Wild Reckless

by Ginger Scott

  “Thanks,” he says, taking it from me, his hand covering mine completely when he does. God how I want him to hold my hand.

  I move to the stool next to him and prop my elbows up on the counter, digging my hands into my scalp and massaging my head, like this situation is something I could somehow erase, only keeping the good parts.

  Our silence doesn’t last long, and Blakely comes in to sit in the third stool to take down our version of the story. Owen lets me do most of the talking, and I notice they don’t write down anything he says anyway. Seems the Harper-brother rumors have even tainted the local law enforcement’s opinion of him.

  By the time the police leave, it’s time for Owen to drive me back to school, and the trip back feels shorter…or maybe it doesn’t feel long enough.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I say, laughing slightly when I realize how simplified that sounds. “And saving my mom. And me. And for beating my father’s ass.” My laughing picks up a little more, but it’s a nervous laugh, so I suck it in and try to hold myself together.

  “Mind if I tell people my brother James did this?” he says, pointing to the now puffy cheek just below his bruised eye socket. “If people know an old man did this, that won’t be good for me.”

  He doesn’t laugh at first, so I just nod yes, and start to say I understand.

  “Kens,” he says. “I’m kidding. I just meant I won’t tell anyone. And Andrew won’t either.”

  “Oh,” I say, biting my lip and smiling briefly before sliding a step or two away from his truck.

  “I’ll see you later. I’ve got some things, okay?” he says, his brow pinching while he looks down to his lap, the light from his phone illuminating the cab of the truck.

  “You shouldn’t text and drive,” I say, causing a whisper of a laugh to leave his lips, and a smile to creep up the side closest to me.

  “I wouldn’t do anything dangerous,” he says, winking and tossing the phone into the empty seat beside him. His tires kick up gravel as he pulls away, and I wait at the front of the school until his taillights are so far away that I can no longer tell if they’re his.

  Chapter 9

  I woke up instantly. That sound—it was better than an alarm. That sound was the one noise my subconscious had been on the lookout for—the one thing my ears have been begging to hear.

  The bouncing was methodical, and then the clanging of the metal against the eave of the garage was undeniable.

  I speed from my room—dressed in only sweatpants and an extra-large thermal shirt— stuff my feet into my boots and race down through the front door and down the porch stairs. My expectations are stunted the second I see a guy, not quite as tall and not nearly as muscular as Owen, tossing a ball up at the hoop—and missing. Repeatedly.

  Andrew.

  “Oh, damn. I’m sorry. That’s…that’s probably loud, huh?” he says, looking at his watch and then to me, realizing I’m in whatever I slept in.

  “Yeah, it’s…it’s okay, though. It’s eight. I should be up anyways,” I say, pulling my arms close from the chill, also trying to bluff the disappointment no doubt painted all over my face.

  “You put the hoop back up?” he asks.

  That means he knows it was down.

  “Yeah, my dad…he was the one who took it down the first time. I felt bad,” I say, but I don’t know how to finish, so I leave it at that.

  Andrew bounces the ball a few more times, then turns to take another shot, this time the ball ricocheting off the eave of the house, missing all traces of the rim and backboard. “I suck at hoops,” he says, his sideways grin matching his brother’s. I step closer and pick up the ball. Bending my elbows, I push the ball as hard as I can toward the hoop, and it falls about two feet short, clanging off of the metal of the garage door.

  “Me, too,” I laugh.

  Andrew kicks the ball up gently a few times until he gets it back in his hands. “Soccer,” he smirks. “I always played soccer.”

  “Ah,” I say, holding out my fingers and wiggling them. “Piano. I always played the piano.”

  He nods with a quick smile before looking down, an awkward silence settling over both of us. I shiver once, a breeze rustling the newest bronze and yellow leaves in our driveway.

  “He likes you,” Andrew says, his words like a blanket of warmth, instantly heating my entire body. My eyes are wide, but I keep my gaze at the ground, away from his.

  “Ha,” I let out a quick, sharp laugh.

