Call It What You Want(80)

Owen studies me. “I’m telling you how I really feel. You look like crap.”

I rub at my eyes and give him half my sandwich. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”

“Why not?”

“I just … it’s a long story. Can we just eat?”

“Sure.”

So, we do. It’s quiet. Amiable.

Despite that, my shoulders are gripped with uncomfortable tension.

The tension doubles when Owen speaks low and says, “Have you sold the earrings yet?”

I flinch. “No.”

“Are you worried about your mom finding them?”

A little, but I shake my head.

“I thought you were going to check out a pawn shop in the city.”

That’s right. I did tell him that. I swallow. “I don’t know.”

“You do know.” He sounds irritated.

I snap my eyes up to meet his. “Look, you’re not the one on the hook for this, okay? If you need the money so bad, do it yourself.”

He jerks back in surprise. Hurt flares in his eyes, followed by anger. He shoves the remaining portion of his sandwich back at me. “Look, this all wasn’t my idea. I didn’t tell you to steal—” He catches himself and casts a look around, then drops his voice. “I didn’t tell you to do any of this. So don’t act like I’m some kind of kingpin forcing you into a life of crime.”

“You read too much.”

“Shut up.” He still looks angry.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I told you I was tired. I wasn’t thinking about what I was saying.” I shove the sandwich back at him.

He takes it, and we sit there in quiet silence. He’s wrong, anyway: I don’t know why I haven’t sold them. He compared me to Robin Hood, but that doesn’t quite feel right.

As soon as the thought strikes me, I realize what my problem is.

Connor’s mom didn’t steal from the poor to buy those earrings. Neither did Lexi Miter or her parents when she was reckless with her credit card. That money in the bake sale cash box wasn’t taken from anyone.

My dad is the one who stole.

And now, so am I.

I feel hot. Angry. Guilty and uncertain. My stomach feels like it’s plummeted through my body and is now in free fall.

“Are you gonna be sick?” says Owen.

“I can’t do this,” I whisper.

“You can’t do what?”

“It’s stealing,” I say. I clear my throat. “I’m stealing.” I look at him across the table. “I’m not a thief.”

I expect Owen to offer a sage nod and say something like, “Do what you need to do, Rob,” but he doesn’t. He takes on a cynical expression. “Stealing. Sure. Like it even matters. They don’t even know they’re gone, Rob. You know I don’t want the money, but we could do a lot better with it.”

That doesn’t feel right. I still can’t put my finger on why though. I mean, he’s not wrong. On all counts. I could probably pay Owen’s lunch bill for a year with those earrings. And then some.

I don’t want my food. I can’t eat.

Owen lifts his sandwich. His voice is low, very low, when he speaks. “Prick alert,” he says, “Twelve—”

“Stop.” I meet his eyes.

I can’t read his expression. I’m not one hundred percent sure what’s on my own face. We’re frozen for a heartbeat, during which Connor stops beside the table.

“Hey,” says Connor. His tone is conciliatory, his body angled slightly so that it’s obvious he’s talking to me.

I break off the staring match with Owen and look up. “Hey.”

“You don’t have to keep sitting over here,” he says. “I mean, we’re good.” He shrugs and half glances back at his usual table. Our old table. “We’re all good.”

My familiar defenses click into place, and I almost want to mock him, but I don’t. I’ve been lonely too long. As much as I don’t want to admit it, I’ve missed my friends. My old life.

Owen is sitting across the table, watching me. Waiting for me to say something.

When I don’t, he sighs, shoves his food into his bag, and gets up from the table. “It was nice knowing you, Rob.”

I swallow.

Connor says, not quietly, “What a frigging drama queen. I can’t believe you—”

“Stop.” My tone is the same as it was when I told Owen the same thing. “Leave him alone, Connor.”

“Look, I’m just saying. I’m trying to tell you that you don’t need to sit here like a loser—”

“I’m not a loser. Neither is Owen.” I glare up at him. “I know you’re trying to make up for lost time, or whatever, but I can’t undo the last eight months, okay?”

He flinches, and for a moment, I see a flash of the vulnerability I saw last night, when I finally took pity on him. In a way, he’s been as adrift as I was. I never realized.

Connor really does think he can undo the last eight months by inviting me back to his table.

I wish he could.

I wish he could undo the last eight days.

“Look,” I say more quietly. “I can’t jump right back into the old crowd. It’s too much. Do you get it?”