Four Years Later
Page 25

“I have something else I want to show you.” He reaches down and pulls out a folder from his backpack and then sets it in between us on the table. “It’s my creative writing portfolio.”
“Okay.” I slowly flip it open and see a nice, neat stack of Owen’s writing samples. The list of assignments is stapled on the left side of the folder, check marks by the ones he’d completed. “It looks like you’re pretty much caught up.”
“I am.” He pulls the folder closer to him and rifles through the papers until he finally finds what he wants and pulls it out. “Read this one.”
I take the paper from him, notice the typed words but don’t really see them. “What’s it about?”
“You.”
“Oh.” I’m at a loss for words. He’s being so tender, so sweet. I don’t know what’s happened to make him change.
Disengaging my hand from his, I grab the paper and pull it directly in front of me so I can read it.
Pink and soft
Damp and warm
My pretty little rose
Is my home
I cradle her close
Give her exactly what she needs
And when I’m finished
I’m the one who’s pleased
My entire body is warm. I know what he’s referring to. God, he’s terrible.
In the absolute, most wonderful way a terrible person can be.
“Owen.” I study the words before me, can feel his gaze on me. “This is …”
“Pretty good, huh? I’m not much of a poet and I’m definitely not a rhyming one, but I came up with this last night and I thought it was close. Not perfect rhyming but close enough, you know?”
I remain silent as I read the poem again. And again. On the surface, the words are seemingly innocent.
“Yeah, I was actually doing homework on my own last night after practice. Can you believe it?” I can hear the pride in his voice and I read his words yet again, lingering on the part where he calls his little rose his home.
Does he really feel that way? About me?
“It’s very good.” I finally feel brave enough to look up at him. He’s leaning back in his chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, with a very pleased look on his handsome face.
“I thought so.” He smiles, resting his linked hands on his chest. “You figure out what it’s about yet?”
“Of course I have. I’m not dumb.”
“Never said you were.” His smile grows. “I’m starting to think you’re my muse, Chels. My inspiration.”
My cheeks turn as pink as the rose lying before me. “Don’t you think your teacher will figure what this is about, too? And maybe be offended?”
“I don’t care.” He shrugs. “It’s kind of fun, writing about such … personal things.”
I want to both slug him and kiss him.
He sits up, pulls another sheet of paper out of the folder, and then slides it across the table toward me. “Read this one. I wrote it weeks ago.”
She’s shy. She’s pink. She belongs to no one.
I vow to win her over with my touch.
Slow at first, my fingers gentle, searching as she opens only for me …
Caressing her, I bring her close.
So close.
Sending her over the edge.
Until I’ve completely destroyed her.
Petals scattered everywhere, her beauty wrecked.
All by my hand.
And now she’s become everything.
To me.
“I had a couple of poem assignments,” he explains, sounding so matter-of-fact while my mind is racing. He’s writing about what’s happening between us, the most intimate moments we’ve shared, and he’s documenting them, immortalizing them. “One could be in whatever format we preferred. And the other one had to rhyme. I don’t know which one I like better. I think they’re both pretty f**king awesome.”
“You said you wrote this one weeks ago?” I study him.
“Uh, yeah.” He finally has the decency to look sheepish. “That night you came over to help me and we had Chinese for dinner.”
“But we hadn’t even …” Kissed? Touched? Nothing had really happened between us at that point.
“I have a very vivid imagination.” The grin fades. His eyes darken, and this cloak of intensity seems to fall over him, the two of us, leaving me breathless. “What happened between us a couple of nights ago, I feel like that poem you just read describes it perfectly. Maybe I can predict the future, I don’t know. I sound like I’m crazy.”
Oh. My. I can’t even talk, let alone form thoughts. What is happening between us? Only a few days ago I was devastated, thinking he wanted us to be just friends. Now he’s writing poetry about our blossoming sex life and looking at me like he wants to tear my clothes off and have his way with me on the table.
“Say you’re coming over tonight, Chels. Maybe we can do a few more things that’ll inspire me to write.” The grin is back, infectious and so cute I can’t help but smile back at him.
“Fine. I’ll come over.” I try to sound all put out, but we both know I’m the biggest liar ever.
I’m dying to go over to his house and spend time with him. Alone.
“You’ll be coming all night if you’re lucky,” he murmurs and I blink at him, shocked, yet not at his words.
“What did you say?” I want him to repeat it. Confirm that I really did hear that.
“Nothing.” He puts on an innocent look, one that is so full of it, I want to reach out and smack him. Then pull him in close to me and kiss him. “Can you help me with my English? I have a test tomorrow.”
How can I say no? After all, I’m still his tutor.
His girlfriend.
His rose.
His home.
Owen
I’m happy. The f**king happiest I’ve been in a long time, if ever. School is good. Football is good. I lightened my work schedule because holy shit, I couldn’t take how heavy it was. I need at least a couple of free hours during the week so I can freaking relax.
And I plan on spending every one of those free hours with Chelsea.
I’m home, kicking it on the couch watching TV with Wade and waiting for Chelsea to come over. She sent a text about fifteen minutes ago, letting me know she’d be over in a half hour and she was bringing dinner.
Considering my stomach is growling and I’m anxious as all hell to see her, I hope she gets here soon.
“Des said the two of you argued,” Wade says conversationally; his tone is light, but I know he’s digging for information.
“Yeah.” I shrug. I’ve got no major information to give. “It was no big deal. More like me telling him I’m sick of him mooching off of us.”
“He’s not a mooch and you know it, dude. He provides us with all the weed we could ever want, and sometimes he even brings beer. What more could we want from him?”
