Wild Reckless

“I told you,” Willow whispers in my ear, putting her arm around my shoulder and lying her head on my arm. I breathe it in again, and I swear I can almost taste it. “Best. Pie. Ever.”

“I need to have some of that, and soon,” I say, leaning my head to the side slowly until it rests on hers. For the first time since I left the city, since I said goodbye to Morgan and Gaby, I feel like I have a real friend.

“Hey…Kens?” The way Elise says my name gets my attention fast, so I lift my head and stand from the bench, brushing the dust and leaves that have fallen onto the table away from my sweater and leggings. She nods her head over my shoulder, and her lip pulls up on one side, a faint smile that makes my belly fill with butterflies and hope.

Turning slowly, I scan the crowd as my eyes pan along the various booths for games and treats, until I see three very out-of-place figures pacing near the front entrance. Owen looks terrified. To anyone else, he probably looks frustrated or irritated—his usual intimidating stance as his feet shuffle in the dirt, his thumb impulsively sliding over the screen of his phone like he’s texting or waiting for an important call. But I’ve learned the subtleties of Owen Harper, and right now, he’s nervous—he’s afraid of being judged.

I start to move closer to them, but before I get there, Ryan walks up behind them and gestures in our direction. Andrew sees me first, and he smiles and holds up his hand in hello. Owen’s eyes don’t find me right away, but as he gets closer, his gaze finds mine, and his pace slows down to almost a complete stop. His chest is moving in an out like a panic attack—his brother, House, and Ryan all passing him, leaving him behind. When he’s finally close enough for me to truly see the look in his eyes, I can tell he’s in hell.

He’s come to hell, on purpose—and I think he did that for me.

Willow nudges my shoulder, looking over at Owen, who is dressed in black, from the black cap pulled low to shadow his eyes to the dark jeans and black shoes. He’s hiding, but I see him. “He looks like he wants to run,” she says.

“That’s because he does,” I breathe, before pulling my arms around my body tight, covering my hands with my sleeves as I step closer to my lost friend—friend.

We meet in the middle, and it seems so appropriate.

“So, did you come for me? Or was it the pie?” I tease, kicking my boot into his Converse. Initiating this touch makes my stomach drop with nerves.

Owen laughs once, breathing in through his nose, a puff of fog escaping with his breath. “It’s…it’s really good pie,” he says, his head cocked to one side, lip curled and one eye squinted while he waits for me to buy his line. He’s here for me. And my heart hurts with happiness.

“That’s what everyone says, but…I don’t know. I’ve had good pie before,” I say, urging us back in the direction of our friends.

“Well, it’s been a while,” he says, a distinct pause as he looks out at the festival, the lights flashing and families milling around about us. “But I’m pretty sure I’m remembering right, and you’re going to be eating your words.”

“Yeah, well I’d rather be eating pie,” I say, folding my arms, my hip slouched to one side in our playful standoff.

“You want me to buy you pie?” he asks, and something about this simple surrender, this sweet offer from a boy to a girl, has my chest swelling with hope.

“Yeah…I’d like to eat pie with you, Owen Harper,” I say, biting the edge of my bottom lip to hold my soft grin in place, to keep the full-on smile from creeping too far. It’s my first foray into blatant, forward flirting, and my hands are numb with nerves. I’m pretty sure my mouth no longer works, but the way my stupid little sentence makes Owen’s cheeks flush makes my courage worth the effort it took to muster it.

Owen and I trail behind the rest of our group, Andrew and House peeling away to step in line for some ride that looks like it’s sole purpose is to induce brain damage and vomiting by the way it flips people around over and over again. Willow keeps glancing over her shoulder; I get the sense she’s checking up on me to make sure Owen isn’t upsetting me.

We all stop at the largest food booth in the center of the festival grounds, and Owen orders for me, asking a man with a grizzly beard and biker tattoos wrapped around both arms and neck for two slices of “mama’s best.”

“He’s not Mama, right?” I ask, and Owen chuckles.

“No,” he says, still laughing a little when the biker man hands him two plates slathered with caramel and large chunks of apple and crust. I follow Owen over to a picnic table, sliding in across from him. “It’s Carolyn Potter’s recipe, but she died a few years ago. Those are her boys. They look rough, but they’re not really. That one?” Owen nods in the direction of a more heavy-set blonde guy who also has a beard and his own impressive set of tattoos.