by Ginger Scott
“Kensington,” she says, my full name floating from her breath, soft and airy, like she’s trying to seduce me.
“Go home, Gaby,” I say, brushing the dirt from my hands and sleeves, my belly quivering with nerves that my mother is going to pull in the driveway behind her and have to see this.
“I just want to talk,” she says, her hands stretched out, like she’s helpless.
“You could have called. Go home, Gaby. My mom will be home any minute, and she doesn’t need to see you here. I don’t need to see you here,” I say, moving toward my house, toward my door.
“Kens,” she says, saying my name the way my new friends do. She hasn’t called me Kens since we were little, and she no longer has the right to.
“Gaby, you cannot be serious! Coming here? Right now? I mean, are you serious about this?” I can feel my temper boiling, and I notice Owen’s truck pull up behind her, which only makes my nerves fire away more. I don’t want him to see this. I don’t want to be here. I want to disappear!
“Please, Kens…” she starts, and I interrupt.
“Don’t talk to me like that! Don’t say my name like that! Like we’re…what? Friends? Jesus, Gaby! You slept with my father!” I scream, and I notice another guy standing next to Owen, both of them near the front of the truck, watching me—watching this.
“I didn’t mean to. It just happened. I fell in love with him, Kensington. I love Dean. And I tried not to, but your dad, he loves me too. We didn’t mean to hurt you, hurt your mom.” She’s saying so much. She’s saying too much, and I notice Owen ushering whoever is with him toward the house—away from my embarrassing display—and I’m grateful.
The distraction lets Gaby get closer without me realizing, though, and soon her hand is touching my arm, and I recoil quickly.
“Don’t you fucking touch me. You…you!” I push her as I let go of myself, let myself feel the rage. “You were my best friend, and you betrayed me. You betrayed my MOM! We took care of you, let you stay in our house. My god! What were you doing in my house? Uhhhhhhggggg! You called him Dean! Like he’s your boyfriend! Oh…my god!”
“It wasn’t like that, Kens. I promise,” she starts, but I hold my hands up, then I shove her back on her feet. I move her, and she lets me, until she’s at her opened car door.
“Just…go, Gaby. Please…just go,” I say, my head shaking, and the tears filling up the corners of my eyes. Gaby’s face is a reflection of mine, but I have no sympathy for her. I want her to feel the pain of a million needles—I want her heart to ache and her breath to choke her. I want her to cry and never stop. And I want my mom to feel better. I want to move back to the city, away from this place. But I can’t even do that, because that’s where Gaby is, where Dean is.
She climbs back in the car and slowly moves away. I break, reaching down and filling my hands with small rocks from the side of the yard. “I hate you!” I scream, my voice cracking from the force, and I let the rocks fly at the front of her car, pelting it and leaving small marks behind. I reach down for another handful, and cock my arm, ready to throw.
“Don’t,” Owen says, his hand wrapped around my small wrist, locking me up, unable to move. I snap to his eyes, and they’re no longer void of feeling like they were this morning. There’s sympathy in them, and that’s the only reason I let my muscles relax. “It won’t make you feel better. Let her go.”
The stones fall from my fingers, and I bring my hands up to my head, scratching into my hairline with frustration as I pace. “What will?” I ask, and he quirks an eyebrow up. “Make me feel better. What will make me feel better?”
“Nothing,” he says, and his answer comes so fast that it makes me sad. I’m sad because I get the sense that Owen is right, and he’s speaking from experience.
“I’m. So. Angry,” I say between deep breaths, letting my guard down a little more, but tensing when I realize that the guy who was in the truck with him is still here, standing a few feet away. Owen follows my gaze, the corner of his lip raising slightly, then lowering fast.
“That’s my brother, Andrew,” he says, and the younger version of him nods once in response, stepping forward and reaching out his hand. His manners feel so natural, and strange, given how much he looks like his older brother.
“I’m Kensi,” I say, shaking his hand.
