Wild Reckless

But I can’t.

Then I see Owen’s truck pull up outside behind her.

“I…I have to go,” I shake my head, standing and trying to wake myself from the shock. “I…I don’t know. I’ll see you at the game. But I’ve gotta go.”

She doesn’t speak, and I leave before we even have a chance to look at one another again. I carry this new twisted feeling right into the truck cab with Owen, slamming the door closed, shivering from the outside air and the cold feeling still lingering inside his truck.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, shifting into drive quickly and peeling out of the lot. I smile and buckle up, then I sniff for any sign of cigarettes, alcohol—anything.

“How’s James?” I ask.

“Same,” he says, his usual, one-word answer. He’s chewing gum, and I can’t help but overanalyze that now. I’ve never seen him chew gum—at least, I don’t think I have? His mannerisms are nervous, almost jittery, and I find myself noting every single twitch. I’m staring at him, and he keeps glancing with his periphery, never fully giving me his eyes.

“Something wrong?” he asks finally, his arms working to turn his steering wheel onto the highway. The truck swerves with his jerk on the wheel as another car veers into our lane. Owen presses his hand hard on the horn, his fist pounding on the window as we fly by the other car. “Fucking asshole!” he screams.

My pulse is drumming throughout my entire body from adrenaline, and I keep my hands gripped around the material of my seatbelt, my palms sweaty now despite the quickly dropping temperature. Owen seems to have forgotten his question of me—or maybe he no longer cares. I don’t dare bring it up, instead holding on for dear life and watching out the front windshield as we pass exit after exit, finally getting to ours.

His grandfather lives in a home that’s been converted from one of the old farmhouses on the edge of town. The gravel drive is slushy from the rain and snow. There are two wheelchairs on the front porch as well as a plush seating set and a space heater. The home seems old, but it’s painted nicely, and it looks like it’s cared for. When we step from the truck, I scurry to the front and reach my hand forward, expecting Owen’s to meet mine.

But it doesn’t.

He stuffs his hands into his front pockets of his coat and walks up the path to the door, spitting his gum out into the rocks along the way.

My heart aches from his cold shoulder, and I feel the dark shadow overpowering us.

Owen rings a bell, and a woman answers, her hair pulled under a bright orange cloth. Her accent is thick, and it sounds Polish. She welcomes us inside, and hugs Owen, his rigid muscles softening under her touch. I’m grateful for whatever her embrace just did.

She welcomes us in; Owen takes my coat. There’s a fire and a few people sitting in chairs watching TV. The room is warm and inviting, but the people in there feel lifeless, their faces lost somewhere in the past, their vision not quite focusing on the screen. Any activity happening around them isn’t real to them at all. As homey as this place feels, it feels equally as sad.

I follow Owen to a room down the hall, and he knocks twice before turning the knob.

“Hey, Grandpa,” he says, his body puffing up again with stress, his shoulders stiff and his breath held.

“Is that you, Relish?” An old man stands slowly from a sitting chair that’s facing the window, leaning forward three times before finally getting enough strength to get to his feet. He reaches for the cane propped up against the table next to him then slides a pair of glasses on his face, his head covered in one of those plaid hats that snap in the front.

“It’s me. I brought a friend. I’d like you to meet Kensi, Grandpa,” Owen says, his voice no longer hard and angry, everything about him softening, as if his grandfather is a flame to his ice.

“Oh, yes…yes…Kensi. This is the one, the girl you…the metronome, right?” Owen’s grandpa says, his feet shuffling forward, his weight being assisted by Owen’s hold on him. I meet them in the middle of the room and look to Owen, whose eyes flit to me briefly with a smile. It disappears just as fast.

“Yes, Grandpa. That’s the one,” Owen says.

I reach my hand out, and Owen’s grandpa squeezes it in between both of his. His skin is dry, and his hands are cold. His gray eyes are cloudy, and I wonder how old he is. “Well, aren’t you lovely,” he says, his smile so much like Owen’s that I can’t help but giggle a little seeing it.

“Thank you, sir,” I say.