Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(84)

He never does. And eventually, I succumb to sleep.





Chapter 17





My dad is at the house again this morning. He was staying at a hotel in Milwaukee before, but he moved to a bed and breakfast in the center of town. This all feels so weird, like he’s…visiting.

An unwelcomed visitor.

The first few days this week, I asked my mom what was happening. She said he was just coming over for coffee and breakfast before work, making an effort to be friendly—assuring me that was it. I stayed in my room the entire time. I refuse to acknowledge him. I know he leaves when she does for work, though. I asked Owen to make sure of it for me, and he did, once or twice, driving back by my house while I was at band. My dad’s car was always gone.

I heard him pull into the driveway this morning, watched him walk up to the backdoor with a box of donuts in his arms. My father never bought donuts. Not once. Not even when I was a little girl and had slumber parties.

Willow is coming over, helping me pick out something nice to wear for the dance after the final football game. I’m going with her and Jess and Elise. Owen and Ryan both don’t want to go. Ryan, because he just doesn’t like dances, and Owen because he doesn’t seem to like much of anything lately.

His brother has been with him for five days, and yesterday, I saw James come outside. He was wearing a pink pair of sweatpants and a large gray T-shirt, his mom’s clothing I think. He rushed to his car, dug around in the backseat, then swore a few times before going back inside.

He looked terrible.

I quit asking Owen about it. His answers are always short, resentful. I don’t blame him. I hate his brother for doing this to him, for doing this to his family. Owen’s mom was able to fix her schedule at work, and for the last two days, she’s been able to be home with James when nobody else is. It’s not a permanent thing. I don’t know how long it takes someone to get off of heroin, but I’m guessing three days is kind of fast.

When I hear Willow’s car skid over the dip in the driveway, I call her.

“Hey, lemme guess, you heard me bust my axle on your stupid driveway,” she says, her engine cutting off both over the phone and out my window.

“If you were a cat, that sound would basically be the bell around your neck,” I joke.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, her voice muffled as she stuffs her phone in the crook of her neck. I hear the door slam closed in the background.

“So, when you ring the doorbell, I’m not coming down,” I say.

“Another fine morning with good ol’ Dad, I see,” Willow says.

“Yes. And don’t get a crush on him,” I say quickly. “I like you, and I don’t want to make another voodoo doll of a former friend.”

“First of all, gross! Your dad is okay looking, for fifty, but he’s not my bag,” she says. “And second, voodoo dolls?”

“No comment,” I say back, kicking the cutout photo of Gaby I made the other night under my bed. I poked my red pen through the eyes to make her look like the devil. It made me feel better for about five minutes.

“Okay, hanging up, about to ring the doorbell. See you in a sec,” Willow says, ending our call. I crack my door open just enough to hear the drone of the conversation happening downstairs. My father is talking about his latest set, some new cellist playing in their symphony. My mom is pretending to be interested. She’s always pretended to be interested. I can envision it, her head propped on her hand, the nodding and the ohs and uh huhs. I never really stopped to pay attention before, but I’m more aware now, my perspective…different.

I bet he’s sleeping with the cellist.

The doorbell rings, and I can hear snippets of my mom’s conversation with Willow, when I notice the shadow of two people climbing the stairs, I leap from my door to my bed, crossing my legs and grabbing the closest magazine available. It’s the most cliché move possible.

“Thanks, Mrs. Ward,” Willow says, her eyes wide at me in apology that she led my mom up here with her. My mom’s not the enemy. She’s just disappointing.

“Thanks, Mom. You can go now,” I say, my tone clipped. I’m being a bitch. I’ve been one for five days—ever since I found out my father was trying to woo my mother, and she admitted that she was considering it.

My mom lingers at the doorway, her eyes glaring at me. She looks pissed, but her resolve dissipates quickly the longer she stands there. Because I’m right.

“Your dad brought donuts…” she starts.

“Not hungry,” I say, flipping pages on the dog magazine, pretending to be immersed in the cute puppy faces on the pages. It’s something we got free in the mail, from a shelter. If I had access to my father’s checking account, I’d send in a donation for ten thousand dollars.

“Right, well…” she says, but I look up at her, my eyes snapping to hers, challenging her. Well what? Well, I should really come talk to him and think about forgiving him for the unforgivable, because he brought donuts and that proves he’s a good person? I don’t know what she’s expecting, or what he is for that matter. But I’ve come to terms with the idea that my father is only my father genetically from now on.

My mom closes the door finally, discouraged.

“So that was awkward,” Willow says, flopping on the bed next to me, her arms and legs out in all directions, her reddish-blonde hair loose and wild.