“I know,” he says, smiling enough to show his teeth. Owen gives him a sharp look, and he scrunches his shoulders up defensively. “What? I know her name. So what?”
Owen keeps his disapproving look on his brother for a few more seconds, and I can sense a silent exchange happening between them.
“You ever hit someone?” Owen asks, making a sharp turn in the conversation, his eyes back on mine. They’re still bright, and…gorgeous. But there’s also a challenge lingering in them, this flare I see every now and then, when he’s confronting me, taunting me—pushing me.
“No,” I say back, my response clipped and short on purpose. He doesn’t like it when I talk to him this way. I can tell because he stutters on his feet a little, like he’s not used to someone being so blunt with him.
“Hit me,” he says, and now I’m the one falling on my feet.
“Are you nuts?” I ask, and his brother chuckles behind him.
“Haven’t you heard, Kensi? We’re all fucking nuts. Harper boys are all fucked up in the head,” Andrew says. Owen is quick with his reach, grabbing the sleeve of his shirt and jerking him slightly. Andrew continues to laugh lightly, but he straightens up fast and starts to kick at the driveway, moving toward the truck and away from Owen and me.
“I’m being serious. Hit me. You need to feel something,” Owen says, stepping a little closer—a little too close—to me.
“Owen, I don’t want to hit you,” I say, letting out a long breath and feeling my arms tingle in fear at the thought of doing something so…so...violent.
“Yes you do,” he says, taking another step, his chest now completely blocking my view of his brother.
“No, I don’t,” I say, shoving him off balance. He steps back quickly with one foot and looks down to his feet, his lip curling on the corner into that smile again, and soon his feet are back where they were, his eyes wide and intensely looking at my face.
“You sure about that?” he asks, moving an inch or two closer, close enough that I notice the scent of his shampoo, his cologne, and the way I remember the inside of his truck smelling.
“What are you, in fight club or something?” I tease, trying to bring lightness to the most awkward and heavy conversation I’ve ever had with a boy.
“Something like that,” he says, stepping nearer. “Go on, Ken Doll. Hit me. You want to, and it will feel soooooo good.”
He’s so close that I feel the tickle of his breath now. His brother is still close enough that I know he’s watching him lure me, and I wonder how normal this behavior is. His right hand reaches to my shoulder, pulling a wave of my hair into his fingers, and he twists it slowly, his eyes moving from his hands to my lips and back again.
“Come on, Ken Doll. Hit me,” he says, practically a whisper. He brings his mouth lower to my neck, his hand pulling the wave of hair back until it falls from his fingers completely.
He reaches in again, sweeping a pile of my hair out of his way, his eyes daring mine, that wicked look growing stronger until I can no longer see them, his mouth and nose lost under my chin, his lips almost touching me. I haven’t breathed since he started this game.
“Are you…afraid? I won’t hit you back. I don’t do that,” he says softly against my ear, my body now covered in shivers, but my legs holding strong, fighting against the pounding in my chest. “Or…would you rather I kiss you? Maybe that would be better, help you…forget. I bet you’ve never been kissed before. Virgin. Ken Doll, my little virgin.”
With swift force, I bend my elbow and bring my fist into Owen’s lower stomach—close enough to his crotch to make him question everything he thinks he knows about me, to make him second gue
ss his assumption that I’m weak. I’m lost, but I’m not weak. When he starts coughing, backing away from me with his arms wrapped around his stomach, he starts to laugh, and I begin to think that Owen Harper might actually be crazy.
“Thata girl,” he says, standing with his hands along his back, bending forward and back, trying to work out the damage I did to him. “You feel better?”
“I feel like you’re an asshole,” I say, igniting a new round of laughter from Andrew.
“You’re right about that, Kensi. My brother’s a real asshole,” he says, coming closer so he can mock his brother. “Dude, she laid you out. You a’right, man? Swallow a nut?”
Owen pushes his brother back a few steps, then coughs a few more times. “I’m fine, douchebag,” he says, then brings his focus back to me. “Let me ask you again. Do you feel better?”
