Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(87)



She grabs the keys and slides them in her jacket pocket, but she keeps her eyes on me the whole time. She hasn’t actually said anything. In fact, she’s been nothing but supportive. But that look she gives me makes my stomach feel sick, like I’m letting her down, letting myself down, breaking rules meant to be followed.

“What?” I sigh, unable to take it any longer. Willow’s lips part, but she doesn’t speak, instead her teeth catch the tip of her tongue and her lips roll into a soft smile, one that tries to erase every message her eyes have been giving me.

“Will, come on,” I say, sliding into the seat next to her, my eyes shifting between the driveway out front and her. “Tell me now, before Owen gets here.”

She breathes in long and slow, through her nose, filling her lungs. I know that breath—it’s the one used for courage.

“Jess saw Owen buy drugs from a guy out in front of the movie theater last night,” she says, letting her words fall out all in one breath, her body heaving forward with the loss of the weight of this secret. “Owen was with House. Jess said he couldn’t tell what it was, but he could tell it wasn’t something…well, something normal. It was really weird, and Owen didn’t look right, and…he’s been smoking. I see him smoking with House in the morning, behind the school. Did you know he smoked? I know…I know; it’s not that big of a deal. It’s just…I didn’t know he smoked, and now I’m wondering what else he does. And his brother…”

She stops there, just short of accusing Owen of being an addict too.

I stare at her with my mouth a little open, my eyes wide, my brain working to find a place to put everything she just said—to file it and make sense out of it. I want to argue with her, tell her she’s wrong, what Jess saw is wrong.

But I can’t.

Then I see Owen’s truck pull up outside behind her.

“I…I have to go,” I shake my head, standing and trying to wake myself from the shock. “I…I don’t know. I’ll see you at the game. But I’ve gotta go.”

She doesn’t speak, and I leave before we even have a chance to look at one another again. I carry this new twisted feeling right into the truck cab with Owen, slamming the door closed, shivering from the outside air and the cold feeling still lingering inside his truck.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, shifting into drive quickly and peeling out of the lot. I smile and buckle up, then I sniff for any sign of cigarettes, alcohol—anything.

“How’s James?” I ask.

“Same,” he says, his usual, one-word answer. He’s chewing gum, and I can’t help but overanalyze that now. I’ve never seen him chew gum—at least, I don’t think I have? His mannerisms are nervous, almost jittery, and I find myself noting every single twitch. I’m staring at him, and he keeps glancing with his periphery, never fully giving me his eyes.

“Something wrong?” he asks finally, his arms working to turn his steering wheel onto the highway. The truck swerves with his jerk on the wheel as another car veers into our lane. Owen presses his hand hard on the horn, his fist pounding on the window as we fly by the other car. “Fucking *!” he screams.

My pulse is drumming throughout my entire body from adrenaline, and I keep my hands gripped around the material of my seatbelt, my palms sweaty now despite the quickly dropping temperature. Owen seems to have forgotten his question of me—or maybe he no longer cares. I don’t dare bring it up, instead holding on for dear life and watching out the front windshield as we pass exit after exit, finally getting to ours.

His grandfather lives in a home that’s been converted from one of the old farmhouses on the edge of town. The gravel drive is slushy from the rain and snow. There are two wheelchairs on the front porch as well as a plush seating set and a space heater. The home seems old, but it’s painted nicely, and it looks like it’s cared for. When we step from the truck, I scurry to the front and reach my hand forward, expecting Owen’s to meet mine.

But it doesn’t.

He stuffs his hands into his front pockets of his coat and walks up the path to the door, spitting his gum out into the rocks along the way.

My heart aches from his cold shoulder, and I feel the dark shadow overpowering us.

Owen rings a bell, and a woman answers, her hair pulled under a bright orange cloth. Her accent is thick, and it sounds Polish. She welcomes us inside, and hugs Owen, his rigid muscles softening under her touch. I’m grateful for whatever her embrace just did.

She welcomes us in; Owen takes my coat. There’s a fire and a few people sitting in chairs watching TV. The room is warm and inviting, but the people in there feel lifeless, their faces lost somewhere in the past, their vision not quite focusing on the screen. Any activity happening around them isn’t real to them at all. As homey as this place feels, it feels equally as sad.

I follow Owen to a room down the hall, and he knocks twice before turning the knob.

“Hey, Grandpa,” he says, his body puffing up again with stress, his shoulders stiff and his breath held.

“Is that you, Relish?” An old man stands slowly from a sitting chair that’s facing the window, leaning forward three times before finally getting enough strength to get to his feet. He reaches for the cane propped up against the table next to him then slides a pair of glasses on his face, his head covered in one of those plaid hats that snap in the front.

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