“It’s okay,” he whispers, and I slide back along my bed, bringing my knees into my chest.
“What is?” I ask, the rush of heartbeats drumming in my head, drowning me.
“I look at you, too,” he says, and now my heart is rushing for an entirely different reason.
Oh my god, oh my god….
“Kens? Relax,” he says, and I notice his light flips off. I don’t know if he did that to make it easier on me, but somehow, it does. I’m braver without having to face him.
“I’m sorry. I’m…pretty embarrassed,” I admit, crawling on my knees first, then lifting myself onto my bed, sliding my feet under my heavy comforter, then pulling it over my head because all I want to do is hide.
“I really called because I can’t sleep,” he says, completely bypassing my embarrassment. I could kiss him for that.
Kiss him.
Now I’m thinking about kissing him—not that I haven’t thought about that before, but now I’m really imagining it, and it makes me want to pull my blankets in closer, press the phone tighter against my ear so I can feel every vibration of his voice.
“Wanna talk? Until you get tired?” I ask, now more awake than I’ve ever been.
“Sure. I mean, yeah…I guess,” he says, and I like that he’s flustered now, too. “It’s always weird, when Andrew’s gone, and the house is empty. It’s just sort of lonely.”
“I know whatcha mean,” I say, thinking about most of my nights—both in the city and out here. My parents were always working, and from the age it became socially acceptable, maybe about twelve or thirteen, my parents frequently left me alone at night. I’ve grown used to it, but I’ve never liked it.
“I’m sorry about the phone calls. From…from her,” he says, and I can tell he’s treading lightly at bringing up Gaby.
“It’s okay. She’ll stop calling soon. Or not. Either way,” I say, not really believing the indifference I’m trying to portray, but I try to sell it; I try to sell it hard.
“Yeah, probably,” he says, and there’s a pause in everything. The house is quiet, and the moon is shrouded by clouds, so the night is darker than normal. It feels like the world is hushed, listening to our conversation. “For the record, what she did? Your friend…” he pauses, waiting to see if it’s okay to say more. “That was pretty shitty.”
Shitty. Yeah, it was shitty. It also might have been illegal—could probably be constituted as rape in some ways—was morally and ethically flawed, and is going to scar me for life.
Yeah, it was shitty.
“Thanks,” is all I say in response. I’m not ready to deal beyond that yet. “How’s Andrew?” I ask, desperate to return the focus on Owen.
“He’s good. Thanks. My brother likes you, you know? I think he thinks you’re cute,” he says, and I blush even though I know he’s just trying to be funny.
“That’s what he said about you,” I say, unable to stop the words before I speak them. I start chewing on my nails the instant I realize what I’ve done, and I hold my breath, waiting for Owen to hang up. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t respond either. He just lets the silence play out for a really long and uncomfortable amount of time. I think he’s torturing me, but I also think just maybe…he’s smiling.
“So how was your first day of work?” I ask, leaning over the edge of my bed and peaking out the window one more time, on the off chance that he’s looking at me, too. All I see is the blackness filling his window, but I smile softly, in case he’s hiding in the shadow.
“It was good, I guess. It’s a job, and I don’t have to deal with people a lot, so that’s sort of a bonus. And I make, like, fifty more cents an hour,” he says.
“Do you ever resent it? Having to work so much?” I tread carefully; I’ve learned when Owen doesn’t want to have a conversation, he doesn’t, and sometimes his end of it is abrupt.
“Nah,” he says, yawning a little. “It helps my family, and it doesn’t really get in the way of the important things.”
“Like what?” I ask, quickly.
Owen chuckles softly into the phone. “Wow, you’re like one of those hard-hitting reporters. Right in there with the next question,” he says.
“Sorry,” I say in a whisper, my face burning again with that familiar sting of embarrassment.
“It’s okay. I haven’t really shared with someone in a while, that’s all. Most my friends either already know my deal or they don’t care,” he says, and I focus on that one phrase—his deal. I want to know his deal; I want to know all about Owen Harper and his life and his past and those rumors. I want his story.