The Leading Edge of Now

by Marci Lyn Curtis

  Still. That doesn’t change anything.

  I straighten my spine, steeling myself. “Don’t try to flip this on me. That’s not fair.”

  “I’m not,” he says, and again, it’s too quick. He wipes his palms on his pants. “I’m not.”

  “Rusty, I —”

  “Everything’s going to be okay,” Rusty says, standing up and yawning like a prairie lion. Just like that, he’s casual again. “Let’s get some shut-eye and talk about it tomorrow?”

  Tomorrow.

  This is actually happening. I’m living here. With Rusty. Next to the McAllisters.

  “Right. Tomorrow,” I say, trying to file the terrified edge off my voice. I’ve gone all this time without seeing Owen, and now that I have, I can feel the ground starting to erode under my feet. It’s only a matter of time before everything sweeps out from underneath me.

  Six

  Back when I was twelve, Owen asked Janna and me to help him carry a turtle-nest enclosure out to the beach. It was a fencelike coop built from scrap wood and chicken wire he’d found in his garage. When Janna opened her mouth to tell him we were busy, Owen said, “An animal has been eating the eggs before they can even hatch,” to which I said, “Ohmygod that’s so sad,” to which Owen said, “I know, right?” to which Janna rolled her eyes, sighed and said, “Fine. Fine. We’ll help.”

  Owen had forever been building things. It had started back in the second grade, when he’d found an injured squirrel in his backyard. That night his parents found him in the garage trying to hammer together a wooden box where the squirrel could recuperate, where it would “feel protected.” His words. From the second grade.

  So Janna and I helped Owen muscle the enclosure out of the McAllisters’ garage and onto the beach. Once we got it in place, the three of us stood over it for several minutes. Owen smiled at nothing in particular. At the eggs he was protecting, maybe. I felt the corners of my mouth creep up as well. Finally Janna said, “Owen, are you sure there’s a turtle nest in there?”

  Owen shrugged. “See where the mother tried to camouflage it? And her tracks in the sand?” he said, pointing to the little perforated lines that were coming and going from the nest. As he did so, his opposite hand brushed against mine.

  Something inside my chest staggered.

  He must’ve felt it, too, because he turned toward me and his eyes locked on mine. He didn’t break his gaze. Neither did I. At least not until Janna loudly cleared her throat and said to Owen, “Well, then, I’m going to reclaim my best friend right now and go back home, because we have an Uno game waiting for us and I have lots of stuff to talk to her about that doesn’t involve turtle tracks. So you can see we have to go.”

  Owen and I exchanged a look, his expression fleetingly irritated, and then Janna yanked me away by the wrist. When we got back to her house, she grabbed my shoulders from behind and frog-walked us into her room, where she closed the door, whirled around toward me and said, “What was that?”

  I wiped my hands on my jeans. “What was what?” I said, in this weird, loud voice that sounded like it had come from a little boy.

  “That look you and Owen gave each other at the beach,” she said. Her chin wobbled and she sort of deflated, collapsing on the edge of her bed. She’d always teetered on the very edge of every emotion — the highest of the highs and the lowest of the lows.

  “Do you like him, or something?” she asked.

  What I should have said was that I’d liked Owen since the beginning of time, that my feelings had gone well beyond feelings and had inched into an area that could be described only in a cheesy ballad. But what I said was “Kind of.”

  She examined me closely, one eyebrow arched so high that it disappeared into her bangs. I furrowed my brows at her, staring her down until her facial muscles relaxed. Janna and I had probably five eyebrow conversations a day. This was one of the reasons why I loved her. “Kind of,” she repeated finally. She looked vaguely relieved. “Well. The thing is that he’s my brother. And if you two got together it would make our friendship so awkward. So just —” Massive sigh. “Just don’t, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  In my defense, I did try to avoid Owen. Honestly, I did. Last thing I wanted was to hurt Janna. I loved her like a sister. Sure, I had friends back in Tampa, but Janna was the one I called to whisper my secrets to in the middle of the night. The first person I’d texted when I’d gotten my period. She was the friend I’d always felt closest to, the friend who understood me best.

