“Yes it will. Boy, are you like this with your piano teachers?” he asks, leaning to the side to look me in the eye. Damn. He’s really close to me.
“I’m good at the piano. I don’t have to be like this with them,” I say, somehow keeping my head about me.
“You probably weren’t always good, though,” he says, his gaze shifting from my eyes to my mouth just long enough for me to notice and flush everywhere. I look at his mouth to reciprocate, and when I look back up, I realize he’s watching the movement of my eyes closely. Shit. He knows I’m looking at his mouth!
“Actually,” I say, swallowing, because damn, my throat is suddenly so dry. “I was…always good? I’m sort of…gifted.”
Now I feel really lame. Really, super, fucking, horribly, awful, terribly lame. Lame, lame, lame, lame, lame!
“Yeah, well I’m gifted in this. So trust me; trust that I can teach you,” he says. There’s that word again.
Trust.
I refocus on the hoop, and I listen to everything he says, bending my elbows, practicing the motion three or four times, lining my aim up with the small square behind the hoop. Then the time comes for me to follow through.
“Come on, Kens. You got this,” he says, taking two or three steps back.
Kens. He calls me Kens, and it feels so natural. Like he’s always called me Kens. I like it when he says my name. I like how it sounds.
I like Owen Harper.
I bend my knees, close my eyes once, then train all of my focus on the hoop above my head. With a silent countdown, I heave everything forward and upward again, and the ball leaves my hands in the right direction. I don’t make the shot. But I come close. The ball actually hits the board, then swirls along the rim before falling away.
“I hit it!” I say, turning to face him with my palms pressed on my cheeks. “Holy smokes! I actually hit it!”
Owen smiles and shakes his head lightly. “You don’t actually get any points for hitting it, but yes, you showed improvement,” he says, kicking the ball up into his hands and dribbling it a few times.
“Pshaw, says you! Did you see that?” I say, pointing up and spinning around once before reaching for the ball. “I hit it. That’s a P. I get a P for PIG.”
Owen’s hand is rubbing on his neck, and he’s laughing silently, but he gives in eventually, and bounces the ball to me to try again.
“Sure. Whatever you want, Kens. You get a P. Good job,” he says, the world’s greatest smile stretched on his lips. It’s my new favorite smile. An entirely new one that I kind of think might just be for me and me alone. I like it, almost as much as I like him.
We shoot the ball a few more times, and Owen lets me continue to make up rules as we go. I know that’s not how the game is really played, but I like how he laughs when I joke and celebrate my near shots. I actually make one before we’re done, and Owen lifts me in his arms when I do, swinging me around once, but discarding me swiftly. It leaves me with the strangest feeling, as if holding me for too long would hurt him somehow.
“Did I win?” I ask at the end, and he just grins and nods yes, his eyebrows high to show his sarcasm. The sounds of the night fade back into focus, and Owen’s breath fogs the air between us. I breathe out once, just to see if my breath can catch his.
“I should head in. I’ve got work early in the morning,” he says, his ball tucked under one arm, his other hand stuffed in his jeans pocket. He looks unsure of himself, and I can’t help but hope that it has a little to do with me.
“Yeah. I should get some sleep too. I’m studying all day tomorrow for the dissection quiz,” I say, and Owen shuts his eyes tightly when I mention our test. “You forgot, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” he says, sighing. “I think I’ll be okay, though. I got most of it down.”
“If you want…” I start, then stop myself, biting the inside of my cheek to give myself a second or two to think. Maybe I’m just trying to talk myself out of taking a risk. And maybe I shouldn’t listen to that voice any more. “I can help you,” I say again, my voice fast and sharp, getting his attention before he heads inside. “You know, study? When you get home from work. I could maybe just run you through my flashcards or something. Only…only if you think you need to.”
Ryan said Owen was smart. He probably doesn’t need to study. And now I look desperate, like I’m flirting. And I want to somehow breathe in fast, suck in all of the words I spoke before he can hear them.