“Fine,” I huff, brushing by him, giving his body a hard jab with my elbow as I pass. I climb in through the driver’s side and slide to the middle, the girl waiting inside staring at me with a look as though I’ve just made her drink bleach.
“Who the fuck are you?” she says, her breath practically flammable. I look her right in the eyes, then turn to face the front, my mouth never once breaking its hard line. I just need to survive ten or fifteen miles.
House climbs into the truck and starts the engine quickly, my hands still feeling his seat for a belt as he rounds the corner and peels out of the parking lot.
“I don’t have belts. Just hold on and keep your mouth shut,” he says, rolling his window down at the stoplight and leaning out yelling something to another car pulling up next to us. The rest of the people that were with their group are packed into an old Bronco, and when one of the guys flips House off and speeds by, he punches the gas fast without even thinking, running the red light right behind his friend, swerving us into the middle lane to regain his lead.
The dodging and darting for position happens between every stoplight until we get to the edge of town, when House finally punches the gas hard, his engine growling as we speed away from his friend, toward Sasha’s house, toward darkness. My hands are gripping the undersides of my legs hard, trying to keep my heart from bursting with fear, my stomach sour with adrenaline. I hold my breath for minutes at a time, saying silent prayers to a god I’ve never talked to before—the pounding in my chest actually painful by the time we slide into the dirt driveway of Sasha’s house.
Four or five other cars are out front, and the thumping of the music echoes around us. I don’t hear any people, though, which only makes me feel less sure about the place I’ve stranded myself—about what I’ll see when I get inside. House exits the truck first, then holds the door open and nods his head rigidly, urging me to hurry.
I slide out, my hand accidentally pressing on the horn as I pass the steering wheel, and House winces.
“Fuck,” he says, pulling my arm, his squeeze on me rough. He slams the door closed once I clear it. He meets the other girl at the front of the truck, reaching his hand into the waistband at the top of her jeans, his hand on her actual ass.
I trail behind everyone, entering the house last. Everything is exactly as I remember it. The lights dim, the drone of music drowns almost everything else. People are gathered around the couch and floor, smoking something from a liter bottle. A few others are pouring drinks at the kitchen counter while others make out in dark corners around the house.
My turn is slow, my eyes careful to catch every face, every outline, weeding out each profile that’s not Owen. But I don’t have to find him. He finds me, his voice haunting, his words harsh—if not indifferent.
“What are you doing here?” he says, the sound barely audible over the loudness of the music. His tone isn’t angry. It isn’t curious.
It’s nothing.
I step into the sitting room, toward the beanbag chair he’s sunken into, the familiar clear glass propped between his fingers on his knee.
“Decided the dance sounded lame,” I say, taking the seat across from him, leaning back into the softness, letting my arms fold across my chest, like a shield.
Owen keeps his eyes on me, and I let my mouth relax finally, but I don’t smile—and I don’t breathe. He pushes the plastic glass to his lips, the space between the vodka and his mouth paper-thin, then pulls it away, instead tossing it into the fire next to us—igniting a short burst within the flames.
“Have enough tonight?” I ask, the tightness in my chest relaxing with every second I’m here with Owen and he’s quiet.
“Something like that,” he says, his eyes lost somewhere off to the side. I want to get up; I want to move to him, to hold him and kiss him—to make him remember how he felt a week ago. But I’m so afraid of scaring him, of offending him—of the other Owen. So I wait, and I stare into the flames, catching glimpses of him from the side, waiting for him to move, to shift his eyes from whatever thought is holding him.
“My brother’s gone,” he says, his voice monotone, his gaze still on the blankness of the wall beyond me. “When I went home to check on him…” his head finally shifts, just enough, his eyes finding me—finally. “He. Was. Gone.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, still holding myself to my place, fearful of disrupting our connection, afraid he’ll close this door right back up. Owen is in a cycle. His family is in a cycle, but Owen more so than anybody else. And it’s killing him. I’ve watched it strip life from him in a matter of weeks.