Four Years Later
Page 29

Shit. I think I know who’s waiting on the doorstep. I gotta get rid of her, quick.
Pushing up from the couch, I rush toward the door, Wade backing away so he’s not in the middle of the family drama. Because there will be drama if I let her linger for any length of time. Fable is supposed to meet us here with her car before we head to The District for dinner. I can’t have her see Mom.
That is the absolute last thing I need.
“What are you doing here?” I say the moment I step out onto the front porch and slam the door behind me.
Mom glares at me, her arms wrapped around herself. She’s wearing raggedy old jeans, those same damn Nike shoes that have probably been around for ten years and look it, and a freaking T-shirt.
It’s like 50 degrees outside. She must be freezing.
You don’t care, man. You. Don’t. Care.
“It’s been almost two weeks.” Her expression turns pleading in an instant, but the hard glare is still in her eyes. I’m trying to look at her and see nothing, but it’s so damn hard. She’s my mom. I always feel like I owe her. “I need money, Owen. I need a smoke. I—I need to come down.”
Come down? Shit. “I don’t have any weed in the house.”
Her mouth hardens. “Don’t lie to me. You always have weed in the house.”
“Not this time.”
We stare at each other in silence, neither of us moving. We’re at a standoff and we’re both too stubborn to give in first. All I can think is the clock keeps ticking, bringing us closer to Fable showing up here soon, and Chelsea coming out of the shower and going in search of me.
“I need money,” Mom finally says, caving first.
“I don’t have much of that either. I’m taking less hours at work.”
Her mouth drops open. “Why would you do that?”
“Football season is eating into my time. Plus my schoolwork.”
“Still trying to pretend you care about school, huh? You can tell me the truth. I know how you really feel.”
“Yeah, when I was fifteen and always wanting to skip,” I say, glancing behind me. The blinds are open; I can see Wade pacing the living room but no Chelsea yet. Hopefully he’ll distract her for me.
“Like you’ve really changed. You’re the same ol’ Owen. My baby.” She reaches for me like she’s going to hug me, and I step out of the way, shocked that she’d do it. I can’t remember the last time she’s touched me with any sort of affection.
Her arms drop at her sides, her mouth turned into a deep frown. “Come on, Owen. Give me some money. I need at least twenty dollars. I have nowhere else to go.”
She almost sounds like she’s going to cry, but I don’t remember the last time I saw her do that either—if ever. So I call bullshit on the pathetic act. “You need to go, Mom. I—I can’t have you hanging out here.”
Her eyes narrow. “Why not? You got something to hide? Why won’t you smoke with me? What’s going on?”
“I don’t have any weed on me, I swear.” I really don’t. After I flushed the first joint down the toilet, I got rid of the rest. I haven’t had a smoke since that night at the hotel with Chelsea. Whatever Wade might have is on him. But me?
I’ve got nothing.
“What about your roommate? Let’s go ask him what you have. I remember that boy, you know. I used to talk to his mom sometimes. Real snob, that one.” She tries to dodge around me and grab the door handle but I’m quicker than her. I block the door, slapping my hand against the handle.
“Wade’s mom took care of me when you couldn’t,” I remind her. “She’s definitely not a snob.”
“That was your sister’s deal, not mine. She’s the one who always passed you off on that woman. Too busy out f**king around to worry about her baby brother.” Mom sneers.
Anger boils in my gut. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
“I can talk about her any way I want. She’s my goddamn daughter. Not that she knows how to act like one.” Mom points her thumb at her chest and stumbles, almost falling right off the porch. I lunge for her, grabbing her by the elbows so I can set her back on her feet.
It happens so fast, she takes total advantage, darting beneath my arm and going straight for the door. I run after her, slap my hand against the door to keep from opening it, and she tugs on the handle, putting all her weight into it, though that’s not much. She’s like a shadow of her old self. Thin and frail-looking, her fried blond hair wispy and dry, her jeans bag off her body, and when I get close to her, I realize she smells. Bad.