His smile is gone, his mouth tight, in a flat line. His eyes penetrating me completely, and I keep my focus on him as I consider this, think about his words, and ask myself with my inner voice: Do I feel better? Absolutely not.
“No,” I say quickly, my eyes drifting to his chin, to his neck, and then his chest. What felt better was having him close, smelling him, thinking he might actually put his lips on mine, that he might touch me. Thinking he might actually want me in a way that I’ve never been wanted is what felt good—more than good.
But hitting him only made me feel bad.
I don’t hate Owen Harper. But I want him. Unlike I’ve ever wanted anyone. And while that takes away the ugly I feel about my father, it also scares the ever-loving crap out of me.
Chapter 8
Owen came to school for the rest of the week, and his routine was back to the same—his feet up on my desk, his make-out sessions on display at lunch, this time with a new girl I didn’t recognize. His friend he called House started nodding to me in the hall, and by the end of the week, I was nodding back. Owen was still making me the focus of his attention, but it felt less cruel now.
“I’ve never actually seen him flirt with anyone before,” Willow says, throwing a French fry at my plate, drawing my attention from the window where Owen is backing away, nodding his chin at me with a slight acknowledgement and an even slighter grin.
“What, that? Please. He’s not flirting. He just helped me out with some crap at my house this weekend, and we talked a little. But he’s still an ass. Just less of an ass,” I say, trying to convince Willow, but clearly doing a very poor job as she smiles at me like she knows all of my secrets.
“Right, he’s an ass. Or…is he dreamy? Which one is it?” she teases, and I pick up her fry and throw it back in her lap.
“He’s an ass,” I say, standing with my tray and pulling my bag over my shoulder.
“Okay. But, I’m not stupid, you know. I can tell you like him,” she says, throwing her trash on top of mine, then passing me to hold open the lunchroom door for me to follow.
I don’t answer her, because I don’t want to lie. I do like him. I’ve been dreaming about him, and when I don’t dream about him, I pray to dream about him. I wait by my window, hoping to hear the sound of his ball bouncing in my driveway. He hasn’t been out there since I’ve put the hoop back up, though. Most nights, I lay quiet and listen for his truck to leave or pull into the driveway. I wish I had a car, so I could follow him to his work—so I knew where he was when I don’t see him.
We get to the spot in the hallway where our paths divide, and Willow tugs on my sleeve, stopping me before I’m about to say goodbye.
“It’s okay to like him, you know. I meant what I said the other day. You know, in front of Ryan? I kissed him, like two and a half years ago, at a party. It was nooooo big deal. And I love Jess. I don’t have a thing for Owen Harper. Yes, I think he’s a jerk. But…” she pauses, looking down and stepping closer to me. “But I don’t have to like him. And if you do, I will still like you. And maybe you’ll make me think more of Owen, just because you’re so awesome.”
She smiles when she’s done and tugs at my sleeve one more time, a nonverbal queue asking for my acceptance and understanding.
“Okay,” I say, sucking in my bottom lip with the weight of everything that small okay admits to. Willow doesn’t judge, and she doesn’t make it more than it is. She just nods and tells me she’ll meet me in the parking lot so we can go grab a bite to eat before the football game tonight.
Owen is waiting for me in science class, his feet on my chair this time rather than my tabletop. His hands are folded behind his head, and my heart is literally smacking into my chest bones, rattling my insides to the point that I actually feel dizzy. I’m sure it’s in my head, but I swear he heard me say “okay” too.
“This is a record for you, isn’t it?” I say, pushing his heavy Converse-covered feet from my seat before sitting down and pulling out my notebook. I can hear Owen leaning forward, and I know his face is close to the back of my head, but I will myself to face my desk and not turn around.
“What’s a record?” he asks.
“You’ve been here every day this week. Seriously, they should give you an award. At least a certificate,” I say, not feeling as proud as I usually do when I take digs at him.