  “No, really. He hasn’t flat-out said it, but he won’t tell me he doesn’t,” he says, and the chill creeps along my skin again.

  “That’s nice of you to say, Andrew. But I’m pretty sure your brother would have been happier if this house sat here empty,” I say, kicking at the ground, and moving my hands to the inside of the sleeves of my shirt.

  “Maybe at first. But not now,” he says, tossing the ball in the air a few times, then catching it and setting his sightline on me. “He’s heard you play. And he says you don’t anymore. Just…he noticed. And he’s always leaving his window open and shit, even though it’s cold as hell. He listens for you.”

  I chew at my bottom lip, every muscle in my mouth working to keep myself from smiling.

  “Where is he?” I ask, pretending to just now notice his truck is gone. I noticed the instant I recognized Andrew was the one out here. I think I actually felt that Owen was gone.

  “At work,” he says, shrugging and walking backward on his heels, moving to his house.

  “I thought he got fired?” I’m suddenly a little suspicious.

  “He did. Got a new job, though, at the strip mall. He takes out trash and power washes the sidewalks and crap,” he says.

  “How’s…his eye?” I’m embarrassed to ask this, embarrassed because I know everything Andrew witnessed. And the fact that he has yet to bring any of my drama up means he truly is a good person.

  “I didn’t get to see him. I’m sure he’s fine, though. O can take a punch, trust me,” he says with a chuckle, turning to face the steps to his house before pausing and looking at me over his shoulder. “Hey, don’t tell him I told you, okay? You know…that he likes you? He’ll beat my ass so fucking hard for that.”

  Andrew laughs when he asks, but I don’t think he’s kidding either. I cross my heart and chuckle, as if this is all a joke anyhow. But there’s also that little part of me that is revving from the faster heartbeat in my chest—the part of me that likes that Owen listens for me. And that part of me wants to play the piano for the first time in days, with the hope that he’ll hear it.

  It’s the first full day my mom’s been back at work since everything in our lives changed. I’ve been thinking, though, how my mom’s life changed months before mine. She’s been pretending to be fine for a while now, but I don’t know how she could have been. And as mad as I am at her for pretending, I keep forgiving her every time I feel the urge to be angry.

  I have so many questions. I wonder if it all started on Gaby’s birthday at the start of summer, when she spent the weekend at our house. She’s always been close with my father—the two of them sharing a love of classical music that makes me roll my eyes. My father constantly compared me to her, wishing I had the same appreciation and respect for his work that she does. He loved her compositions—they were classical, not jazz. Or maybe they were just hers, and that’s why he loved them. I wonder if that’s how they connected? Was it those times my father helped her at the school, helped her with arrangements?

  I wonder if all of those nights he was working late, and Gaby was spending late hours at Bryce, if they weren’t really together—somewhere else entirely. I’m pretty sure I know the answer to this one, but maybe, just maybe, every word from my best friend’s lips wasn’t a lie.

  I wonder if he waited until she was eighteen. Not that it makes it any better, but…

  I’ve been at the piano for an hour. I keep flexing my fingers, popping knuckles, and running the palms of my hands along the wood above the
keys. I can’t seem to do much else. Every time I lower my hands to play, I hear my father’s voice, looming in my mind, telling me jazz is a waste of time, and that my showcase is garbage—won’t be good enough.

  “You should probably lock this at night.” Owen’s voice startles me. I kick away from the piano, knocking over the bench beneath me as I struggle to get to my feet. My back is on the floor quickly, my feet kicking in my fight to stand again.

  “Shit, you scared me!” My heart is thumping so loudly, I can hardly hear him talking as he closes my front door behind him and walks closer to me, a bag or something in his hand.

  “Here,” he says, reaching for my hand, helping me to my feet. His grasp on my wrist is for a purpose, and he lets go quickly, but I still look at that spot he touched on my skin, rubbing my own hand around it, like I’m trying to recover from a burn.

  Owen sets my bench upright again, then slides onto the end of the seat, looking over the keys, and the pages spread out on the ledger.