“I want to talk to your roommate,” she says, her teeth clenched as she puts all her might into tugging the door handle again. “Stop trying to block me, Owen.”
“Where the hell are you living, Mom?” I wince. She doesn’t really like it when I call her Mom. She doesn’t want me to call her anything.
“What do you care?” She tosses over her shoulder. “I don’t have a home. Not that it matters to you or that bitch sister of yours.”
“Stop insulting Fable. I can’t stand it.”
“Good, because I can’t stand her and I can’t stand you! Always passing your judgment, acting like you’re so much better than me! You’re just the same, Owen Maguire. You and me, we’re exactly the same.”
I push away from her, staring at her in disbelief. She’s expressing everything I’ve always worried about but never put into actual words. Hearing her actually say it is …
Devastating.
“No we’re not,” I protest weakly, but she laughs.
Actually laughs.
“Oh yes, we are. It’s why I loved you best. You’re just like me, Owen. Whether you like it or not, you’re going to end up like me. Wandering through your life with no goals, no success. Every time you build yourself up, someone will kick you back down. That’s what always happens. They’ve all held me down through the years. Everyone. No one ever gave me a break. No one will ever give you one, either.”
I try to fight against her words but it’s hard. So hard. I feel like I’m ten years old again. She used to scare the hell out of me when she went on her drunken binges, cursing me and Fable and whoever happened to be the boyfriend of the month. It was always some loser who’d live with us for a little while, using her up only to spit her out.
We saw it happen time and again, to the point where Fable tried to run away more than once, the summer she was fifteen.
We never talk about that, though. We don’t talk about a lot of stuff. Those types of memories are best left forgotten.
“And if you think you can find love, you’ve got to be kidding.” When I open my mouth to say something, she laughs again. “I saw you come home with that silly girl. Hanging all over your arm and looking at you like you’re her hero. You’re nobody’s hero. Does your stupid little girlfriend know you smoke weed with your mom? That you’re nothing but a worthless drug addict? That you give me all the weed and money that I want? That you hide me from all your friends and your sister because you’re ashamed of me? You should be ashamed of yourself. You make me sick.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The words come out stiff. I don’t even sound like myself. “I don’t have a girlfriend,” I tell her, because that’s the last thing I want Mom to know. Somehow she’ll use it against me, and God, she might even … even approach Chelsea.
And no way can I have that.
“Don’t lie. I saw her.”
“She’s no one. Just a friend.” It pains me to even say that. She’s more than just a friend.
Chelsea is … everything.
“Owen?”
I turn to find Chelsea standing with the door open, her hand clutching the handle. She’s wearing jeans and a black sweater, looking like my every dream come true with her wet hair piled into a bun on top of her head, her face freshly scrubbed and her skin glowing. But her expression is one of ice-cold shock. She’s looking between my mom and me like she can’t quite figure out what’s going on.
Dread sinks my gut to my toes. She had to have heard what Mom said. And what I said. She’ll know. All of it.
And she’ll hate me for what I’ve done.
CHAPTER 19
Chelsea
“Chelsea.” He says my name but I can hardly hear it. The words this woman—his mother—said are still ringing in my ears, clanging through my mind. Harsh and ugly, growing bigger and bigger inside my head until they’re all I can hear. All I can think about.
Does your stupid little girlfriend know you smoke weed with your mom? That you’re nothing but a worthless drug addict?
And Owen’s devastating, horrible reply.
I don’t have a girlfriend.
She’s no one. Just a friend.
“Well, lookee here, there’s your not-a-girlfriend right now. And aren’t you a plain little thing?” His mom sneers at me, her thin lips curled, her face worn and faded and so full of hatred I take a step back, surprised that she’s aiming all of that anger at me. “You really think my handsome boy would want to be with you? Look at you. You’re nothing.”
