Wild Reckless

“He’s all I know,” she says back, her eyes drifting down to the knots in the wood floors, to the glue holding the planks together.

I can’t sit here, and I can’t understand how this woman who is so brave, so strong, can be so pathetic. Even the thought that my mother is pathetic stings my soul, and it breaks my heart. I stand as the tear finds the corner of my eye and I wipe it quickly with my sleeve, not wanting her to see. All of this—she says all of this—and still, I don’t want to hurt her with my reactions.

“Learn something else,” I whisper. “If he’s all you know, learn something else.” I can’t look at her when I speak, so I move to the top of the stairs and climb down a few to sit in the middle and wait for Owen to return home.

My mother’s phone rings, and I can tell it’s the pharmacy. She recites several numbers, giving her consent as a nurse practitioner, then responding yes to a few questions before hanging up. We don’t speak again, for the next twenty minutes, and when Owen joins us again, our interactions are forced and rehearsed.

“I’m sorry it took so long. They don’t really trust my family at the pharmacist’s,” Owen says, his lip curled up on one side, his attempt at a joke. I smile back, to comfort him.

My mom helps coax James into taking the pill, assuring him that it will make him feel better. Within seconds, he looks utterly passed out.

“He’s going to sleep for days. He’ll wake up here and there, but not a lot. And…” my mom pulls her top lip into her mouth, pausing, “he’s probably going to mess himself. You’ll want to change the bed every morning and night. I can come back when your mom is home, explain things to her.”

“Can he be left alone?” Owen asks, looking down at his hands that are folded in front of him. I can see the guilt taking hold of him.

“Don’t think that’s selfish…to want to take care of your things. It’s not. You’re allowed to put yourself first,” my mom says, the irony of her words to Owen striking me—making me snicker to myself. I cough and do my best to cover up my slip, but she notices anyhow, her eyes sending me apology after apology.

“Andrew is here. But…I don’t want this to be his problem. If I have to miss my game…” Owen starts.

“I’ll stay. I’ll stay until your mom comes home,” my mom says. Owen shakes his head no, but my mom insists. “I’ve dealt with far worse. Go…go to your game. Take Andrew. I will stay.”

“Andrew’s sick. He’s probably asleep,” Owen says, his body wavering between staying and going.

“Go,” my mom says, this time sternly. Owen nods and looks to me, and I nod in response. I take his hand as we walk down the stairs, and I never look back at my mom.

Our ride back to the school is silent, but Owen’s hand is in mine the entire time, his thumb wearing a line over my knuckles with the constant rubbing. We get to the school with little time before his game, and when Owen finally looks at his phone, he sees dozens of missed calls from Ryan and House.

I walk with him quickly to the gym, kissing him once hard and fast on the mouth when we reach the locker room entrance, then I move into the gym and take my place in a top corner of the bleachers, hoping that Elise doesn’t notice and join me.

I want to be alone.

When I don’t see her, I finally let myself relax, my muscles aching from how hard they worked to keep my body moving for the last two hours.

Owen must feel worse than this. I can’t imagine. His eye doesn’t look good, the bruise turning blue. No one seems to question Owen having a bruise on his face, though. I wonder how many times people assumed his bruises were from a fight when it was really from restraining James.

Through it all, his play—it’s flawless. This is Owen’s court, and this is the one place he can go and be master—everyone looking to him, every decision his. He commands the court, running effortlessly, his legs never showing fatigue. The way he passes, the way he sees the game, several seconds before his team, before his opponents. He would mock me for making this comparison, but I swear he plays chess out there.

Even when he’s not the one scoring, he’s the reason our team scores. At one point, a guy on the other team pushes him, backing his body into Owen, dribbling into him, trying to dominate him. But less than a second later, the ball is in Owen’s hands, and he’s breaking to the other end, finding House who takes his pass and slams the ball.

The Owen out here is different from any other Owen I know; yet all of those Owens are still in there. I see them. There’s a moment—at halftime—when he’s drinking from a water bottle, House’s elbow leaning on him, and he spits some of the water out in laughter.