Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(80)

Then Owen makes it all stop. He kicks his shoes from his feet and climbs into the bed next to his brother, pulling his flailing body into his arms, onto his lap and holding him to his chest, his arms flexing and working so very hard. At first, James pushes from him, fighting to get back to the bed, pulling and asking for the floor, to go outside, to get to his car. Every time he fights, Owen just pulls him to his chest harder, his chin resting on his brother’s head. Owen’s eyes find mine, locking on me. It feels as if I’m his anchor.

“You can do this, James. This is the hard part. You can do this; I’ve got you,” Owen says, over and over, until his brother’s body grows tired, and he starts to stare off into space—not asleep, but no longer fighting against him.

“I need you to call Ryan; I’m going to miss my game,” Owen says to me, his eyes full of regret, shame, disappointment—so many familiar emotions.

“What about your mom?” I ask. This isn’t fair, and Owen shouldn’t have to give up something for this.

It isn’t fair.

“She had to work. She’ll lose her job if she doesn’t show up. She’s…she’s called in for this before. Last time was the last time, according to her boss,” Owen says, his eyes starting to show his exhaustion.

“Owen…” I say, my head falling to the side, not wanting to see him lose so much, to hurt so much. His brother’s pain is killing him.

“He’s in withdrawal. If I leave him, he’s just going to do something worse. I…can’t…” Owen doesn’t finish his words; instead, swallowing hard, fighting to keep the water I see building in his eyes from falling, to make the redness in his eyes go away. He wants to stay strong, to stay hard, to stay dark.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, looking at him long enough for him to believe that I will be right back. But I don’t go to his room, to his phone. I don’t call Ryan. Instead, I leave his house and walk into my own hell, to my parents who are sitting in my kitchen at opposite ends of the counter, not speaking, but waiting for me. They’ve been waiting long enough when I step in the house, the first words from my father’s mouth are asking what’s taken me so long, followed by accusations that my mother doesn’t know how to take care of me. Within seconds, they’re bickering with one another, not looking at me at all, and if it were any other moment, I would turn around and leave.

But I can’t. I can’t, because I need my mom. She is the only person who can help Owen.

“Stop it!” I yell, my hands held above my head, waving to get their attention. When they both snap their gazes to me, I drop my hands to my head. “I’m eighteen. I had a birthday…which you didn’t acknowledge,” I say sternly, pointing to my father who opens his mouth to rebut my accusation, but I keep talking, cutting him off before he can begin a single word. “You don’t have any right to say anything about me, to me, on my behalf! You gave that all up the moment you f*cked my best friend, you piece of shit. You don’t get to be my father ever again, and when I think about it, you never really were.”

There’s a feeling of power that comes over me the longer I talk, the words I’m saying freeing, my voice growing calmer, stronger. There is so much I want to say to this man; so much I want to say to my mom, too, for even letting him in the house. But Owen needs me. Those things are going to have to wait.

“Mom,” I speak to her, holding my hand up to my father’s face, my gesture cruel and insolent, but I don’t give a f*ck, because Owen needs me. “I need you. It’s personal, and I don’t want to talk about this in front of him.”

I hold her gaze, watching her mind process what she’s able to read in mine. Please, Mom. Just this once, stand up to him. Don’t let him charm you; make him leave.

“Kens, can we just talk first, then when your dad goes back to his hotel, you and I can talk about anything, whatever you need?” she’s trying to make us both happy. That’s no longer possible, though—we both don’t get to be happy.

“No,” I say. Nothing more. I won’t talk about Owen in front of him, and I won’t sit here and listen to them try to talk about me, their marriage, fake apologies, my dad’s rights or wishes for me, his role in my life. I’m not having that conversation—not ever.

“Dean…” my mom sighs, her head leaning to the side, her eyes falling on him. She’s exhausted, and I can tell he’s probably been here for hours, wearing her down.

“Karen, have you forgotten who the parents are in this house? My god…” my dad says, kicking away from the counter, his stool crashing to the floor with his temper. “Are you pregnant? Did that little thug next door knock you up? That’s what this is, isn’t it? Jesus, Karen!”

I don’t answer. My father couldn’t be more off-base, and it takes every breath in my body to stand here and keep my eyes on my mom, not to acknowledge him at all. But he just isn’t worth it.

“Dean, I think you need to leave,” she says, standing and putting her hand slowly along his shoulder. My dad shrugs her off, his brow low and hard, shirking her touch. “Dean, it’s time to go.”

“A goddamned mess. You…both of you! You did this to yourself!” My father points his finger back at me as he leaves, his face glowing red, his anger radiating.