  So I managed to steer clear of Owen during the next couple of years — simply giving him a hello when we passed each other in the hallway or a smile when our eyes caught at the dinner table. I figured Janna must’ve lectured Owen about it, too, because he made himself scarce whenever I was around, either hanging out with friends or holing up in the garage with his projects, which, I discovered, had morphed from animal enclosures and birdhouses to … well, actual works of art.

  It was during Christmas vacation, freshman year, which would’ve been Owen’s sophomore year, when Owen and I were thrown together again. Janna and I had planned a Harry Potter marathon, and I was in charge of snacks. Dad had just dropped me off in the McAllisters’ driveway, my arms loaded with bags of chips and candy and sodas, and I was walking past the garage, where a sleepy indie-rock tune slipped out of a wireless speaker on the workbench.

  I lurched to a stop.

  There he was, facing away from me, bent over a short stretch of driftwood, a mallet in one hand and a chisel in the other.

  “What are you making, Owen?” I asked.

  He jerked around, leaped up and exclaimed, “Oh, hey, Grace! Nothing.” And then he crossed his arms, tapping his thumb on his biceps. “I mean — I was just goofing around. Like, with some wood?” His face turned an adorable version of crimson.

  I tipped my head sideways in an attempt to see what he’d been working on. No dice. My eyes trailed back to his. “Were you … chiseling?”

  Clapping his hands together and still blocking my view of his project, he barked a laugh and said, “I guess?”

  He looked so charmingly flustered, so uncomfortable, that I dropped the subject. “Cool,” I said, giving him a quick wave and slipping inside. Later that night, though, after Janna had fallen asleep and the house was silent, my curiosity got the better of me. So I slid quietly out of bed, down the hallway, through the kitchen and out the back door to the garage. Sawdust and tiny chips of wood stuck to my bare feet as I waved my hands around in search of the light switch. I slammed my pinkie toe into what I assumed was a workbench, producing a noise like I’d just stepped on a couple Fritos. Balancing on one foot and swearing creatively, I slapped my hands at the wall until I found the switch. Flipping it up, I was momentarily blinded by the fluorescence, and then I turned toward the workbench.

  And I sucked in my breath.

  It was gorgeous, if a piece of driftwood could be gorgeous. An old man’s face, worn and creased, climbed out of the wood as though it were trying to escape, so real and so lifelike that I half expected it to open its mouth and speak. Was it Owen’s grandfather? His teacher? A man he’d seen on the beach? With Owen, you had no way of knowing. With Owen, an explanation for something like this had to be earned, not blurted out while I was walking past with an armload of snacks. I ran a slow hand over the wood. His style was impulsive, totally charming. The lines were meticulous, uncovering how much he paid attention to the smallest of details.

  Guilt gnawing at me for intruding on Owen’s privacy, I clicked off the light and turned to head back into the house. I’d just stepped out of the garage when I saw Owen, lit up by the full moon, standing at the side door just off the kitchen, wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung jeans and a look of confusion.

  Um.

  “Owen!” I basically yelled. “Holy shit, you scared me!” I tried to say this rather casually, but the
words exited my mouth decked out fully in Christian Dior.

  I mean, I was busted. No way around it.

  Owen ran a hand over his hair — which, back then, was a few inches longer and messy on top — and then his eyes drifted down a little, from my neck to my T-shirt to my legs. Then they shot right back to my face.

  And that was when I realized I was wearing exactly what I’d gone to bed in: gigantic flowered underwear and a white T-shirt barely long enough to cover my butt.

  Lovely.

  I crossed my hands high over my chest, suddenly all too aware of just how disastrously white the white in my white T-shirt actually was. He shifted away, his stance awkward. Clearing his throat, he said, “My room is across from the garage, so I saw the light come on. What are you doing out here?”

