Wicked Restless

He leans back in his seat, his gaze still out the window, on the dull porch light shining in the front. “This house wasn’t full of happy memories. At least, not for me,” he says, his eyes lost to the light now, and I can tell he’s letting it pop in and out of focus.

“Your brother James?” I ask. I pull my sleeves down over my knuckles and bite on the fabric, hoping that question was okay to ask.

“Yeah, that’s most of it,” he says. “James died here.”

I heard the story—both from the gossipy tale my neighbor told my parents and through the whispers spoken in the diner tonight—but hearing Andrew say the words, even though he didn’t offer any details, made the pain of it all palpable. His brother was an addict, and when he got caught up in something with the police, he ended up shooting himself in the driveway. When I heard the story, I couldn’t imagine it was true. But as Andrew mentions James now, I can tell just by the look in his eyes that it is. And it’s awful. And I wish I’d done more to those assholes in the restaurant who thought his pain was funny.

“But I didn’t really have much of a life here. I mean…I had my brother’s life, my brother’s friends. And we lived next door to Owen’s girlfriend. But, it was all Owen. None of it was really me.” His head falls to the side, and I reach up cautiously and let my finger run along the ridge of one of the gauges in his ear. It’s not very big, but it’s edgier than anything I would ever have the courage to do. I envy him for it.

“I met you while I lived in my apartment,” he says, his eyes still on my hand next to his face. I pull it away, back into my lap, nervous about what he may say next. Everything inside of me wants Andrew Harper to like me—like that. Everything inside wants him to kiss me—like that. And it’s also the last thing I want, because then my parents will freak out, and they’ll ruin this perfect friendship. I think I might like kissing him. But I know I like sitting next to him in his car.

“So being my friend is a good memory?” I say, leading him, and regretting it the second a shade of disappointment paints his eyes. He hides it as best he can, breathing deeply and adjusting his posture in his seat before shifting the car and pulling back out on the roadway.

“Yeah, Delaware. Being your friend is a pretty damn great memory,” he says.

Before the sun kisses the horizon, Andrew pulls up in front of my house, and as I expected, both of my parents are waiting on the front porch for me to come home. Andrew puts the car in park, and skips around to my side to open the door for me. I silently curse his broken door, because now that he’s out of the car, my parents are going to want to meet him. They’re already walking toward us when I step up to the curb.

“Home before sunset, just like I promised,” I say through gritted teeth only my mom can see. She ignores my nonverbal plea, though, and shifts her focus right to Andrew.

“Yes, I see. Thank you, Andrew, for bringing Emma home,” my mom says, reaching out a hand for him to take. This is a test, to see what he does. But Andrew does nothing but act like himself. He stutters a bit, then responds with a few of courses while he repeatedly shakes my mother’s hand before awkwardly reaching for my father’s.

He calls them both Mr. and Mrs. Burke, saying their names at least a dozen times, and when he’s not looking, they’re taking turns surveying his car for danger, then memorizing his piercings and the way he’s dressed. I’m sure in their mind he looks to be everything the nosey neighbor warned about—the youngest in a brood of hoodlum troublemakers—but I’m hopeful that his bumbling speech and clumsiness in front of them cancels most of it out.

Before I realize it, he’s made his way back to the driver’s side, and when he gets in the car and revs the engine, I realize I’ve managed not to get his number for a second time. I regret that the moment he drives away.

I regret it more when my parents begin to pick him apart as we walk back up to the house.

I regret it most, though, when I shut my bedroom door on them and curl up in front of my window and wait for the sun to go down—for one more day to tick off my calendar, for the waiting to be over.

I should tell him. It would be nice to tell someone.

Maybe after our trip to Chicago.

Chapter 4

Andrew

I’m pretty sure Emma’s parents don’t like me. I don’t think they dislike me, but I got the strong sense they were working through a lot of Harper-shit to drill down to the real me. And I think they still think the real me isn’t far off from the stories they’ve heard.