“Didn’t have to work this week,” he says. I can hear him lean back in his seat. “Got fired.”
I turn around when he says that, wanting to evaluate the look on his face, make sure he’s being real. His eyes meet mine the second I lean over the back of my chair, and there’s a heavy seriousness to them.
“I’m sorry. That…sucks,” I say.
“Yeah, it does,” he says, bending forward to pull a pencil from the side of his backpack. He slides a notebook out and flips through the pages, and I can’t help but notice that his paper is filled with notes, and his handwriting is actually decent.
“Well, at least now you have time for school,” I say, moving my gaze from his hands to his eyes and back again; the intensity of the way he looks at me makes it hard to stare at him long.
“Ha, I guess. I’m getting a new job, though. Have to. We’ve got bills,” he says, and I feel like one more page of his story has turned for me to read. Owen Harper is responsible, more than any teenager should be.
“What about your mom? Or…does she live with you? I’m sorry. I just…honestly, I’ve only ever seen you and your brother,” I say, not wanting to admit how much I know about his personal life, not wanting to give credence to the rumors.
“My mom works nights. She’s a security guard at an impound lot. She’s taking online classes to be a medical tech, so she usually studies while she’s sitting in the booth. Her job pays shit, and with gramps in the nursing home…” he looks up at our teacher as he walks in, then taps his pencil a few times on his notebook and nods forward.
We’re dissecting next week—baby sharks. We spent the hour looking at slides of the various parts we’ll be required to identify. I didn’t write down a single thing. All I could do was listen to the sound of Owen’s pencil scratching paper behind me, the sounds of his breath, of his feet sliding along the floor, of the noise his hands make when they scratch at the stubble on his chin and his knuckles crack.
It was a two-minute conversation, but I feel like I know more about Owen Harper than anyone else in this entire school. And all I want to do is learn more.
When the bell rings, I gather my things quickly and turn to face Owen, hoping he’ll pick up where things left off. But he’s already gone—vanished.
I spend my last hour in health class doing the same thing I did in science—piecing together sections of Owen’s life. I never see his brother Andrew at school, and I have yet to meet James, the one everyone says is real trouble. Owen seems to always be alone.
Alone.
When the bell rings, I pack up and pull my phone from my pocket to text my mom and let her know I’ll be staying at school and grabbing dinner with Willow. I worry about her eating on her own, spending the night by herself. My mom and I have fallen into a routine the last few d
ays—homework, dinner, and a movie. I think that routine is distracting her from my father. He tried to call last night, and my mom turned her phone off. I hope she’s strong enough to do the same when I’m not there watching.
“Hey, so Jess wants burgers. You good with burgers?” Willow asks as she slips her arm through mine while we exit the main hallway out onto the front lawn of the school.
“Sounds good. I’m hungry,” I say, my voice trailing off when I notice Owen sitting on the tailgate of his truck, parked next to Willow’s car. He’s waiting for me, and Willow sees him, too.
“Unless, of course…you’d like to maybe have dinner with someone else?” she teases.
“Stop,” I whisper harshly, my face burning. I’ve never been a fan of being teased about boys. It was something Gaby always did to me. One of many thoughtless things my so-called best friend did to disregard my feelings it seems.
“He’s waiting to talk to you. He’s never here after school, Kens. There’s a reason he’s here,” she says, and my stomach flutters with the same sensation I get when I’m climbing up in a rollercoaster. I think this is thrill.
As we get closer, Owen swings his long legs outward and stands up, closing the tailgate behind him and leaning his arm over it, his head covered in a dark gray beanie, and the ends of his hair sticking out a little on the front and sides.
“Hey,” he says, looking up at me quickly, then back down at his feet. He leans out from the edge of the truck with his arm still holding it while he stretches his long body. He looks nervous and uncomfortable, and it’s giving me hope about the reason he’s here…waiting for me. I hate that it’s giving me hope. I know what that means.
“Hey,” I say back, looking to Willow for help, a life raft—anything!