  “I was —” My words caught in my throat, because what if he hated me for invading his privacy? What if he never spoke to me again? What if he told Janna? What if she screamed at me about it? What if I ended up losing both Owen and Janna because I couldn’t keep my big fat nose out of Owen’s business?

  But Owen already knew what I was doing, so there was no sense in lying. Looking at my feet, I sighed and said, “I just wanted to see what you were making.” I swallowed so loudly I was certain he heard it. “I mean — you’re interesting, and I thought whatever project you were working on must be interesting, too.”

  Why did I just say that?

  A beat of silence, then: “I’m interesting,” he repeated slowly.

  “Uh-huh,” I said, and then I immediately decided to staple my lips together first thing in the morning. And then secure them with duct tape for good measure. Pretty sure I could live a full life without saying another word.

  Owen stared at me.

  On the plus side, he seemed to have forgotten about my current clothing ensemble.

  “I’m sorry for invading your privacy,” I said. “It was a jackass move. Can we just … forget this ever happened?”

  He stood there and looked at me, statuesque, biting his lower lip. “Did you hate the sculpture that much?”

  My eyes jerked up to his. “No! It’s — God, it’s brilliant. I mean, where did you even learn to do that?”

  He shoved his hands into his pockets, which inadvertently tugged his jeans down a millimeter lower.

  That area of skin just beneath his hipbones.

  Oh my sweet holy lord.

  Someone dial 911.

  Owen said, “So I’m taking this art class in school and we’re spending a semester on sculpting? I was just, like, practicing on wood. Seemed like the obvious choice for me.” He shuffled his bare feet on the concrete and looked at me from under his lashes.

  Wiping my hands on my T-shirt, I said, “Who is it? The man in the sculpture?”

  He shrugged. “It’s the cook at Voodoo Pastries. The place out by the interstate, where they serve bacon donuts? Oh, don’t go making faces until you’ve actually tried them,” he said, bumping me with his shoulder.

  Was he flirting with me? Pretty sure he was flirting with me.

  There was an alarm going off somewhere in my brain, telling me that if I stayed out here any longer, tomorrow I might regret it. This was my opportunity to end the conversation. Just laugh the whole thing off and head back to bed before I screwed up my friendship with Janna. I didn’t, though. What I did was bump him right back. “I wasn’t making a face,” I said.

  Here I was, half naked, flirting with the one guy who was clearly off-limits.

  What the hell was wrong with me?

  All right, this: my crush on Owen was unbearable, stretching almost as long as my entire fourteen years, and I honestly felt as though I had no choice in the matter.

  At least that was what I told myself.

  Owen smiled at me. “You squinched up your nose. Which is what you do when something grosses you out. And you wouldn’t have made that face if you’d actually tried a bacon donut.”

  “I wouldn’t wager a bet on that,” I said.

  He cocked an eyebrow at me. A challenge. “Actually, I totally would. Ten bucks says that when you try a bacon donut, you’ll melt into a useless puddle of carbohydrates.”

  “You’re on.”

  The next day, I told myself I was just settling a bet when Owen picked me up at Rusty’s. But I hadn’t told Janna about the outing, and neither had Owen. And it wasn’t Janna who was on my mind as I sat across from Owen in a booth at Voodoo Pastries, Owen watching intently as I took a bite of a bacon donut, closed my eyes and, yes, melted into a useless puddle of carbohydrates.

  Victorious, Owen toasted me with his own half-eaten pastry and then threw the entire thing in his mouth, crashing back in the booth as he chewed. After he swallowed, he leaned across the table toward me, his knees brushing against mine and his forearm grazing my hand. I could feel his breath feathering my face as he said, “If you think this place is good, you should check out Sweetbrew in Sarasota.”

  I blinked at him. He was still touching me in multiple places and making no effort to pull away.

