Wild Reckless

by Ginger Scott

“Okay, so first, hold the ball in front of you—like this,” he says, forming my hands around the ball, moving my stiff fingers clumsily into place. I’m more focused on everywhere he’s touching me to even understand what he’s doing or saying. “Next, take a few steps closer. You need to start somewhere small.”

  Small. Right. Small. I swallow while he stands behind me and puts his hands on my elbows, pushing me forward, closer to the hoop. His breath is on my neck. There’s a ball in my hand, the air is cold, and all I can think about is the fact that when Owen breathes, a light fog comes out, and it passes by my ear and cheek and I want to taste it.

  “This isn’t going to work,” I say, once I realize how far away I still am from the hoop. He’s going to make me try, and I’m embarrassed all over again.

  “Yes it will. Boy, are you like this with your piano teachers?” he asks, leaning to the side to look me in the eye. Damn. He’s really close to me.

  “I’m good at the piano. I don’t have to be like this with them,” I say, somehow keeping my head about me.

  “You probably weren’t always good, though,” he says, his gaze shifting from my eyes to my mouth just long enough for me to notice and flush everywhere. I look at his mouth to reciprocate, and when I look back up, I realize he’s watching the movement of my eyes closely. Shit. He knows I’m looking at his mouth!

  “Actually,” I say, swallowing, because damn, my throat is suddenly so dry. “I was…always good? I’m sort of…gifted.”

  Now I feel really lame. Really, super, fucking, horribly, awful, terribly lame. Lame, lame, lame, lame, lame!

  “Yeah, well I’m gifted in this. So trust me; trust that I can teach you,” he says. There’s that word again.

  Trust.

  I refocus on the hoop, and I listen to everything he says, bending my elbows, practicing the motion three or four times, lining my aim up with the small square behind the hoop. Then the time comes for me to follow through.

  “Come on, Kens. You got this,” he says, taking two or three steps back.

  Kens. He calls me Kens, and it feels so natural. Like he’s always called me Kens. I like it when he says my name. I like how it sounds.

  I like Owen Harper.

  I bend my knees, close my eyes once, then train all of my focus on the hoop above my head. With a silent countdown, I heave everything forward and upward again, and the ball leaves my hands in the right direction. I don’t make the shot. But I come close. The ball actually hits the board, then swirls along the rim before falling away.

  “I hit it!” I say, turning to face him with my palms pressed on my cheeks. “Holy smokes! I actually hit it!”

  Owen smiles and shakes his head lightly. “You don’t actually get any points for hitting it, but yes, you showed improvement,” he says, kicking the ball up into his hands and dribbling it a few times.

  “Pshaw, says you! Did you see that?” I say, pointing up and spinning around once before reaching for the ball. “I hit it. That’s a P. I get a P for PIG.”

  Owen’s hand is rubbing on his neck, and he’s laughing silently, but he gives in eventually, and bounces the ball to me to try again.

  “Sure. Whatever you want, Kens. You get a P. Good job,” he says, the world’s greatest smile stretched on his lips. It’s my new favorite smile. An entirely new one that I kind of think might just be for me and me alone. I like it, almost as much as I like him.

  We shoot the ball a few more times, and Owen lets me continue to make up rules as we go. I know that’s not how the game is really played, but I like how he laughs when I joke and celebrate my near shots. I actually make one before we’re done, and Owen lifts me in his arms when I do, swinging me around once, but discarding me swiftly. It leaves me with the strangest feeling, as if holding me for too long would hurt him somehow.

  “Did I win?” I ask at the end, and he just grins and nods yes, his eyebrows high to show his sarcasm. The sounds of the night fade back into focus, and Owen’s breath fogs the air between us. I breathe out once, just to see if my breath can catch his.

  “I should head in. I’ve got work early in the morning,” he says, his ball tucked under one arm, his other hand stuffed in his jeans pocket. He looks unsure of himself, and I can’t help but hope that it has a little to do with me.

  “Yeah. I should get some sleep too. I’m studying all day tomorrow for the dissection quiz,” I say, and Owen shuts his eyes tightly when I mention our test. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah,” he says, sighing. “I think I’ll be okay, though. I got most of it down.”