“Hmm, I don’t know. Maybe I don’t like having a drug dealer always hanging out at my house,” I mutter, irritated I’m having this conversation again. “He f**king deals here, Wade. I won’t have it. Not anymore. And I already went over all this with Des. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”
“So you don’t want him hanging out here anymore.” Wade doesn’t phrase it as a question. In fact, he sounds pretty pissed.
Great.
“I never said that. It’s just … I’m trying to clean up my image.” The guilt of messing around with Chelsea while high still hangs over my head. “After all the trouble I’ve been in lately, I don’t want to have that kind of thing around here anymore. I need to watch out.”
“Come on, Owen. This has everything to do with that little tutor of yours, right? At least, that’s what Des said,” Wade accuses.
Fucking Des. He needs to keep his big mouth shut. “Fine, so it has something to do with Chelsea. But she’s not the only reason I don’t want Des around here as much anymore.” How can I explain this without sounding like a complete whiny little prick? “My mom … you know she’s always coming around. Wanting to smoke a bowl with me or whatever. If I kick the habit, then I’m eliminating half the reason she wants to see me.”
And that hurts. Knowing that Mom has only a couple of reasons in the first place to want to see me, and both of them suck.
“What’s the other reason why she wants to see you?”
“Money. She always needs a handout. She can’t save up even a dollar. If she has change in her pocket, she rushes out and spends it.” I haven’t heard from her in a while. Last time I told her not to contact me for two weeks, and so far she’s holding to it.
But those two weeks are up soon and I don’t doubt for a second she’ll be back in a hot minute, sniffing around and looking for another payout.
“You know if you get rid of the weed, she’ll just ask for more money so she can get it somewhere else,” Wade points out.
I’ve already thought of that. I’ve thought of everything. “That’s fine, then at least it’s not on my hands.”
“Not completely.”
Hell. Wade is right. I hate this. Hate what my mom’s become, what she forces me to do. I’m mean to her and I despise it, but she’s always mean to me first. She gives me no choice. This is our fucked-up relationship, and I’m jealous as hell of Fable. At least she doesn’t have to deal with Mom. She was strong enough to cut the ties and walk away.
Why can’t I do that? Why do I always feel so damn guilty when she looks at me, begging me for money, for drugs, for a light for her f**king cigarette, for Christ’s sake?
Why does she have to be so f**ked up? Why can’t I have a normal mom like everyone else? I can’t f**king stand her. And it hurts me to even think that, let alone say it out loud.
“Let Des know I’m not mad at him. Just tell him … I need him to stay back, only for a little while. I gotta try and get rid of my mom,” I say, feeling like an asshole.
“I’ll let him know. I just gotta tell you that if you’re going to try and cut him out of our lives, it would piss me off. I like Des. He’s one of my best friends, too, you know,” Wade says.
“I get it, man. I like Des, too.” Despite the fact that he’s a drug dealer. But who am I to judge, with my white-trash mama and crazy-ass life?
There’s a knock at the door and I leap from the couch to answer it. I find Chelsea standing on my doorstep, cute as hell wearing the 49ers sweatshirt I bought her and black yoga pants, her hair in a high ponytail. She’s clutching a giant brown bag in one hand, a tiny smile teasing the corners of her mouth.
“Hi,” she says softly, her eyes warm, everything about her … beautiful.
Shit. I am so gone over her. I wonder if she feels the same.
“Hey.” I take her free hand and drag her inside, slamming and locking the door behind her. “You look good.”
“I’m dressed like a bum,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“Way to knock the sweatshirt I gave you.” I bring her hand up to my mouth and kiss her knuckles, enjoying the way her eyelids flutter the slightest bit when my mouth touches her skin. “And way to show you’re out to impress me tonight.”
“Owen.” She flicks her head toward where Wade’s sitting on the couch.
I keep forgetting she’s not 100 percent comfortable with us being together in front of someone else. I could care less what Wade says, but that’s because I’ve known him forever.
But my poor, nervous Chelsea hardly knows Wade at all. So I guess I can’t blame her.
“It’s just Wade, Chels.” I drop a kiss to her lips, then take the bag from her hand, surprised it’s so heavy. “What did you bring for dinner?” Whatever it is, it smells damn good. My stomach is growing more demanding by the second.
“Indian food.” She looks pleased with herself. I think she has me all figured out meal-wise. That my diet consists of pizza and fast food and … pizza. Beer and soda and beer and … that’s about it. “I hope you like this place. I’ve only tried them once.”
“I’ve never had Indian food,” I admit as I carry the bag over to the dining table.
“Really?” She sounds incredulous as she walks into the kitchen. “Well, I brought a huge variety of dishes, so hopefully you’ll like something.” She’s grabbing plates and utensils as though she lives here, and I like seeing her move about my house so comfortably. She fits in. I want her here.
I like having her with me.
“Wade, you can join us if you want. Do you like Indian food?” she calls from the kitchen as she pushes up her sleeves, turns on the faucet, and washes her hands.
“I’ve never had it either,” he answers.
“We have so much. You need to come over here and try it. I think you’ll like it.” She shuts off the faucet, dries her hands, then grabs another plate before she brings everything to the table and starts setting it out.
I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s a completely different girl from the one I met only weeks ago. The first version of Chelsea had been shy, quiet, unsure of herself. This version is still a little shy, a little unsure, but there’s something different about her now.
A confidence. It’s in the way she moves, the way she talks, how she looks at me. I can feel it, see it, hear it, and I realize my sweet little Chelsea Rose has blossomed.
And I can’t help but think I’ve been a huge influence in this change.
CHAPTER 17