I keep sneaking looks at him as we file down the bleachers, and I don’t even hear Willow talking to me when she finally yanks on the sleeve of my sweater, jerking my body hard toward her.
“Where the hell are you?” she says, her eyes scrunched, her lips flat in a straight line. She follows my gaze to House in the distance, then turns to me again. “It’s just House,” she sighs.
“I know,” I say back, my eyes still on him, my response barely a response at all. I watch as a few more people join him at the end of the parking lot. It’s the regular crew. Everyone. Everyone but…
“Owen,” she says, getting my full attention.
“Where?” I ask, looking around the lot, trying to find him.
“This…you. How you’re acting,” she says. “This is about Owen.”
I keep my eyes on hers, unable to blink. I don’t even know how to articulate what’s wrong, but something is just…wrong. And it won’t feel right again until I see him.
“I have to go,” I say, my eyes still wide on hers. I’m begging her with them.
“This is what I meant,” she says.
“I know,” I say, looking back at the crowd of shadows, the faint sound of roaring laughter and House’s voice in the distance. “But it’s different, Will. I can’t explain it, but I just know it’s different.”
“Whatever,” she says, her eyes rolling as she turns to walk away from me.
“Willow, please…” I start, but she holds up a hand, her pace steady, toward Jess. I feel like a lousy friend. I feel selfish. I am selfish, because all I want is my Owen back, the sweet one—the guy who sat on the piano bench with me and forced me to remember things I loved.
The Owen I love.
I pull my arms around my body tightly, my hands nearly numb from the cold. My coat is in the band room. But I can’t risk going to get it now. House—he might be gone by then.
He doesn’t see me coming at first, and I pick up on hints of their conversation as I approach.
“Sasha is such a fucking skank,” one girl says, pulling the cigarette from House’s hands and putting it between her lips, dragging in slowly and letting a smooth trail of smoke stream from her lips as her chin tilts up to the sky.
“You’re just jealous,” says another girl.
“Whatev. I could be like her, totally hold some party so I could fuck Owen Harper,” she says, handing the cigarette back to House, leaning forward toward her girlfriend. “But I don’t need to…been there, bitches!”
The other girl laughs loudly in response. They saw me coming, and that conversation was for my benefit. This morning, it might have been enough. But tonight, my issues with Owen are so much bigger than some girl trying to make me jealous. I’m close enough now that House notices me coming, too.
“Ken Doll,” he says loudly, an exaggerated laugh coming from the girl sharing his cigarette. “You ditching the punch bowl in the gym for some real shit?” He holds a bag out toward me, several rolled joints weighing it down. His eyes stay on mine with a heavy stare—he’s trying to provoke me. But he has something I need, so I ignore his efforts.
“Where is he?” I ask. He pushes the bag back into the front of his sweatshirt, then drops his cigarette to the ground. The girl sitting next to him pouts, so he leans over and kisses her hard, his hand running up her leg and stomach until he’s squeezing her tit in front of everyone.
That was for me, too.
“Get in the truck, baby,” he says to the girl, and she slides from his hood, dragging her hand over his crotch while she walks by, her gaze on me the entire time. She thinks she’s marking her territory. She can fucking have House.
He steps forward, his heavy black shoes stomping the glowing ash into the pavement, then he spits to the side before bringing his eyes to me.
“He’ll be at Sasha’s,” he says, his smirk lingering. I wait for him to offer more, to say something more. But instead, he smiles—that stupid fucking obnoxious smile that’s only halfway really there—his eyes barely slits, sleepy from whatever he’s been drinking or smoking. I don’t care how long he’s known Owen—House is a dick.
“Give me your keys,” I say, and he leans back, looking up to the sky, laughing hard once.
“If you wanna ride, get your ass in the truck. But I ain’t giving you my fuckin’ keys,” he says, holding them on his thumb in front of me before clutching them. I stare at him, daring him. But House isn’t Owen; he honestly doesn’t have a line between right and wrong.