Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(113)
“Why did you do that?” Owen asks. His eyes are still on the envelope, and he doesn’t seem to be sharing the same thrill of opportunity the rest of us are. “Did you put him up to this?” Owen turns to me, and suddenly I can’t breathe.
“O…” I start, not sure how I’m going to defend myself, but desperate for the right words, the ones that will make him understand, and say yes to this chance.
“It wasn’t her. I did this. The school knows you’re moving, and I merely asked Kensi if everything was all right. She was honest and said she was worried about you. That’s all,” Mr. Chessman says. The way he covers for me, the ease with which he spins the story—he’s practiced this, thought through everything. He cares…he cares about Owen, and he cares about Owen’s mom. His eyes never stay on her long, but they search her out every other minute. A constant system of checks and balances to make sure she’s there, in her chair, listening, engaged, happy, safe.
Owen sighs heavily, leaning back in his chair, his hands holding the edge of the table, his thumbs pinning the envelope down. He slides his palms flat toward it, then he picks it up and unfolds the top. He tilts it sideways, sliding out brochures and booklets and a letter, signed by Lon Mathison and another name.
“Owen, if this man is offering you a chance to go to college…you have to take it,” his mother says, sliding one of the brochures closer, her fingers running over the glossy photos. There’s a certain sense of longing in the way she looks at them.
His head shaking, Owen drops the letter from his hands, then leans forward, rubbing his hands over his eyes before pulling them down over his mouth. He looks to me next, his face every bit of lost and unsure. His eyes stay on mine; they’re asking me a question. He’s torn by duty. And he doesn’t know what to do. His mom and Mr. Chessman are exchanging brochures, each pointing out things for the other to look at—both excited about this opportunity. All Owen sees is how he’ll be abandoning his mom, his family, when they need him most.
“How are we going to afford Grampa? You know how much money I’m going to make in Iowa, Mom. That paycheck—it’s guaranteed. And it will save us. What happens with Andrew? Are you going to send him down to Iowa alone? Or does he stay here, where he has to live under Dad’s shadow? And I’m sorry I’m bringing it up, Mom, but you know it’s there. Iowa is a chance for him to get away from all those things that—” Owen stops suddenly, swallowing as his eyes close.
“Those things that you think killed James,” she finishes for him. Owen’s mother’s voice is soft, her heart broken for both the son she lost and the one who feels responsible for his death. “You can’t spend your life protecting Andrew, Owen. And you deserve things too. Good things. And we’ll find a way to make it work.”
“I don’t know,” Owen says, pulling his hat from his head, laying it on the table over the documents that are now overwhelming him, his hands rubbing his head. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t…” His voice dissipates, until it’s nothing.
Owen stands and stares at me, then turns to his mom. He reaches forward again, grabbing the letter, carrying it with him as he leaves the room. He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, looking at us all. “Let me think about it, okay? And I will…I promise, tonight.”
I stand from the table, too, walking over to Owen, his body leaning heavily on the banister. He looks like he’s been in a fight rather than just had a major university drop a pot of gold on his table. I don’t know why I thought this would be so easy. I was so sure Mr. Chessman would find a way to tip the scales away from Iowa. What I hadn’t counted on was Owen’s sense of duty.
“Hey…this…” I say, tapping my finger on the edge of the paper in his hand, “is a good thing. I know you have to think about it, but options…they’re always good, right?”
It sounds pathetic. My reasoning, it’s flawed. It’s hard to see something you want as attainable when so many things need you on the other side.
“It’s good,” Owen says, his lip pulling up enough to press a small dimple in his cheek. He holds it there as he gazes at me, his eyes holding mine while Mr. Chessman comes over to where we’re standing.
“Owen, I know you need to think this over, but it’s really a once-in-a-lifetime chance. There’s always a way,” he says, his hand moving to pat Owen once on the back.
Owen’s mom joins us then she walks Mr. Chessman to the door, their farewell exchange just as awkward and brief as their greeting.
“I have to get home. My mom hasn’t seen me yet,” I say, the voice in my head asking him what he’s thinking, what his plans are and begging for an answer—the answer I want. Inside my head—there’s a lot of begging.
Owen tips my chin up, kissing my lips lightly at first, then moves his hands to my head, pulling me closer and moving his kiss above my brow. I love when he does this, the sweetness of it all, the affection in every touch. I love it, and I’ll miss it if he leaves. He has to stay.
I wait while he steps backward a few times, moving up to his room, and I turn after he does and leave his house to enter mine. My mom is sitting in the middle of the floor, right next to my piano, with rolls of holiday paper around her and stacks of framed pictures on my piano.