad coming over? Cuz I’m not so sure I’m up for wrestling him again.”

“Ha,” I let out a short laugh, then let my head fall forward into my hands, rubbing my eyes. “No, you’re safe. Just doing that thing where I yell at my mom, but I feel bad about it. Even if I’m right…I feel bad.”

Owen slides down on the floor next to me, both of our backs against my bed. He flips through a few of the things I’ve let fall out of my backpack, looking at the back of one of the books I picked up from the library. “This looks like a chick book,” he says, tossing the copy of Emma I picked up from the library back onto my stack of notebooks.

“It is. It’s one of my favorites,” I say, looking at the cover. It’s an image of the movie version, a carefree Gwyneth Paltrow holding her bow and arrow. “How come you have advanced calculus homework?” I ask the question quickly, keeping my eyes on the book, not wanting to make a big deal out of it. I sense Owen’s pause though. I don’t know why this makes him uncomfortable.

“I tested out of freshman algebra. I’ve always been a year ahead in math. Brain just sort of likes numbers, I guess,” he says, his voice trailing off at the end. He reaches his arm to my leg, grabbing my hand and pulling it into his lap, cupping it with both of his and playing with my fingers. “What was this fight about? You know your mom gives me bacon; I hope you didn’t mess up my supply,” he says, leaning into me.

I smile, my gaze into my lap. Owen’s joke is sweet.

“She’s letting my dad rule things. She always has, and it just…it makes me so mad,” I say, the frown taking over again.

“What’s he trying to rule?” Owen asks.

“Her,” I say quickly, looking up at him. “And me, by extension.”

Owen lifts his hand and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, leaving his hand on my cheek when he’s done. “So don’t let him,” he says. Simple, plain. “Is this about your playing again? Because I thought we had that figured out—you do that for you, wasn’t that the deal?”

“I thought so,” I say, standing up to move to my doorway, checking to see if my mom is still downstairs or up. “But apparently it’s not my piano.”

When I turn back to Owen, his eyebrows are pulled in, one eye closed. “Last I checked, it’s not the piano that makes that kick-ass music. It’s you,” Owen says.

“Exactly, so there’s no reason I can’t sell it,” I say quickly, regretting my words just as fast.

Owen’s standing now, his body moving behind me. I turn into him, reaching my arms out to hug him, embrace him, move away from talking—but he greets my hands with his, holding his arms out stiffly, keeping me at a small distance so he can watch my face. “Why would you sell it?” he asks.

He knows.

I shrug, nodding ambivalently, as if I haven’t thought this through.

“Kens,” he says, his eyes looking over my shoulder, out my door, then back to me. “You’re not selling your piano.”

I let go of his fingers and lean back against my wall, my arms folded—pouting. Pouting and pissed. Why is everyone insistent that I can’t do what I want with my piano?

“Kens,” he chuckles, moving closer to me, pulling on my arms, which I’m holding together tightly against my body. My stubbornness makes him laugh harder, until he pulls his hat from his head, tosses it on my bed and rubs his eyes. He sits down next to it and calls me over to him. I scoot my feet closer reluctantly, and when I get to him, he loops his fingers into the pocket of my jeans and drags me onto his lap, wrapping his arms around me tightly, his lips at my ear.

“It is so sweet that you want to help my family. But that would pay for what? Another couple months of my Grandpa’s expenses? I can’t let you do that. The cost is too high,” he says. “But I love that you’re willing to do something like that for me.”

“I don’t want the piano anymore. And it would help,” I say, my eyes growing heavy with tears.

“Yes you do. You don’t think you want it…but you do,” he says, swaying me side to side in his lap, his cheek against mine. I let my head fall on his arm, running my hands along his, holding his caged arms around me tightly.

I don’t want the piano. All I want…is Owen.