“I’ll tell you why he’s an asshole,” Ryan says, surprising me since he’s always the first to defend Owen to me. “He’s an asshole…” he continues, standing and pushing his empty plate in Owen’s chest, “because he’s a ball hog who doesn’t like to pass. Hey, ball hog, go take my shot and throw my plate in the trash, would ya?”
Owen blows a kiss at Ryan, who does it right back, and the two of them laugh, but Owen throws Ryan’s plate away anyway. There’s a genuine respect between them both, like Owen has with House. I wonder why they aren’t closer.
“I could give her a few reasons if you’d like,” Willow says, standing to throw her garbage away next.
“Oh, I’m sure she’s heard everything you’ve got to say,” Owen says, reaching out and taking Willow’s plate from her as well. His gesture surprises her, and I notice her brow pinched as she follows him with her gaze while he does her this small, but in many ways enormous, favor.
“Uh…thanks,” she says, and he blows her a kiss next. “And there he is.”
“You don’t hate me. You hate the me I was when I was fourteen,” Owen says, challenging her. Willow pauses at the end of the table, keeping her eyes on him, her eyes squinting while she considers what he said, and she finally sucks in her bottom lip and nods once before responding.
“Okay. Clean slate. But…” she says, coming closer to him, just close enough that I can hear her whisper at his back, “don’t give me a new reason to hate you, okay heartbreaker?”
Owen’s laugh is fast and soft, and more of an acceptance of her warning. He never says anything out loud, and Willow pats his back—with a little extra muscle—while she passes behind him.
“Rides!” Elise finally chants, standing next to Jess, grabbing his trash and practically leaping from the table. “I have waited,” she starts, pausing to count on her fingers, “like way too many years to get my ass on that rollercoaster. Ryan Barstow, I hope you’ve got an iron stomach, cuz we’re riding that thing a dozen times.”
“Yeaaaaah, I got something you can ride,” House says, stepping up behind us and grabbing his crotch, literally taking the conversation to the playground.
“Don’t do that shit,” Ryan says, poking his finger hard in House’s chest, then grabbing Elise’s hand and kissing the top of it before pulling her into his arm at the side as they walk away. She doesn’t seem offended, and she’s quick to shrug House’s statement off, but I’m a little bothered by it. I’m not sure how I would handle him talking to me like that—well at all, and I wonder what Owen would think.
With a single comment, House has managed to send everyone in various directions; the only people left with him now are Owen, Andrew, and me. I’m starting to understand why Ryan and Owen don’t hang out often. I’m pretty sure it’s House.
“Dude,” Owen says, wincing at his friend.
“Oh, don’t give me that shit. You know I only have one level. I don’t tone it down for no one,” House says, shrugging his shoulders in his giant hoodie, then pulling it up over his head. He’s embarrassed, whether he wants to admit it or not.
“I need some cash,” Andrew says, holding his hand in front of Owen’s chest, twitching the ends of his fingertips, like he’s scratching an itch.
“Then I guess you need a job,” Owen says, his hands still lodged in his pockets.
“Yeah, I’d get one of those, but I have this super overbearing brother who makes me take double high school, so I’m not really sure when I’ll find the time…” Andrew trails off because Owen holds a twenty out for him in the middle of his speech.
“Yeah, yeah. Good point. Just go to college. Now take my money; it’s all I’m good for,” he teases, and Andrew winks at him once and pats his shoulder before jogging over to some carnival game with House.
And for the first time tonight, Owen and I are completely alone. A group of kids run by waving tickets, and a mom rushes behind Owen with a pile of napkins held fast to her son’s bloody nose. There’s activity everywhere, yet it feels like Owen and I exist in a bubble.
“I got busted with a gun,” Owen says, and his statement is so out-of-the-blue, it makes me shake my head. I’m trying to find the context.
“What?” I finally ask.
“You asked why people think I’m trouble,” he says. “That’s when it started. I was in sixth grade, and I brought my big brother’s gun to school.”