  “I’m sorry, you…were practicing?” He’s starting to stand; I don’t want him to leave. I move closer to the piano, resting my hand along the top, trying to make him more comfortable—and maybe blocking his exit just a little.

  “No…I mean, I was thinking about it, but…I’m just not feeling it,” I say, watching his finger trace the small layer of dust that’s formed along the top of the ledge where my music books sit. He stares at the line he’s drawn along the wood for a few seconds before breathing in deeply and pulling the small plastic bag to his lap.

  “My mom’s out—at work. Andrew’s out, too. And I was going to make some grilled cheese for dinner, but then,” he says, pausing to pull out a brick of cheddar cheese from the grocery bag and setting it on the bench next to him, “I realized I don’t have any bread.”

  He looks up at me with a sideways grin that’s unlike any face I’ve ever seen him make. There’s no taunting to it, no motive or front. And with this one look, everything that’s always been so hard and scary about being near him fades away.

  “I have bread,” I say, motioning for him to follow me to our kitchen. He trails closely behind me, and lightly kicks a box that’s taken up a sort of permanent residence next to our kitchen island before he pulls himself into the stool at the counter and sets down his block of cheese.

  “You’ve been here for what…a month?” he asks, looking around at the few boxes still remaining in the kitchen. Some of them have been repacked, and are getting donated or shipped tomorrow.

  “Some of this stuff…it’s my dad’s,” I say, my back to him so I can’t see his face. It’s easier to say the hard things this way.

  “Oh,” is all he says.

  “Hit me with the cheese,” I say when I turn around, and he makes that same silly smile again—it’s almost…playful. He picks up the cheese and tosses it to me, but my fingers fumble the reception, and it slides through my hands, arms, knocks off my knee, and skids along the floor.

  “Good thing it’s wrapped,” he teases.

  “Shut up,” I sass back, picking it up and squinting at him, like I’m daring him to cross me. He makes the same face back, but it’s overly exaggerated, and dare I say goofy; it makes me laugh.

  Owen is making me laugh. And it feels….

  If there is one skill I have in the kitchen, it is making grilled-cheese sandwiches. The secret is not to be stingy with the butter, and I lather our bread well so that way by the time I slide the sandwiches from the pan, both sides are golden brown.

  “Here, you can have the one with more cheese,” I say, sliding a plate over to him. He picks up his sandwich and inspects it, raising an eyebrow at me before putting the bread almost in his mouth and stopping.

  “How do I know you’re not poisoning me?” he asks.

  “You don’t. You’re just going to have to trust me,” I smile, then take a bite of my sandwich, letting the crunch drag on slowly while I close my eyes and let my lips hum an mmmmmm sound.

  “Right, trust you,” he says, his expression soft and his eyes cautious while he considers me. I was joking about our sandwiches, but I get the feeling Owen is now on a different subject. He’s making this heavier than I meant it to be, but I like that he’s having such heavy thoughts. I don’t think trust is something Owen has done in a long time, and it’s a belief I fear lately I may be at risk of losing.

  Owen finally gives in, and within five bites, maybe six, his sandwich is gone.

  “Look, you’re alive,” I tease as I take his plate and rinse it in the sink.

  “So it seems,” he says, patting his chest, then gripping over his heart and making the most ridiculous croaking noise.

  “You’re so obnoxious,” I say, reaching over to him and pushing on the arm that’s resting along the counter as he sits. Before my hand slips away, he grabs it with his. It’s an action I don’t think he meant to do—a move he didn’t calculate—and everything feels awkward. Both of us are giggling nervously for a few seconds, our fingers sort of tangled and unsure, until he finally grips my hand tightly, squeezes it once, then pushes it away.

  I’m thankful for the bread that’s still out on the counter, grateful that I have this distraction to busy myself with now. I twist the bag closed and turn to face our pantry, taking a deep breath and staring intently at the knuckles of my hand, the ones that were just embraced by the roughness and warmth of Owen’s. When I turn back to face him, he’s no longer sitting, but instead is standing by the kitchen window with his back to me, his hand by his side and his fingers flexing and contracting.

  Our touch. He felt it, too.

