I’m noticing things I’ve never noticed about boys before.
When he straightens up again behind the wheel, he turns his focus to his side window, almost as if he’s trying to pretend I’m not here, that my leg isn’t touching his. All I can feel is his leg—and when he moves it from the gas to the brake and back again—I take pleasure in the movement.
“Hey, Kens,” Andrew says, startling me back to the present.
“Hey. Hope it’s okay I tagged along,” I say, wondering why Andrew called me Kens, if he knew I’d like it, and if Owen was the one to tell him so.
“Oh, it’s okay,” he says, leaning forward to look at his brother. I’m uncomfortable by his suggestion, and I can tell it’s making Owen angry by the way he starts jerking the wheel and driving a bit rougher.
“Kensington has to be back at school for band at six, so I’m going to drop you off at home, we’ll eat, and then I’ll bring her back,” Owen says, suddenly acting formal, like a parent.
“We should go to the game,” Andrew adds, still leaning forward with the same grin. I keep my face forward, my eyes focusing on a small chip in Owen’s windshield.
“I don’t go to football games,” Owen says, stopping quickly at a light. His change in speed makes me slide forward a little in my seat, so I flex my legs against the floor to hold myself back.
“You said you’d be careful,” I say, interrupting his pissing match with his brother.
“Sorry,” he says, taking off again a little slower.
“Well, maybe I want to go. Can I go? I’ll hang out near the band, by Kens,” Andrew says, smiling at me. I’m not sure if he actually wants to go, or if he’s trying to goad his brother—but both thoughts make me smile in return.
“Don’t call her Kens, Andrew. You don’t know if she likes it,” Owen says, jerking the wheel hard again while he turns right to head down our street.
“You know that’s not true, asshole. You’re the one who told me,” his brother says, clearing up that small sliver of doubt I had left that I had an effect on Owen Harper.
We fly into Owen’s driveway, but his truck skids to a stop. I feel my legs weaken in their fight to hold me in place, and I shut my eyes tightly and bring my arms up to brace myself. Owen’s hold on me is fast as his arm quickly covers my chest, and I grab hold of it on instinct.
A rollercoaster ride.
When my adrenaline rush begins to fade, I loosen my grip and look down at the dark knitted fabric of his shirt and how its contrasts with the paleness of my small fingers.
His arm is warm.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, his voice more of a whisper, just for me.
“I’m okay,” I say, sparing a look at his face. The pain in his eyes is evident, and even though he scared me, I want to erase his guilt. “Really. Owen…I’m okay.”
I squeeze his arm one more time, letting my hands feel how strong his muscles are, feel the heat of his skin, sense the beat of his pulse in his veins.
“That’s not what I’m sorry about,” he says, his voice cracking a little this time.
When I turn to face the open door Andrew left on the other side, Owen’s apology becomes achingly clear. My father’s car is in our driveway, and he’s standing at our back door, practically lying against it, pounding and begging for my mom to answer.
“Fucking hell,” I say, the thrill I felt from that small touch of Owen’s arm replaced with feelings of regret, anger, betrayal, and dread.
I slide from the seat and move closer to my driveway, my father still unaware I’m behind him. He’s slurring—badly—and within a few more steps I can smell why.
“Dad, you need to leave. I’m calling you a cab,” I say, pulling my phone from my back pocket.
“Like hell I do. This is my house, and that bitch is going to let me inside,” my father says. Hearing him say those words—that word—about my mom makes my arms begin to itch, wanting to swing and hurt something or someone.
“Dad, this is all because of you. You’re drunk, and you’re being mean. You need to leave!” I yell, stopping when my dad finds his footing and stumbles a few steps in my direction.
“You…” he says, pointing over my shoulder. I turn and see Owen near my side, only a few steps behind me. “You’re that kid next door. You’re a disruption, and you need to stay the FUCK away from my daughter!”
“Dad! Stop it!” I say, sliding to the right a step as if I can protect Owen—as if Owen needs my protection.