  I was so dead.

  No time to dwell on it, though, because the next clandestine excursion happened the following night, at Sweetbrew, where they served — no shit — jalapeño-and-coconut-flavored coffee. Also delicious.

  Christmas vacation freight-trained on, each day more excruciating and amazing than the last. At night, Owen and I snuck off to sample lobster ice cream and spicy egg pizza, inching closer and closer to each other. During the day, I was with Janna, pretending not to notice her brother.

  But then it all caught up to me one night at the McAllisters’, a couple of days before I left to go back home. While Janna was in the shower, I walked into the living room and found Owen on the couch, bent over his laptop, completely enthralled. And I just couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Whatcha looking at?” I asked.

  He glanced up, momentarily surprised, and then he smiled and motioned for me to sit beside him. Looking back now, I should’ve shaken my head no. And if I’d known what would happen to me months later, I would have done that.

  Convinced Janna was still in the shower, I took a chance and sat down, sliding close enough to see the screen, where there were pictures of carvings — wooden arms and faces and flowers, climbing out of blocks of wood and logs. They were people and nature and expression, life in motion, yet somehow perfectly still. “Wow. Those are gorgeous,” I said.

  “I knew you’d appreciate them,” Owen said.

  “Wait. Say that again, please?”

  “Say what again?”

  “Appreciate,” I said, smirking.

  Owen jabbed me in the side with his elbow. “Are you giving me shit about my accent?”

  “Not at all,” I said. Owen’s first three years of life had been spent in Australia. It had been just long enough for some of the accent to stick. His father, who was full-on Australian, met his American mother in Melbourne while she was there on vacation. She’d canceled her flight home and married Owen’s father two weeks later. Owen had come along immediately, and Janna, a year later. Shortly after Janna had been born, they moved to the United States. But Owen’s trace of an accent had stuck around all these years. And while I’d teased him about it for most of our lives, I’d always found it so charming and so fascinating and so knee-buckling that it unplugged me from rational thought.

  Which was exactly why I opened my mouth again and said, “I’ve always loved your accent, actually.” Shut up, Grace. Shut up. But my clown car of words just kept tumbling on out. “I used to stand on the other side of your bedroom door and listen while you were on the phone with your friends. Or else hover outside the garage while you mumbled to whatever project you were working on.” I laughed once, a semi-hysterical bark. I’d never been in less control of my words. “Probably this sounds an awful lot like stalking. Like, one small step
away from ‘Does this washrag smell like chloroform to you?’ But the fact is, I like the way your words rumble in your chest. I like the way they sound.”

  He turned toward me, and our eyes met.

  My heart buckled.

  Neither of us moved. We were maybe a couple of inches apart, too close, and his breath was mixing with mine.

  Reaching up, he traced a finger along my jaw to my cheek, and then behind my ear, finally cupping his hand around the back of my neck. I closed my eyes, feeling him cross the short distance between us. And he kissed me, just barely. Unsure, feathering his lips on mine. Then his other hand snaked around to my back and he said my name, pulling me closer and kissing me in a feverish way that bordered on panicked.

  We didn’t even hear Janna step into the room.

  When I first realized she was speaking, her voice seemed far away, like sound filtering its way around a mountain.

  “What the hell?”

  Owen and I flew apart. My hands gripped the couch cushion. I was too terrified to look at Janna, so I kept my eyes on the ceiling fan, trying to imagine it drying the sweat off my forehead. I’d always hated confrontation.

  “What the hell?” Janna said again, louder this time. “Don’t sit there and pretend that I didn’t just see you two totally hooking up. You promised me, Grace.”

  Owen stood up. “Janna —”

  Janna whirled toward him. “Shut up, Owen.”

  I was still avoiding eye contact with her, but I knew she was staring at me now, because I could feel her eyes burning holes into the side of my face. So I let my gaze slide down to her, and I met her stare.

  Which was terrifying, for the record.