“Kensington, you don’t understand. And it’s a Sunday night. You need to get your ass back in this house,” my dad yells. Powerless. He has become powerless. And when I look at him, and he looks back at me, he knows I know it. He knows I know it all.
And he knows I’m not coming back inside that house—not while he’s in it.
“Get your hand off of my fucking truck!” Owen yells, his head leaning out his window and his arm heavy on his horn.
I rush to the side and pull his passenger door open, climbing in and buckling up, locking the door to keep the other side out.
“Oh, fuck no! Ass out of my car! You heard your dad. Get back in your own goddamned house,” he seethes.
My breathing is hard from anger, and I don’t know if my body needs to cry or scream. “This is your fault. You started this. You pushed over the first goddamned domino! So you get to take me out of here. I don’t care where, but I swear to God, Owen, if you don’t make those tires squeal in about four seconds—I’m going to shove you out of the way and drive away from this place myself!”
Owen spends the first three seconds trying to decide how serious I am, and when I pound my fist on his dashboard, he decides his life is easier if I stay in the truck. “Fuck!” he yells, shifting into gear and pealing away, his back tires fishtailing in the street and the smell of burnt rubber filling the cab. “I don’t need this…this…this family-drama shit, all right? We’re driving around the block a few times, and then you’re going home.”
“No,” I say, my jaw tight, my teeth clenched.
“Ooooohhhhh yes we are,” he chuckles, and I pound his dashboard again.
“No!” I say forcefully, the tears starting to fill the bottom of my eyes now. “No, no, no, no, no!”
I keep repeating the word, keep pounding my palm against Owen’s dash, until his hand finally catches mine, holding it down flat while we sit at a stoplight near the outskirts of the historic downtown.
“All right, I got it. No. Just…easy on the truck,” he says, his palms rough against my skin. I stare at his hand touching mine, my mind trying to make sense of the way it looks. My perfect fingers, my skilled, trained, long and powerful fingers look like weak flowers, wilting flowers, underneath the weight of his large hands.
“I hate you,” I let go from my lips in a whisper.
“Yeah, well…you and everybody else,” he says, pressing his foot back on the gas as the light turns green.
Owen drives through the heart of town, then turns down a two-lane highway where we drive for minutes in silence. My passenger window feels cold against my cheek, and the regular in-and-out reflection of the streetlights on the window glass keep me from drifting into crying. I just wait for the next reflection to come, counting in my head to see how long it takes. I count, until we run out of streetlights, and then I hold my breath and try not to think about my best friend sleeping with my father—and ruining my life.
“Where are we going,” I say, my voice hoarse. Owen remains silent, and I start to ask again, but then realize I don’t care where we’re going. I’m just glad we’re gone.
There’s a rustling sound as he reaches into a pocket on the front of the bench seat, then he tosses two strips of licorice on my lap.
“Hungry? Chicks eat when they’re upset, right? Isn’t that like a thing?” he says, glancing at me and ripping a bite from the red licorice. I hate red licorice.
“I don’t think that’s a thing,” I say quietly, setting my strips of candy on the dashboard closer to him.
It’s quiet for several more minutes until we hit a small convenience store parking lot. There are a few other cars parked out here, and I recognize most of the other people from school. I’m suddenly wishing I jumped into a stranger’s car to run away.
“Stay in the car. I don’t need anyone asking questions,” he says, his voice practically an order.
Owen parks next to another old pick-up truck, and I notice Kiera sitting in it. I wonder if they’re still together, or whatever it is they are. Kiera’s eyes are on Owen as he steps in front of the truck to talk to another guy, the both of them leaning against the front of his truck. This guy looks a lot like Owen, only his face isn’t as handsome. He’s hard looking, and he doesn’t seem to smile. Not that Owen smiles. The only time I’ve seen Owen smile was when he was teasing me—and when he delivered the news that ruined my world.
I notice the other guy pull out a pack of cigarettes and offer one to Owen, but he shakes his head. I’m glad he doesn’t take it, and I wonder if that means he doesn’t smoke. I hope he doesn’t smoke.