“You…asshole!” I yell, shoving him again, then leaning back against my door, on the other end of the bench seat. He’s staring into my eyes, emotionless, completely unaffected by my outburst. My hands are cold from his poor heating system, and they sting when I slap him with them again, my palms coming to a thud against the layers of clothing covering his body, but I push at him anyway, shoving hard. I want to hurt him.
“You…goddamned…fucking asshole!” I scream, so loudly that I’m sure if anyone were awake and outside, they would hear me.
I shove again, and Owen sits there, bracing himself for the impact, but not stopping me. He doesn’t stop me—he doesn’t say a word. I hit him a few more times, knowing I’m not hurting him, that I’m not strong enough to come close to hurting him, but I do it anyway. I go until I feel foolish, then I get out of his truck and slam the door closed behind me.
The crunch of the wood chips between our driveways is loud under my feet. I walk quickly, never bothering to turn to face Owen, to see if he’s following me, looking at me or stepping out of his truck. I march up the front steps of my house, holding my hand on the knob and breathing deeply. When it’s unlocked, my heart breaks a little knowing I’m going to have to face whatever life is left inside.
My mother is sitting at the table when I walk in, my father’s belongings strewn around the first floor in piles. Everything looks just as I thought it would, but it doesn’t make me sad. What makes me sad is the fact that I’m not sad at all to see traces of my father’s disappearance. It’s just the opposite—I feel nothing.
“Your dad is at a hotel. He won’t be coming back. Not…not for a while,” she says, her voice showing how tired she is, how hurt she is.
I don’t answer, but I nod just enough for her to recognize a response, then I continue up the stairs to my room, the one that looks nothing like my room at all. I stand in the doorway for a few minutes, surveying my things, mostly still in boxes, and I note the time on my clock—almost six. Willow will be here in thirty minutes, and I know I would never be able to wake up if I actually fell asleep, so I grab my pillow and blanket from my bed, and curl up by my window to wait for the alarm to start my next miserable day.
Owen’s room is lit, and every now and then, I notice shadows crossing it. There’s another car in his driveway, an older sedan. I wonder if that’s his mom’s?
From my view, I can see all the way through his door, and he passes his room a few times, like he’s pacing out in the hallway, until he finally closes his door shut behind him. He pulls his sweatshirt and the T-shirt that was underneath over his head, and I watch the entire thing, letting myself admit that he’s attractive. He’s more than attractive. His skin is this warm color that’s almost golden, his stomach toned, his arms strong…and I let myself imagine how they would feel holding me.
No one has ever held me. Not a boy, anyhow. I’ve danced with boys, held hands, kissed—but not really.
Owen pulls his phone from his pocket, texting someone before putting it down on a small night table near the wall by the window. Reaching up, he shuts off the lamp that’s illuminating his room, and just like that, he disappears.
And I admit to myself that I miss him.
“You look like total shit,” Willow says as I climb into her car, wearing a change of clothes, but yesterday’s hair.
“I feel like shit,” I say.
“Yeah? Oh, hey…uh…if you’re going to vomit? You need to tell me. I need to know because I’m, like…one of those sympathetic vomiters. I’m serious—if you throw up, I’ll throw up. And then we’ll both be throwing up…in my car. Yeah, maybe you should stay home?” She’s talking so fast that it makes my head hurt. I only drank the one drink, but it was enough to leave me feeling not quite right.
“I’m not sick. I’m just tired. It was a long night,” I say, noticing Owen’s window is still dark, his truck still in it’s place—right where we left it.
My mom was awake still, her body frozen to the same chair it was in when I got home an hour before. I have a feeling she’ll be there when I get home.
“Homework?” Willow asks, her car skidding over the curb as she backs out of my driveway.
“Uh…yeah…a lot of homework,” I lie. I like Willow, but not enough to relive my nightmare, at least not yet.
School is easy, and I’m grateful for that. Owen misses our morning classes, and his crew is noticeably missing from the window show I’ve gotten accustomed to during lunch.