“Shut the f**k up,” Owen says, his voice low. He sounds so angry. His hands are curled into fists and his jaw is tight. He looks ready to beat someone with his bare hands. “Don’t talk to her. She’s not a part of this.”
“You shut the f**k up,” his mom retorts, her face scrunched and ugly, her cheeks red as she glares from me to him and back to me again. “And she’s definitely a part of this. She’s trying to steal you away from me. You’re my baby boy, Owen. I need you. You can’t leave me. A boy always needs and loves his mama.”
God, what is she saying? She hates me. And no one has ever really hated me. I’m always well liked. I work hard at being liked. By my professors, by my employers, by what few friends I have.
This woman doesn’t even know me and she hates me on sight.
“I—I should go.” I stumble backward, practically smacking into Wade, who’s standing right behind me, and then I turn. I’m running down the hall to Owen’s bedroom, where I slip inside and grab my small overnight bag and my purse off the floor, slinging them both over my shoulder so I can make my escape.
I can’t stay here. Owen told his mom he doesn’t have a girlfriend. I don’t exist. So what does that make me to him? His piece on the side? Some dumb girl he’s just … f**king until he’s finished using me and ready to move on to someone else?
The idea is so painful, I can hardly stand the thought.
Blindly I walk through the house, noticing that the front door is still hanging wide open and I have no choice but to leave the way I came. Wade isn’t in the living room. He’s nowhere to be found. I don’t see Owen or his mother, either.
Oh my God. If Fable knew Owen was still in contact with their mom, she’d probably flip out.
I step out onto the front porch to find Fable already there, glaring at her mother as though she wants to tear her throat out, and Owen is grasping hold of Fable’s shoulders to keep her from lunging.
“You need to leave,” Fable is saying, her voice so low, so dark, it sends a shiver down my spine.
I’m frozen, standing by the door, watching the three of them.
“Why does she hate me, Owen?” their mother sobs before she turns into Owen’s chest, crying all over the front of his shirt. He wraps his arm loosely around her shoulders, looking uncomfortable.
“Please. You’re so pathetic,” Fable mutters. “Quit the act and get away from him. Stop trying to ruin his life.”
They hardly notice me and I make my escape, slipping past them and down the short steps, running down the sidewalk without a backward glance. My feet slap against the concrete, my breaths coming fast and full of panic. I can’t stop hearing Owen’s denial that he has a girlfriend, the horrible things his mother said to me, about me. She doesn’t even know me. How could she hate me so much? What did I ever do to her?
And why didn’t Owen defend me?
“Chelsea!”
I hear him call my name and it only makes me run harder. Faster. Tears stream down my face but I don’t bother brushing them away. They flood my vision, make it hard for me to see, and when I trip over a raised crack in the sidewalk, I go flying forward, throwing my hands out and ready to eat concrete.
Only to be caught by Owen, hauled back into his arms with my face pressed against his chest. I can smell him—apples and the outdoors and pine, the scent of fall, of Owen. “Jesus, you’re fast, Chels. Good thing I caught you.”
“Don’t call me that.” I wrench out of his grip and take a step back, nearly tripping on the same spot again, but I gain my footing. He’s talking to me as if nothing’s happened. How can he do that? Everything’s happened. It’s … it’s over. Just like that. “Get away from me.”
He frowns, trying to take a step forward, but I only take one back. “I—let me explain. My mom … she’s crazy. She has a lot of problems.”
“Clearly,” I retort through chattering teeth. I’m freezing. It’s so cold out here and my hair is still wet. “Is it true?”
Owen frowns. “Is what true?”
“That you smoke pot with your mom. That you give her—marijuana and money?”
He sighs and hangs his head, runs a hand over his hair. I feel his despair. See it clinging to him like thick tendrils of smoke, wrapping all around his body, choking him. I ache to comfort him. To take him in my arms and tell him everything’s going to be all right, but I don’t. I can’t.