  “Thanks, by the way,” he says.

  I watch him for a few seconds before responding. “It’s just a grilled cheese. I mean, I know mine are, like, practically the best in the Midwest, but…oh all right, yes, you’re welcome,” I joke. I’m joking because I’m uncomfortable. And I’m uncomfortable because all I can think about is the way his hand just felt wrapped around mine—the way he squeezed and paused, and the way he’s still trying to cope with the feeling of it on his own hand.

  “I meant the hoop,” he says, finally turning and looking at me. His eyes are more serious now, and there’s that hint of darkness to them. “Thanks for the hoop. You didn’t have to put it back up. I can just shoot at the school.”

  “I wanted you to play here,” I admit, a little too quickly. Owen’s lip twitches in response. I train my eyes back on the counter, running the dish towel along the perfectly clean surface, then tucking it in one of the cabinet doors, smoothing out wrinkles and anything else I can think of doing that will keep me from making eye contact with Owen after what I just said.

  “We should play,” he says. I give in and look up. He’s shoving his hands into the front pocket of his dark gray hoodie, his feet sliding closer to the back door. “Come on. Game of HORSE.”

  “Game of…what?” I ask.

  Owen stops at the door, his hand on the knob. “HORSE. You know? I shoot and if I make it, you have to shoot from the same spot and make it. HORSE? You never played HORSE?”

  “Never even heard of it,” I say. “And that doesn’t sound like a game I’d be any good at. You said I shoot and make it, but that...that doesn’t happen when I play basketball.”

  His lips slide into the same sweet grin he wore when he first entered my house, then he gestures over his shoulder and opens the door. “Fine, we’ll play PIG instead,” he says.

  “You’re just making shit up now,” I say, grabbing the zip jacket from the stool in the kitchen and pushing my arms inside. Owen laughs as we shut the door, and he doesn’t stop until we’re standing directly under the hoop, his ball in his hands.

  “I’m not making shit up,” he says. “You earn letters when you miss shots. You play PIG to make the game shorter. We’ll practice with PIG.”

  “This sounds…pretty stupid,” I say, my brow pinched.

  “It’s not. It’s fun. I promise. Here, you take the ball and go first,” he says, pushing
the ball into my arms. I’m instantly mortified, because I know he’s going to see me shoot and miss—horribly. It was one thing to miss a shot in front of his brother. Andrew sucked as badly as I do. But Owen is good. I’ve watched him play, with guys taller than him. And he’s going to laugh his ass off when he sees me attempt to make a shot.

  “Is there a shorter word?” I ask, looking at the ball in my hands and then up at the hoop. Owen laughs lightly.

  “No, PIG’s as short as it gets. Don’t worry; you’ll be fine. Go on, take your shot,” he says, stepping back a few paces and blowing into his hands to warm them.

  I am going to miss. There’s no doubt about it in my mind. My only question to answer is how badly do I want to miss? I feel like it would look less awful if at least I attempted a farther shot, so I cross the driveway to a crack that runs down the middle, lining myself up a good eight or nine feet away from the hoop. I prop the ball into my hands, practically balancing it in my fingertips in front of my chest, then with a deep breath, I heave it forward, coming nowhere near the hoop and sending it off a jagged brick on the garage wall, bouncing down the driveway and into the street.

  Yep. Mortified.

  Owen’s hands have stopped moving in front of his face. He’s frozen, looking at the space where the ball trailed by him, his eyebrows slightly raised.

  “I told you I wouldn’t be good at this game!” I say, honestly a little upset. I’m more upset that I’m upset over something so trivial, but I’m embarrassed, and the longer it takes Owen to talk, the worse I feel.

  “That wasn’t bad,” he starts, looking out to the roadway where the ball has come to a rest in the gutter. “It wasn’t good. But it wasn’t bad. Here, hang on.”

  Owen jogs down the driveway to the ball in the road, his long legs moving him quickly. I like watching him move.

  I like watching him move!

  He dribbles the ball as he jogs back toward me, and a few times, he raises his eyes to look at me, but never for long.