Wild Reckless

“Good thing I did. I’ll drive your ass home,” I say, letting my eyes zero in on him as he raises his glass to his lips. He holds it there as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes mocking me.

“Nobody drives my truck. And we’re not leaving for hours, so I’ll be fine,” he says, brow raised before tilting the glass back and letting the amber liquid flow down his throat. He keeps his stare on me as he sets the glass down and settles into his seat.

“We’ll see about that,” I say.

“Yeah, we’ll fucking see about a lot of things,” he says, pulling his arms behind his neck and leaning sideways as he stares at me for several long, uncomfortable seconds.

His friend from the truck reaches for Kiera’s hand, lifting her to stand, and the two of them leave their seat on the sofa and walk up the stairs. The casualness of it all feels so sad—maybe even a little gross—and I can’t help the face I make in reaction to it.

“You have a problem with House hooking up with Kiera?” Owen says, bringing my attention back to him.

“His name is House?” I ask, keeping the focus on the easier topic.

“Matt House. We’ve been friends since kindergarten. I call him House. He calls me Harper. Whatever. And you clearly have issues with people having sex,” he says.

“I don’t give a shit who has sex,” I say fast, my response not really a lie. I don’t care who does what, but that doesn’t mean I understand how little importance people place on something like sex. My face is red; I know because I can feel my cheeks tingling. But the darkness shrouds me.

“You’re a virgin,” Owen says, his lips taking their time with that word. My cheeks burn stronger, and for the first time, I feel flustered from the embarrassment.

“So.” That’s all I can think to say. At first, I consider adding more, defending myself, but the more time that passes, the happier I am with that response. I won’t make apologies for not being easy.

“Your daddy would be so proud of you, proud of his little girl keeping her snatch all sewn up, waiting for her prince charming,” Owen says, the cruel look glimmering in his eyes and curling his lips.

His words make me want to cry, and I can feel the pressure building, the water wanting to spill down my cheeks, but I won’t let him have this. I breathe long and slow, and I hold his gaze, meeting his challenge, until I know I can speak without my voice wavering.

“Nobody likes you. They all think you’re crazy. They feel bad for me, because I have to live next to you,” I say back. I’m expecting Owen to wince, to feel my words on some level, but he only leans forward and lets his grin stretch larger across his face.

“Then why, little miss sunshine, are you here?” he asks, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. The two other couples here with us have all left the living room for the kitchen, where they’re playing some drinking game. Owen and I are alone, and nobody is interested in our war of words. That means no one will hear the details of my broken life.

“I’m here because you took what was left of my barely-decent life and ripped it to goddamned shreds,” I say to him, waiting for him to argue and say he didn’t.

“What, the little bit about the affair? I was right, wasn’t I? Your dad…he’s stepping out on your mom. Who is she? Someone…younger?” He’s seen Gaby at the house. I can tell he knows it’s a younger woman by the way he’s looking at me, luring me and taunting me. But he doesn’t know how young. And I don’t plan on giving him anything else he can use to hurt me.

“Why do you play basketball in my driveway?” I ask, taking control of the conversation. Owen keeps his eyes on me, his tongue teasing at the edge of his lips as he decides whether or not he’s going to let me.

“The Stratfords used to live there. They sold the house to you. They always let me use the hoop, because we don’t really have a place for one. I didn’t think you’d be assholes and take it down,” he says, and I feel a small pang in my side because Owen actually looks sad. He also looks less like the hardened eighteen-year-old and more like a lost little boy.

“Well, like I said. I didn’t take it down. My dad did. And it turns out not only does he have a low tolerance for bullshit, but he’s a royal fucking asshole, too,” I say, finally letting my eyes move from Owen’s face to the front pocket on my sweatshirt. I push my hands inside and focus on the tattered strings from the hoodie lying along the front. I’m startled when Owen is standing in front of me, a small drink in his hand. “I told you, I don’t drink.”