Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(40)

“I’m sorry about the phone calls. From…from her,” he says, and I can tell he’s treading lightly at bringing up Gaby.

“It’s okay. She’ll stop calling soon. Or not. Either way,” I say, not really believing the indifference I’m trying to portray, but I try to sell it; I try to sell it hard.

“Yeah, probably,” he says, and there’s a pause in everything. The house is quiet, and the moon is shrouded by clouds, so the night is darker than normal. It feels like the world is hushed, listening to our conversation. “For the record, what she did? Your friend…” he pauses, waiting to see if it’s okay to say more. “That was pretty shitty.”

Shitty. Yeah, it was shitty. It also might have been illegal—could probably be constituted as rape in some ways—was morally and ethically flawed, and is going to scar me for life.

Yeah, it was shitty.

“Thanks,” is all I say in response. I’m not ready to deal beyond that yet. “How’s Andrew?” I ask, desperate to return the focus on Owen.

“He’s good. Thanks. My brother likes you, you know? I think he thinks you’re cute,” he says, and I blush even though I know he’s just trying to be funny.

“That’s what he said about you,” I say, unable to stop the words before I speak them. I start chewing on my nails the instant I realize what I’ve done, and I hold my breath, waiting for Owen to hang up. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t respond either. He just lets the silence play out for a really long and uncomfortable amount of time. I think he’s torturing me, but I also think just maybe…he’s smiling.

“So how was your first day of work?” I ask, leaning over the edge of my bed and peaking out the window one more time, on the off chance that he’s looking at me, too. All I see is the blackness filling his window, but I smile softly, in case he’s hiding in the shadow.

“It was good, I guess. It’s a job, and I don’t have to deal with people a lot, so that’s sort of a bonus. And I make, like, fifty more cents an hour,” he says.

“Do you ever resent it? Having to work so much?” I tread carefully; I’ve learned when Owen doesn’t want to have a conversation, he doesn’t, and sometimes his end of it is abrupt.

“Nah,” he says, yawning a little. “It helps my family, and it doesn’t really get in the way of the important things.”

“Like what?” I ask, quickly.

Owen chuckles softly into the phone. “Wow, you’re like one of those hard-hitting reporters. Right in there with the next question,” he says.

“Sorry,” I say in a whisper, my face burning again with that familiar sting of embarrassment.

“It’s okay. I haven’t really shared with someone in a while, that’s all. Most my friends either already know my deal or they don’t care,” he says, and I focus on that one phrase—his deal. I want to know his deal; I want to know all about Owen Harper and his life and his past and those rumors. I want his story.

“You don’t have to…share? If you don’t feel up to it, or if it’s personal or…whatever,” I say, my hand back in place between my lips. I won’t have any fingernails left in the morning.

“Well, you already know I play basketball. And it’s stupid, but that’s one of those important things. I’m good at it. You know how you said you’re gifted? Well, I guess it’s my gift, if gifts work like that. I lose myself in it, and I like that I get to be aggressive,” he says. I think back to when I watched Owen play in the driveway, how masculine every movement he made was. Aggressive seemed to be in his nature even then.

“Well, clearly, I wouldn’t know much about basketball,” I say, inciting a raspy laugh from Owen. “But, I would believe that you’re good…or gifted. You’re fun to watch.”

I pull my blanket up over my chin after this, knowing how gushing and flirtatious every word from my mouth sounds. I don’t regret them, though. I don’t regret a single second of my night so far.

“Thanks,” Owen says, and my smile kicks in, my cover now hiding more of my blushing face.

“Does your older brother help out with bills too?” I ask. When Owen’s answer doesn’t come right away, I close my eyes, wishing I could take my question back, my gut sinking, knowing I asked one question too many.

“James,” Owen starts, but then his long pause continues.

“It’s…it’s okay, I’m getting too personal,” I say, grasping at hope that Owen won’t hang up, that he’ll call me again.

“James is a junkie,” he says. There are a million reactions I could have had, but what I didn’t expect is how much I want to hug Owen right now. Nothing about his small description of his brother sounded sad or affected or heartbroken, but somehow through it all, I know Owen is. I can just sense it.

“I’m sorry, Owen,” I say, careful to say his name—to take care of it and respect it. If he doesn’t share with people often, then I’m guessing very few people really know about James.

“Thanks. But it’s okay. It is what it is. My mom kicked him out a year ago. He started using meth, and getting into some really hard shit. She didn’t want Andrew exposed to that. I didn’t either. But he still calls me. You know…when he needs something,” he says, a certain amount of disappointment in his tone.