Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(45)
My next class isn’t going to be so easy. When I enter our English class, Owen is sitting in his seat right behind mine, his smirk in its familiar place.
“Saved your seat for you,” he says, barely looking up. Like I believe he hasn’t orchestrated everything he’s about to do and say.
“Whatever,” I respond; glad I don’t have to push his feet off my chair. I don’t like hot and cold. My dad was always hot and cold, probably because he never really wanted to be there in the first place.
“Wow, someone’s moody,” he says. I know what he’s doing. He’s shifting everything he’s feeling to me; he’s making me the bad guy, because he can’t be mad at an entire town—at everyone in Woodstock—for being excited about an event that to him means nothing but nightmares and the stirring up of old gossip and rumors. Thing is, though, that’s also not very fair to me.
“Someone else is an *, so touché,” I say, not even bothering to fully turn around in my seat to acknowledge him. He hates that, because he wants more of a reaction. He wants that push and pull. I hate that I’m goading him as much as I am. I wish I could just keep my mouth shut.
“Awwww, are you…jealous, Kensington?” His lips are at my neck, and his breath is making the tiny hairs on my skin stand to attention. I hate that he called me by my full name, hate that he’s trying to hurt me. But mostly I hate that yes, I’m jealous of some stupid girl of the moment he was just locking lips with at lunch.
I can still feel him there, close enough that I know if I jerked my elbow back hard and fast, I would give him a matching bruise on the other eye. But I fight my newfound instinct for violence, and instead do something far worse.
Turning in my seat, I put both of my palms flat on Owen’s desk and face him, his eyes piercing mine with their coolness. “I’m very sorry, Owen,” I say, and he leans back, folding his arms, his face painted with smugness as he waits for me to take his bait, to go ahead and embarrass myself. No, Owen—not today.
“Did you hear me?” I ask, keeping my voice low, keeping this a conversation for our ears alone. He merely quirks his brow in acknowledgement, but it’s enough. “I know that this apple fest—or whatever the hell this event is—is painful for you. And I know that you’re worried your dad is all people are going to talk about. And some of them probably will. And those people, Owen? Those people f*cking suck. But I’m just trying to make new friends at a school I never wanted to come to. At a school I’m at because guess what? My dad f*cked my life up too. And my new friends asked me to go to a carnival and eat some pie that’s apparently, like, the greatest goddamned pie on the planet. They want me to stay out late, and ride some questionable rides I probably won’t even really like. And you know what? You, your family, your dad—they haven’t brought it up once. Not. Once. So I’m going to go with them, try to make a good memory, and then I’m going to come home and fall in my bed from exhaustion. I hope I can bring myself to look out my window once before I shut my eyes, but I’m not so sure I care for the view anymore.”
Owen’s face didn’t flinch a single time, and his expression never changed. But I kept my eyes trained on his, looking deep into them, and I think maybe—just maybe—I saw a little crack or two underneath.
I turn back to face the front, pull my notepad from my book bag and spend the next hour ignoring Owen’s breathing. When the bell rings, I’m the first to leave, and I don’t give him another glance.
Chapter 11
I am destined never to sleep in again. It’s five in the morning, and Willow is knocking at my door and texting my phone at the same time. I hurry downstairs, and let her in while I finish getting ready.
“Crap? it’s cold out there,” she says, shutting the door quickly behind her and pulling her other glove from her hand to breathe on her palms to thaw them out.
“Seems like a weird time for apples,” I say, rummaging around the downstairs for my other boot. The house is in disarray, my mom’s remodeling now spreading to the railings for the stairs and the now knocked-down wall that divides the formal dining room—also known as my dusty piano room—from the kitchen.
“Yeah, but the apples are at their best now, right before winter hits. That’s why they always want people to pick the trees bare,” Willow says. “Wow, you’ve got a lot going on in here,” she adds, taking careful steps toward the kitchen.
“Yeah, my mom’s sort of gone nuts with this remodeling thing,” I say, tossing a box of paint tarps out of my way during my search. “Sorry, I’ll just be a second. I can’t find my boot. And I need to grab my jacket.”
“Your dad at work?” Her question is completely innocuous, and a few weeks ago, I would have just answered, “Yes,” without a second thought. But it paralyzes me now, and all I can do is stand in front of her with one boot in my hands, looking around the torn-up shreds of my house—proof that my mom is going through some sort of breakdown.
“My mom kicked him out,” I say, nodding and looking around at every little thing left in our house. The only items even remotely my father is the piano that Willow is now leaning on.
“Oh,” she says, and I can tell she’s not sure where to go from here.