  “If you want…” I start, then stop myself, biting the inside of my cheek to give myself a second or two to think. Maybe I’m just trying to talk myself out of taking a risk. And maybe I shouldn’t listen to that voice any more. “I can help you,” I say again, my voice fast and sharp, getting his attention before he heads inside. “You know, study? When you get home from work. I could maybe just run you through my flashcards or something. Only…only if you think you need to.”

  Ryan said Owen was smart. He probably doesn’t need to study. And now I look desperate, like I’m flirting. And I want to somehow breathe in fast, suck in all of the words I spoke before he can hear them.

  “That would be awesome,” he says, surprising me. “What’s your number? I’ll just call you when I get home.”

  Call me. Owen Harper wants to call me. On my phone. From his phone. He’s typing my name with his long thumbs, his hat low over his eyes, but not so low that I can’t see the thickness of his lashes and the way they move along the letters of my name. He hands the phone to me to type in my number, and I manage to find enough feeling in my fingers to take it from him without dropping it. I type in my number, and before I pass it back, I notice he’s written KENS, and it makes me smile.

  “Cool,” he says, pushing the phone back in his pocket and backing up a few paces to his door. “So…thanks. Yeah, and…well…call you tomorrow?”

  He actually stumbles a little when he hits the first step of his porch, but I pretend not to notice. I walk back to my door, click off the driveway lights, and move inside. The house is warm, and I didn’t realize how cold I was until now. I notice Owen’s cheese still on my counter, so I put it in the fridge before locking the back door and turning out the lights. I lock up front, and glance briefly at the piano I almost play before moving upstairs for bed.

  I leave my window closed while I change into a pair of sweatpants and my favorite long-sleeved thermal, then I open the curtains and shut off the light, sliding my back against the edge of my mattress for my nightly ritual of waiting for Owen to shut his light off, too.

  He rarely closes his curtains. The first few times, I felt embarrassed over what I saw, his bare chest, his boxers, his skin when he would change from his pants and shirt. I never saw too much, but it was more than I was used to seeing. I’ve always been a prude. Not because of any religious belief or self-promise to be a virgin until I met the right guy—intimacy just scared me. Dating intimidated me at Bryce, probably because most of the boys there were dropped off in Escalades and Audis and Teslas. They all seemed so entitled, and I didn’t trust any of them—ever.

  Trust. I trust Owen.

  When my phone vibrates, my body jolts with adrenaline, my stomach trained to feel sick at seeing Gaby’s name. She’s sent me several texts, and I’ve deleted every single one. Morgan has tried to call, too, and honestly, I know she is probably on my side with everything. Her messages relayed how shocked she was over what went on between Gaby and my father. But I haven’t been able to call Morgan back either. I’m just not ready to talk about it with anyone, and I know that’s all Morgan is going to want to talk about.

  My thumb grazes over the END CALL button on instinct, but I pause when I realize the number on the screen isn’t one I recognize. I look at Owen’s window, and his light is now off, and I think maybe—just…maybe?

  “Hello?” I answer, my thumbnail flying to the edge of my teeth, a bad habi
t to calm my nerves that I’ve been doing for as long as I can remember.

  “Hey,” Owen says, his voice breathy and timid. “Sorry. I probably scared you again.”

  “No, no!” I respond quickly, and probably a little too excitedly. “I just didn’t recognize the number, and most of my calls lately have been from unwelcomed callers.”

  “Ah, yeah. I get that,” he says, and I can actually hear him settle into his covers. He’s in bed. I’m talking to him, and he’s lying down, probably without a shirt on. My thumbnail flies right back to the place between my teeth.

  “Did you…need something?” I ask, sliding down a little lower by the window, low enough to gaze through it and attempt to see Owen in the darkness.

  “Well, I’m having trouble sleeping. It’s weird. I don’t know if you ever get this feeling, but…I feel like somebody’s watching me,” he says, and I sink completely to the floor, my hand fast to cover my face.

  Oh god!

  Oh god, oh god, oh god!

  “Kensi?” he asks, and I swallow hard.

