Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(78)

I’m racing out to my car when Ryan meets me in the parking lot, and I can tell by the face he’s wearing he has news about Owen.

“Hey, Kens. Owen just called, wanted me to come find you, tell you not to worry,” Ryan says, his hands waving, his long legs making up quick distance until he’s standing at my car with me. “He’ll be back for our game, too. He said you should just wait here.”

“Where is he? What happened, Ryan?” I ask, having no intention of not driving right to Owen—wherever he is. I open the passenger door and toss my backpack inside then move to the driver’s side, Ryan following me.

“It’s James. He…he came home,” Ryan says, his head leaning to one side, expecting me to understand. But I don’t.

“He…came…home?” I repeat.

Ryan takes a small step back, letting his bag slide down his arm to the ground next to him. He pulls his hat from his head and runs his other hand through his hair, scratching at his head, his eyes squinting when he looks back at me.

“He does this sometimes. Or, at least, he’s done this before. Something must have scared him, or he’s broke, or…whatever. He goes a few days without getting high, and then he starts to feel the hell of withdrawals, and then he comes home,” Ryan says, his arms slung heavily at his sides, his thumbs looped in his pockets.

“Why doesn’t Owen’s mom kick him out? Or take him to rehab?” I ask, opening my door and moving one foot inside.

“They can’t afford rehab, Kens, come on,” he says, and I wince because he’s right, I should know better. “And James may be a drug addict, but he’s still her son. She loves him.”

“Is that where Owen is? Right now? Is he at home?” I ask, and I don’t have to wait for his answer, because I know that’s where he is.

I leave Ryan with his lips parted, ready to speak, and squeal my tires backing away from my parking spot. I hear the whistle from the teacher on parking-lot duty, but I ignore it, maneuvering my way to the front of the exit line, turning right on a red light, into a rush of traffic.

Somehow sparing my car any new dings or dents, I weave through dirt alongside the road until I get to a street that I know goes to my house. I pull up, and immediately I see Owen’s truck, and the car I now know belongs to James. But I also see something else.

My father’s car is at the end of the driveway, far enough forward to make room for my car— like he’s planning on staying here a while. I slow, quietly turning into my driveway, positioning my car near the edge, out of the way so my father can exit. And, near my own escape—I leave my hand on the keys, not sure I should commit to turning the engine off.

On one side, I have Owen’s house, and as I roll down my window and listen, everything seems quiet—as it always is. There’s silence surrounding my house, too, even though my mom’s car is also in the driveway. Both of my parents are in that house. Together.

Waiting for me, I can only presume.

I didn’t text my mom that I was planning to stay for Owen’s game. I thought she would be gone, and I assumed she wouldn’t care. But clearly, her ambush screams otherwise.

The divorce conversation was bound to come. At eighteen, I hardly feel I need things explained to me. Given the circumstances, I can’t see any other end for this game. The moment my father’s face shifted when I asked him about the affair, asked him about some other woman—the first thing that flowed through my head was this very conversation my parents are sitting in there waiting to have. That’s actually what sickened me most in that first few minutes. How quickly things changed though when Gaby also became a part of this story. It put things into perspective, made this conversation not only unnecessary, but a joke.

I’m not having this talk today. And I’m a little disappointed in my mom for trying to force it on me.

With ease, I push my car door closed, latching it enough to make the dome light flicker off, then I jog to Owen’s front porch, and I tap my key ring on his front door, wanting to keep everything quiet. When nobody answers after my second attempt, I try my hand on the doorknob, and when it twists, I push lightly, letting myself inside.

“Hello?” I call out, the downstairs lights dim, only a lamp on in a corner by a reading chair. The living room is dark as is the kitchen, but there’s a glow from the rooms upstairs. “Hello? Owen?” I say loudly, my voice directed up the stairs. I hear footsteps coming down the wooden floors of the hallway, and soon I see Andrew’s sock-covered feet.

“Hey, Kens,” he whispers, gliding down the steps quickly and meeting me on the bottom. “You here for O?”

“Yeah,” I whisper back, taking his lead. “He left school, and he has a game today. I…I was worried.”

Andrew smiles, his hands hanging in the front pocket of his hoodie, his hair disheveled, like he’s been sleeping. “I came home sick today,” he says, running his hand a few times through his hair when he notices me looking at it, his smile reflecting his youth. “My mom came to get me, because she didn’t want to bother Owen. But when we got home…”

Andrew turns to look over his shoulder, back up the stairs, and Owen is standing at the top, his eyes on mine, his face showing a look of disappointment. “Andrew, go back to bed,” he says, sighing. He takes a few steps, and meets Andrew in the middle of the stairs.