Wild Reckless

“Did that scare you?” he asks, his voice an odd kind of calm. Unable to speak, I merely nod yes to him, my arms still clutched to anything I can grasp, and my body no longer cold, sweat dripping down my back and arms.

“I told you to get out of the truck. You should have listened,” he says, his focus more calm now, his eyes back on the road.

A large farmhouse comes into focus, and we pull into the gravel driveway, followed soon after by his friend with the other truck. We sit in the truck cab, waiting for everyone to arrive, and there’s an awkward silence. Owen’s arm is resting on the window, and he’s pulled a bag of sunflower seeds from the front seat pocket. I watch as he spits the shells out the window meticulously, one at a time, like he’s aiming for some goal I can’t see.

I may as well be invisible. He hasn’t looked my direction once, and I’m too afraid to confront him—afraid of what he’ll do next. His friends finally pull into the lot around us, and Owen steps out when they do. I notice Kiera kiss the other guy, and I wonder how someone could jump from one boy to another so quickly. I also wonder how Owen can be so flippant about it—his friend is kissing the girl whose lips were on his only two days ago, and he looks as if he couldn’t care less.

I don’t want to be here. But I don’t want to be home, either, so when Owen shrugs over his shoulder for me to join them, I slide from the seat and close the door behind me. Everyone walks to the house, and Owen isn’t waiting for me. I linger behind; the temptation to walk back to the truck—to hide there for as long as the night lasts—is strong. I feel foolish suddenly, the adrenaline from what just happened catching up to me, and my body quivers with a rush of tears that I quickly squash with the sleeves of my sweatshirt. When I look up again, Owen is waiting for me at the door.

“You almost killed us!” I yell, stopping in my tracks.

“But I didn’t,” he says, holding the door open and waiting for me to follow him inside, where everyone else has gone. He waits, his eyes rested on mine for several long seconds, and I notice them shift. In the truck, there was a determination in them, like a warrior—the kind you send in for the toughest kill because you know they won’t feel any of it. It was like nothing else existed. But for these few seconds, they soften, and he’s actually looking at me. And he looks afraid.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” he says, his teeth biting the tip of his tongue as if he wants to say more, but he stops himself. His eyes stay on mine, and my body freezes, my mind not sure what to say. I’m empty. I have nothing—feel nothing. I nod at him, and shuffle my feet closer and step through the door. My back brushes against his chest as I pass him through the small space, and I can’t help but notice how warm he feels. Maybe I’m just cold.

“Don’t do it again,” I whisper, glancing sideways at the nearness of him. I won’t look at his eyes; I’m not sure how they’ll look, and if I’m going to follow him inside, I need to feel safe—the way his eyes felt seconds ago. Instead, I focus on his chin, and neck and the way his dark shirt hugs his chest. His lip ticks, finding its comfortable place back into that sinister smile, but he doesn’t respond, so I step inside.

The house is dark, and I follow Owen to a large, sunken living room where everyone is sitting in front of a television that’s barely audible. A joint is already being passed around the room, as is a bottle of clear liquor. I have no idea what it is, but I know the moment it makes its way to me, it’s going to start a conversation, because I don’t drink. And Owen Harper, he’s not the boy who’s going to pressure me into something.

“Ahhhh, new girl. Yeah, new girl needs to drink,” says the guy from the truck race. He holds the bottle out in front of me, but I nod no and shrug it away. “Fuck, O. You brought this prude to hang out? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He takes a big swig from the bottle and runs his sleeve along his mouth when he’s done, then hands the bottle to Kiera. She’s lightly laughing at my expense, but I don’t care.

“I don’t drink,” I say, standing my ground early. “I like my brain cells.”

Kiera spits out a little of the drink at my response, and her new boyfriend starts to laugh loudly.

“Dude, O! Seriously, are you like…fucking with us with this chick or something?” he says, his speech already sloppy, proving my point.

“I didn’t bring anybody. She hijacked my fucking truck and wouldn’t get out,” Owen says, letting his long body flop into a beanbag across the living room from me, his legs stretched out and a small golden drink in his hands.