Owen carries me right to his bed, kneeling and laying me down on my back, my head resting on his pillow and my body smothered in his messy blanket and sheets. I crawl underneath quickly, pushing my shoes from my feet and letting them drop off the side of the bed. Owen slips under the cover with me, pulling my body close, running his fingertips through my tangled, damp hair with an amused look on his face.
“I just showered,” I smile, realizing I’m not very put together at all, even less than normal.
“I wish I was there when you did,” Owen says, his lips finding my neck, teasing me. I cover my face with my hand, fighting against the redness taking over. “You blush so easily,” he teases.
“I know,” I admit.
Owen slides to his back, smoothing out the blanket over us and pulling me into him, letting me curl up onto his side. I can see the edge of my house through his window, and the thought that I was just sleeping over there, on the other side, strikes me. When Owen rubs along the back of my neck, massaging my sore muscles, I let out a small moan.
“Already, huh?” he teases.
“Nooooooo,” I push at his side, but not enough to ruin the hold he has on my neck. It feels glorious. “My neck is killing me. I fell asleep at the window.”
“I know,” he says, his eyes grazing over my face, moving from my eyes to my mouth to my chin, then… “I watched you.”
I love that he watches me.
“I’m so sorry, Kens…about yesterday,” he starts, and I slide up his body and kiss him once, hard on the mouth, then press my fingers to his lips.
“Don’t be,” I say. We look into each other for several long seconds, our eyes skimming across each other’s faces. How did I get so lucky? How did I get this boy to fall for me?
“I still love you, by the way,” he says, his lip quirking on one side; his silly grin makes me melt. “For the record. Last night and today, still feel the same.”
I nuzzle in close, letting my eyes concentrate on our tangled hands, the way they look together. I love watching his thumb run along my fingers, over the back of my hand.
“I really liked your grandpa,” I say, wanting to focus on everything good from yesterday. Gus was good, and seeing Owen, his capacity to love—that felt good to see.
“Yeah, he’s a lady killer. I was worried there for a minute when I left you alone with him. He’s been known to steal a girl away from a guy,” he says, his free hand finding my hair, drawing it out in long brushes of his fingers.
“Do you visit him often?” I ask. “I’d love to go again.”
I feel Owen’s breath let out, then his kiss presses lightly to the top of my head. “Not as often as I should,” he says, his voice growing faint. “Might see him a whole lot more, though, real soon.”
I pull back to look at him, not sure what he means.
“We’re a little behind on our payments,” he says, his mouth flat, dejected. Everything that sentence means is conveyed in the look on his face.
“Where will he go?” I ask.
Owen raises his brow high, his eyes get wide and he looks from side-to-side.
“But, who will take care of him?” My heart feels heavy even asking this, because I already know. Owen takes care of everyone.
“I let coach know. He said he’ll keep me on the roster, but my season’s pretty much done,” he says, unable to mask the sadness in his eyes. For the first time, I can hear the disappointment in Owen’s voice about basketball. We’ve talked about the unlikelihood of him playing in college, but I think he always counted on having his senior season to remember.
“Can’t your mom…?” I stop without finishing, instead feeling the touch of Owen’s lips back on the top of my head.
“Her job pays the mortgage. She kind of needs to keep it,” he says, a breathy but somber laugh slipping out. “Besides, I think seeing my Gramps like he is makes her really sad. She doesn’t visit much. We’ll get help, from a home health nurse. His V.A. benefits will pay for that at least.”
“I’m sorry,” I say softly, wrapping one of my arms around him tightly.
We lie there quietly for several minutes, listening to the front door open and close, to Andrew drive away with his friend, and both of us think of how alone we are. I know he’s thinking about it; the rhythmic tickle of his fingers along my arm is almost wearing a line in my skin, and the stare from his eyes on my mouth is making my skin twitch with want.
“You’ve been playing…piano. Willow said something about it the other day. You…thinking about it more?” Owen asks, his words coming out nervously, distracted. It makes me smile against his chest.