  “Uh huh?” I say, my voice nowhere near as loud as it was seconds ago.

  “Look up,” he says, and I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, pushing myself up on my elbows until I can see through my window to his. Owen’s waving at me, a faint light over his face while he lies with his arms folded around his pillow, his hand pressing his phone to his ear.

  “Oh, hey. Yeah…so…hi,” I say, scrunching my hand like a two-year-old waves. “So…your bed. It’s like…right there, huh?”

  Oh god, oh god, oh god.

  “Yep,” he says, and even though he’s far away, I can tell what smile he’s wearing. It’s the teasing one—the one that used to torture me when he was being mean, or when I thought he was being mean. Now, it’s just one of Owen’s many smiles—and I like this one, too, even though my stomach sinks with embarrassment over the cause.

  “It’s okay,” he whispers, and I slide back along my bed, bringing my knees into my chest.

  “What is?” I ask, the rush of heartbeats drumming in my head, drowning me.

  “I look at you, too,” he says, and now my heart is rushing for an entirely different reason.

  Oh my god, oh my god….

  “Kens? Relax,” he says, and I notice his light flips off. I don’t know if he did that to make it easier on me, but somehow, it does. I’m braver without having to face him.

  “I’m sorry. I’m…pretty embarrassed,” I admit, crawling on my knees first, then lifting myself onto my bed, sliding my feet under my heavy comforter, then pulling it over my head because all I want to do is hide.

  “I really called because I can’t sleep,” he says, completely bypassing my embarrassment. I could kiss him for that.

  Kiss him.

  Now I’m thinking about kissing him—not that I haven’t thought about that before, but now I’m really imagining it, and it makes me want to pull my blankets in closer, press the phone tighter against my ear so I can feel every vibration of his voice.

  “Wanna talk? Until you get tired?” I ask, now more awake than I’ve ever been.

  “Sure. I mean, yeah…I guess,” he says, and I like that he’s flustered now, too. “It’s always weird, when Andrew’s gone, and the house is empty. It’s just sort of lonely.”

  “I know whatcha mean,” I say, thinking about most of my nights—both in the city and out here. My parents were always working, and from the age it became socially acceptable, maybe about twelve or thirteen, my parents frequently left me alone at night. I’ve grown used to it, but I’ve never liked it.

  “I’m sorry about the phone calls. From…from her,” he says, and I can tell he’s treading lightly at bringing up Gaby.

  “It’s okay. She’ll stop calling soon. Or not. Either way,” I say, not really believing the indifference I’m trying to portray, but I try to sell it; I try to sell it hard.

  “Yeah, probably,” he says, and there’s a pause in everything. The house is quiet, and the moon is shrouded by clouds, so the night is darker than normal. It feels like the world is hushed, listening to our conversation. “For the record, what she did? Your friend…” he pauses, waiting to see if it’s okay to say more. “That was pretty shitty.”

  Shitty. Yeah, it was shitty. It also might have been illegal—could probably be constituted as rape in some ways—was morally and ethically flawed, and is going to scar me for life.

  Yeah, it was shitty.

  “Thanks,” is all I say in response. I’m not ready to deal beyond that yet. “How’s Andrew?” I ask, desperate to return the focus on Owen.

  “He’s good. Thanks. My brother likes you, you know? I think he thinks you’re cute,” he says, and I blush even though I know he’s just trying to be funny.

  “That’s what he said about you,” I say, unable to stop the words before I speak them. I start chewing on my nails the instant I realize what I’ve done, and I hold my breath, waiting for Owen to hang up. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t respond either. He just lets the silence play out for a really long and uncomfortable amount of time. I think he’s torturing me, but I also think just maybe…he’s smiling.

  “So how was your first day of work?” I ask, leaning over the edge of my bed and peaking out the window one more time, on the off chance that he’s looking at me, too. All I see is the blackness filling his window, but I smile softly, in case he’s hiding in the shadow.

  “It was good, I guess. It’s a job, and I don’t have to deal with people a lot, so that’s sort of a bonus. And I make, like, fifty more cents an hour,” he says.

