His hands slide from my shoulders to my neck and into my hair, his mouth covering mine as if he needs my air to breathe, and he closes the small distance between us, the warmth and hardness of him pressing into my body, my hands operating on their own instinct, finding his sides and back until I’m clinging to him, grabbing bunches of his black sweatshirt all at once.
Owen’s hand moves to his head while he’s kissing me, and he tosses his hat to the ground to the side of us, and I let my fingers move to his hair, weaving the strands in and out, letting the softness of them curl around me.
This is the best kiss of my life. Every kiss with Owen has been the best kiss of my life. But this one—it’s full of something more. His lips work mine for long seconds, his tongue passing over mine slowly, his teeth dragging over my bottom lip, my top lip, tugging on me and pulling me into him even deeper. I can feel his heartbeat through his shirt, and I let my hands roam over his chest and around his back again, the feel of him exactly as it is every time I dream.
He finally pauses, his mouth still resting on mine, his lips barely parted as they struggle for air. Owen’s eyes are closed, and his forehead is resting on mine, his thumbs still gently caressing my cheeks.
“I…,” he says, his breath stuttering, his lips quivering, his body relaxing into me. His head falls heavier into mine, and I can actually feel his entire body shaking.
Owen doesn’t finish the sentence, instead kissing me again with the same intensity as before. For the entire lunch hour, his lips work mine until they’re practically raw; when the bell rings to resume class, he pulls my hands up to his lips, clasped tightly within his, and he kisses them once before pressing them to the side of his face, looking at me with eyes that have cleared, eyes that aren’t full of rage and hate.
I’m honest with Elise when she asks where I was.
“Making out with Owen,” I say, and she laughs, but it soon fades when she realizes I’m serious. Our conversation is short, cut off by the bell to begin class. I notice Owen isn’t in here, that he never came after our last kiss behind the school. He said he’d see me later, and I was too stunned to register or even ask what that meant.
Our teacher passes out our tests, and I notice that she sets one aside and write’s Owen’s name on it. Despite my lack of studying, I finish mine quickly, somehow pulling mostly correct answers from the depths of my brain.
When the ending bell rings, I don’t wait for Elise, my mind still reeling from Owen, his kiss, how I felt—how he felt. Then it turns to wondering where he is, wondering if he’s okay, to Cal—to the things Cal said.
“You look like an actual ghost,” Willow says when I meet her at her car.
“Yeah…I feel like one,” I say, my eyes not really able to focus on anything, too busy looking for Owen, for answers. I climb into her passenger seat and buckle up, and I feel her gaze on me as she buckles, then starts her engine. We get to the light at the school exit, where we wait for cars to pass so we can pull out on the road, before I’m able to articulate anything.
“Did Owen really commit an armed robbery?” I ask, and Willow takes a deep breath, never really saying anything, but letting her silence answer for her. “And he stole a car?”
I wait while Willow’s brow pinches, her lips pursing in thought. “I only know what I heard, Kens. I…I’ve never been very close to him. But, yeah…that’s what I heard.”
“And the gun…” I start, and her eyes widen quickly, then just as fast relax again. She’s trying to keep her emotions in check, trying to make this not a big deal for me.
“Will, did Owen really put a loaded gun to his head? Did he really do that?” I ask, my stomach feeling punched, inside and out, at the thought of Owen doing any of those things—mostly the last.
“Again, Kens…I only know what I’ve heard. I’ve heard the same things you’ve heard. But I wasn’t there. I don’t know for sure. But I bet…” she starts, pausing for a deep breath as we turn down the street to my house. “I bet if you asked him, he’d tell you the truth.”
When we pull into my driveway, there’s an older-looking Volvo station wagon sitting near the back door of the house, nobody inside.
“Company?” Willow asks.
“I’ve never seen that car before in my life,” I say, my gut feeling sick.
“Want me to, I don’t know...wait? Or come in with you? You know, in case it’s…” She’s worried it’s my dad.