Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(35)

“You put the hoop back up?” he asks.

That means he knows it was down.

“Yeah, my dad…he was the one who took it down the first time. I felt bad,” I say, but I don’t know how to finish, so I leave it at that.

Andrew bounces the ball a few more times, then turns to take another shot, this time the ball ricocheting off the eave of the house, missing all traces of the rim and backboard. “I suck at hoops,” he says, his sideways grin matching his brother’s. I step closer and pick up the ball. Bending my elbows, I push the ball as hard as I can toward the hoop, and it falls about two feet short, clanging off of the metal of the garage door.

“Me, too,” I laugh.

Andrew kicks the ball up gently a few times until he gets it back in his hands. “Soccer,” he smirks. “I always played soccer.”

“Ah,” I say, holding out my fingers and wiggling them. “Piano. I always played the piano.”

He nods with a quick smile before looking down, an awkward silence settling over both of us. I shiver once, a breeze rustling the newest bronze and yellow leaves in our driveway.

“He likes you,” Andrew says, his words like a blanket of warmth, instantly heating my entire body. My eyes are wide, but I keep my gaze at the ground, away from his.

“Ha,” I let out a quick, sharp laugh.

“No, really. He hasn’t flat-out said it, but he won’t tell me he doesn’t,” he says, and the chill creeps along my skin again.

“That’s nice of you to say, Andrew. But I’m pretty sure your brother would have been happier if this house sat here empty,” I say, kicking at the ground, and moving my hands to the inside of the sleeves of my shirt.

“Maybe at first. But not now,” he says, tossing the ball in the air a few times, then catching it and setting his sightline on me. “He’s heard you play. And he says you don’t anymore. Just…he noticed. And he’s always leaving his window open and shit, even though it’s cold as hell. He listens for you.”

I chew at my bottom lip, every muscle in my mouth working to keep myself from smiling.

“Where is he?” I ask, pretending to just now notice his truck is gone. I noticed the instant I recognized Andrew was the one out here. I think I actually felt that Owen was gone.

“At work,” he says, shrugging and walking backward on his heels, moving to his house.

“I thought he got fired?” I’m suddenly a little suspicious.

“He did. Got a new job, though, at the strip mall. He takes out trash and power washes the sidewalks and crap,” he says.

“How’s…his eye?” I’m embarrassed to ask this, embarrassed because I know everything Andrew witnessed. And the fact that he has yet to bring any of my drama up means he truly is a good person.

“I didn’t get to see him. I’m sure he’s fine, though. O can take a punch, trust me,” he says with a chuckle, turning to face the steps to his house before pausing and looking at me over his shoulder. “Hey, don’t tell him I told you, okay? You know…that he likes you? He’ll beat my ass so f*cking hard for that.”

Andrew laughs when he asks, but I don’t think he’s kidding either. I cross my heart and chuckle, as if this is all a joke anyhow. But there’s also that little part of me that is revving from the faster heartbeat in my chest—the part of me that likes that Owen listens for me. And that part of me wants to play the piano for the first time in days, with the hope that he’ll hear it.



It’s the first full day my mom’s been back at work since everything in our lives changed. I’ve been thinking, though, how my mom’s life changed months before mine. She’s been pretending to be fine for a while now, but I don’t know how she could have been. And as mad as I am at her for pretending, I keep forgiving her every time I feel the urge to be angry.

I have so many questions. I wonder if it all started on Gaby’s birthday at the start of summer, when she spent the weekend at our house. She’s always been close with my father—the two of them sharing a love of classical music that makes me roll my eyes. My father constantly compared me to her, wishing I had the same appreciation and respect for his work that she does. He loved her compositions—they were classical, not jazz. Or maybe they were just hers, and that’s why he loved them. I wonder if that’s how they connected? Was it those times my father helped her at the school, helped her with arrangements?

I wonder if all of those nights he was working late, and Gaby was spending late hours at Bryce, if they weren’t really together—somewhere else entirely. I’m pretty sure I know the answer to this one, but maybe, just maybe, every word from my best friend’s lips wasn’t a lie.

I wonder if he waited until she was eighteen. Not that it makes it any better, but…

I’ve been at the piano for an hour. I keep flexing my fingers, popping knuckles, and running the palms of my hands along the wood above the keys. I can’t seem to do much else. Every time I lower my hands to play, I hear my father’s voice, looming in my mind, telling me jazz is a waste of time, and that my showcase is garbage—won’t be good enough.

“You should probably lock this at night.” Owen’s voice startles me. I kick away from the piano, knocking over the bench beneath me as I struggle to get to my feet. My back is on the floor quickly, my feet kicking in my fight to stand again.