  “Do you ever resent it? Having to work so much?” I tread carefully; I’ve learned when Owen doesn’t want to have a conversation, he doesn’t, and sometimes his end of it is abrupt.

  “Nah,” he says, yawning a little. “It helps my family, and it doesn’t really get in the way of the important things.”

  “Like what?” I ask, quickly.

  Owen chuckles softly into the phone. “Wow, you’re like one of those hard-hitting reporters. Right in there with the next question,” he says.

  “Sorry,” I say in a whisper, my face burning again with that familiar sting of embarrassment.

  “It’s okay. I haven’t really shared with someone in a while, that’s all. Most my friends either already know my deal or they don’t care,” he says, and I focus on that one phrase—his deal. I want to know his deal; I want to know all about Owen Harper and his life and his past and those rumors. I want his story.

  “You don’t have to…share? If you don’t feel up to it, or if it’s personal or…whatever,” I say, my hand back in place between my lips. I won’t have any fingernails left in the morning.

  “Well, you already know I play basketball. And it’s stupid, but that’s one of those important things. I’m good at it. You know how you said you’re gifted? Well, I guess it’s my gift, if gifts work like that. I lose myself in it, and I like that I get to be aggressive,” he says. I think back to when I watched Owen play in the driveway, how masculine every movement he made was. Aggressive seemed to be in his nature even then.

  “Well, clearly, I wouldn’t know much about basketball,” I say, inciting a raspy laugh from Owen. “But, I would believe that you’re good…or gifted. You’re fun to watch.”

  I pull my blanket up over my chin after this, knowing how gushing and flirtatious every word from my mouth sounds. I don’t regret them, though. I don’t regret a single second of my night so far.

  “Thanks,” Owen says, and my smile kicks in, my cover now hiding more of my blushing face.

  “Does your older brother help out with bills too?” I ask. When Owen’s answer doesn’t come right away, I close my eyes, wishing I could take my question back, my gut sinking, knowing I asked one question too many.

  “James,” Owen starts, but then his long pause continues.

  “It’s…it’s okay, I’m getting too personal,” I say, grasping at hope that Owen won’t hang up, that he’ll call me aga
in.

  “James is a junkie,” he says. There are a million reactions I could have had, but what I didn’t expect is how much I want to hug Owen right now. Nothing about his small description of his brother sounded sad or affected or heartbroken, but somehow through it all, I know Owen is. I can just sense it.

  “I’m sorry, Owen,” I say, careful to say his name—to take care of it and respect it. If he doesn’t share with people often, then I’m guessing very few people really know about James.

  “Thanks. But it’s okay. It is what it is. My mom kicked him out a year ago. He started using meth, and getting into some really hard shit. She didn’t want Andrew exposed to that. I didn’t either. But he still calls me. You know…when he needs something,” he says, a certain amount of disappointment in his tone.

  “Like…money? Or drugs?” I say, now sitting up in bed.

  “Not really money. But I’ve bailed him out once or twice. And I got him off the hook with a dealer he owed some serious money to. It’s usually a problem when James calls,” he sighs.

  “But you answer,” I say, my words practically filling in the blank space left at the end of his.

  “Every. Time,” he says.

  “When was the last time you saw him?” I ask, hoping, for selfish reasons, that it’s been a while. Willow said James was the one to stay away from, and now I’m not sure I want him a house away from me.

  “The other night. He didn’t come here. But he was fucked up out of his head, and he was in a bad place, with some bad people. I had to leave in the middle of a basketball game to go haul his ass back to his apartment,” he says, and I close my eyes, remembering that night I watched him get a call in the middle of playing basketball. I remember how angry he was, how fast he drove away, and how vicious his eyes were when he got back.

  “That isn’t fair to you,” I say, my arms pulling my pillow in close to my chest, my mind imagining Owen’s heart beating through it, wishing it were him I was holding.

  “Nope,” he says.

  I hold my pillow for several long seconds, letting my face slide against the coolness of the pillowcase. Ryan is so right about Owen; people don’t have him pegged right at all. And as much as I want to tell everyone that, I also want to keep it to myself—keep Owen to myself.