“Sure. Pasta’s good,” I say, holding my hands still on the silver top of my computer, my eyes doing their best to bluff happiness. After a few long seconds, my mom turns to leave.
“Hey, Mom?” I ask; she pauses and looks over her shoulder. “Can we have the neighbors over for dinner with us? It’s usually just Owen, and his brother. Their mom works nights, and they’ve just been good…to us…”
My mom knows what I mean—Owen’s been good to me, defended me, defended her, stood up to my dad. She smiles softly before she speaks.
“That sounds like a good idea. I’ll try to clean up the kitchen some, enough to have guests,” she says.
“They won’t mind the mess,” I say, the double meaning there for both of us. Owen understands life’s messy. She nods and smiles once again before leaving, and the second I hear her feet hit the stairs, I open my laptop and delete the visual reminders of my former best friend.
It’s the least I can do.
My piano hasn’t made a sound for days, minus the moment I played it for Willow. And when I played, it felt like a goodbye. But today…
Today I just feel like I need to touch it. I’ve been sitting at it for more than an hour, my mom clanking around the kitchen, cleaning and cooking. All I can bare to do is run my hand along the cover over the keys, my finger tracing along the fine lines of the wood grain. Something so beautiful is also so ugly.
“Kens, hun? I think your phone is ringing,” my mom shouts from the kitchen. I slide from the bench quickly, not wanting her to see where I’m sitting. I think I’m worried she’ll encourage me to play.
“Thanks,” I say, passing through the kitchen to the small table in the nook where my jacket and backpack are sitting. My phone is sitting on top, and there’s a message notification on the screen. I grab all of my things, and head back upstairs as I listen to the message, recognizing that the number was Owen’s and not really wanting to listen to his voice while my mother watches the smile form on my face.
“Hey, uhm. Damn. Kens? I really hate to ask for this,” his message begins. I pause it, his concerned voice making me nervous. I hurry the rest of the way to my room, toss my belongings to the ground, and move to my bed to listen to the rest, my eyes peering out my window to the spot where I’m wishing for his truck to appear.
“I’m in trouble. Not like…real trouble,” he says, and a voice near him adds, “this is pretty serious, son.”
“No, it’s not serious. That’s what I’m trying to explain to you,” he says, the phone muffled while he talks to someone in the room with him. “Look, Kensi, I need you to come down to the shops I work at, they’re on Eighth and Central. I need you to get something out of my truck, but I’m being held for…shit, I’m being held for shoplifting. This dickhead cop won’t let me go, even though he’s wrong!”
“That’s enough; time’s up, Harper,” the voice bellows in.
“Just come, Kens. My mom’s not home, and Andrew can’t help. Please.” It’s that last word, the please, that breaks me. He doesn’t sound like Owen at all, instead more like the frightened ghost of Owen that I got to see terrified dozens of feet in the air on that Ferris wheel.
My feet are wandering my room, carrying my body that’s not even caught up with my mind yet. I don’t know what to do, and I barely know what Eighth and Central means. Owen needs me, and I have to go.
I have to go.
I grab my boots and the heavier coat hanging on the hook behind my door. The sky has been gray for days, threatening to open up. These early storms, they aren’t really snow. But they aren’t rain either. The air has been frosty, and the cold has been harsh. I’m used to the city, which while the wind cuts to the bone, the buildings offer you the occasional reprieve, making it livable to move around outside. There’s nothing to hide behind out here, even the trees have lost most of their leaves and are mere spindles standing on dead, lifeless ground.
I’m down the stairs quickly, my wallet and phone sandwiched in my hands. I need the keys. My mom doesn’t let me drive often, and I’ve never had a car of my own. There’s never been a need.
I have to go.
“Mom?” I ask, my lip trembling that she’s going to say no. For some reason, the more time that passes, the more worried I am that Owen is in big trouble.
“What, babe?” she asks, her eyes watering from the onion she’s chopping. She runs her face along the bicep of her sleeve, then looks up at me, and I try my best to look calm.