Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(74)

“You go up first, I’ll turn off the lights and lock up,” I say, not able to fully look him in the eye. The thought of having Owen in my room, alone with me, has my body feeling alive and warm and electric. I’m also nervous and scared—of being caught, yes, but also of being that alone with Owen.

We’ve never been so alone.

I watch nervously as he glides up the stairs, pulling his shoes off halfway, so he can slip quietly past my mom’s room. I wait a few extra seconds, making sure he’s in my room, then I lock the back door, walking the length of the house from the back to the front, flipping every light switch off along the way.

I check the front door, bolt it and glance at the clock on the wall. It’s already well past midnight, and my mother never once came downstairs. I’m pretty sure she’s fallen asleep. She trusts me. And I’m about to take advantage of that—a tinge of guilt squeezing at me from the inside, a tinge that I bury and ignore and replace with anxiety over all the what ifs that come along with being alone with Owen.

Holding my breath, I pause at my mom’s door, listening for the familiar sounds—the buzz of her humidifier, the dull sound of the low television, the constant stream of infomercials that I know she isn’t watching. All signs point to her being asleep, to the risk being minimal, so I continue on into my room. I close the door and turn the light out quickly, surprising Owen.

“Okay, so I know I’m ugly, but really? You have to keep me in the dark, too?” he jokes.

“You’re not ugly,” I say, reaching to the end of my bed and throwing a pillow at him where he sits. He clutches it in his arms and sets it next to him, on the floor—the space where I usually sit to watch him through the window. I notice his gaze pauses at that window, his smile quirking up. For some reason having him here, knowing I watch him from this room, embarrasses me, so I quickly turn my attention away from that space.

His back rests against the headboard of my bed, his feet stretched out in front of him, the small bag with his gift in his lap. When he pats the space next to him, I swallow loudly, kick off my shoes, and crawl next to him, folding my legs up in front of me. My fidgeting hands and feet create a small barrier between us, a barrier Owen is quick to crash down when he lets his hand graze along the inside of my leg, stopping at my knee.

“Present time?” I ask, my voice a whisper. I’m sure if I speak any louder my mom will crash through the door. I’m not sure what she would do if she caught Owen here. She’s not the type to get angry over things like this, and I think a small part of her would be glad to see me do something so typical and teenager. But I also know she wouldn’t trust me anymore. And that would make me sad.

Owen holds the bag in his lap for a few seconds, turning it and folding over the top a few times. I can tell whatever is inside is small, but heavy.

“I told you how my grandpa raised us, right?” Owen says finally.

“Yeah,” I say back. We’re both still whispering, and the fact that Owen is—without me asking him to—fills me with relief.

“He was a fixer,” Owen says, and I quirk my head to the side, pinching my brow.

“A…fixer?” I repeat.

“Yeah…I mean that’s not like his official title or job or anything. He worked in the warehouse with my dad. That’s how my parents met, actually. My dad worked for him,” Owen says, his fingers wrestling with the strings on the gift, tucking them in and out of the fold nervously. He doesn’t share these stories often, and I don’t dare speak or interrupt him.

“When he wasn’t working, and even more after he retired, my grandpa did odd jobs for people, fixing things. Not really a handyman, because he didn’t go to houses or climb ladders for people. But people brought him things. And sometimes, they’d forget to come back and collect whatever it was he was fixing for them,” Owen says, his lips curved into a soft, affectionate smile, his eyes showing nothing but fondness for this memory.

“So…” Owen starts, sliding the bag from his lap onto mine. “This is from my grandpa’s collection. He saved a few special things, things that sort of spoke to him. He never really knew why he kept this thing in particular. But then, when I was visiting him at the home the other day, I noticed it again. I’ve probably stared at this thing for four years, both on the shelf at our house and in his room at the home when we moved him there. It never meant anything…until now. When I asked him if I could give it to you, he lit up. He doesn’t light up often anymore.”

Owen pauses, his hands folded nervously in his lap, his thumbs tapping one another, his eyes cast down on the gift in my lap. The light through the window is dim, but it’s bright enough to see his expression. He’s anxious, and maybe also a little happy. I unbend the fold in the top of the bag and untwist the knotted strings, pulling out the crumpled tissue paper from the top. When I reach in, my fingers feel something cold, made of a heavy metal. I pull the object out slowly, holding it in front of my face, resting it on my palm. It stands only a few inches tall, and the shape is similar to a small grandfather’s clock, but I know what it is immediately.

My heart knows too, and it kicks—violently.

“My grandpa said the music teacher for the old Woodstock elementary school brought it to him. But then the guy retired and left town, forgetting about it completely. I guess you wind it here,” Owen says, his hands gentle along mine as he twists the crank on the back until the small object begins to make the regular ticking sound it’s meant for, the sound sweet to my ears. “He said they don’t make metronomes like this anymore. One wind lasts about six hours, unless you hold the hand still to make it stop.”