Not Quite Crazy
Page 4

The boy spoke without looking at her. “You driving in the snow is like me taking a semi to school tomorrow . . . who is this?”
The kid was young, probably not old enough to drive himself, but he had spunk.
She turned to him. “This is . . .” Her smile fell. “Oh my God, I don’t know your name.”
“Jason Fa—”
“You don’t know his name?” Owen turned an accusing stare her way.
“He was stranded on the side of the road!” She placed her hands on her hips. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what? Like you’re crazy for bringing a stranger home? Like that?”
“I’m a good judge of character.”
Owen didn’t appear convinced.
“I’m not an ax murderer,” Jason told him.
Owen rolled his eyes.
“Go get your dad. I’m sure I can convince him.”
Owen pursed his lips together and narrowed his eyes.
“His dad isn’t here,” she told him.
Jason was fairly certain there were several colorful words that exploded out of Owen’s mouth under the cloak of a grunt before he articulated, “Don’t tell him that, Rachel. He could chop us into tiny pieces by morning. No one knows us here enough to look for the parts he leaves behind.” On that, Owen turned on his heel and stormed away.
“Owen!” Rachel turned to him. “I’m sorry. He’s protective. Just give me a minute.” And then she was gone.
Jason slowly set his briefcase on the floor and undid the buttons on his jacket.
Rachel, her name was Rachel.
Dad wasn’t there.
And her son was black.
“He drives an Audi.” Even as the words left her mouth, she realized how lame they sounded.
Owen stared her down like a man and not a fifteen-year-old boy.
“Jack the Ripper was a surgeon.”
He had a point.
She tried to make light of it. “But Ripper didn’t drive an Audi.”
“Was it an R8?”
Rachel didn’t even pretend to know what that was. Her eyes must have given her away.
“You’re hopeless.”
“He’s just waiting for his ride. It’s freezing out there.” She paused and shook her head. “Why am I arguing with you?” I’m the adult.
“Because even your parents told you not to bring strangers home.”
No, technically her parents told her not to talk to strangers. Not bringing them home was a given.
“You’re right.”
Owen opened his mouth and then promptly shut it.
She looked over her shoulder. “I’ll drive him back to his stranded car.”
“No.”
She stopped. “He needs to leave.”
“You can’t get into a car with a stranger.”
“I just drove him here.”
She saw the moment his brain short-circuited with her problem. “How long before his ride gets here?”
“I don’t know, an hour . . . I think.”
Owen muttered something under his breath and rubbed the top of his head like a man twice his age. And in that second, he reminded her of Emily. God, Em would often pull her hair out while solving a problem.
“Why are you smiling?”
Rachel attempted to stop, knew she failed.
Being stared down by a kid half your age made you laugh.
She bit her lip.
With a roll of the eyes, Owen turned and walked back into the living room.
Rachel followed and watched him track the stranger with a turn of the head when he walked past and straight to the kitchen. The rattling of a utensil drawer followed his disappearance into the other room.
“Is everything okay?”
“It’s fine.”
Something crashed to the floor, Owen muttered something she was certain wasn’t appropriate. Then he emerged from the swinging door, holding a butcher knife and the cordless phone.
“Owen!”
He set the knife and the phone down next to what looked like the homework he was doing on the small dining table between the living room and the kitchen. He resumed his seat and glared.
“Maybe I should wait outside for my ride.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Rachel took a step toward the table. “Owen, that’s enough.”
“As long as Mr. Suit doesn’t do anything, I won’t do anything.”
Rachel placed both hands on her hips. Her amusement over Owen’s actions started to turn sour. “You’ll just end up cutting yourself.”
“I’ll go.”
“No!” Rachel pointed toward the couch. “Sit. I’ll make us some coffee. You!” She moved that finger to Owen. “Finish your homework and stop acting like you were raised in Compton.” With that, she stormed through the swinging door into the kitchen. Forcing a deep breath, she looked at the mess Owen had left from the frozen pizza he’d managed to make for his dinner.
“Wow, she’s bossy,” Rachel heard the man say . . . what was his name? Jason. He looked like a Jason.
Owen said something she couldn’t quite hear. The swinging kitchen door had felt a little retro when she’d bought the house, now it felt cumbersome. She hurried to put the coffee on.
By the time she stepped back into the living room, Jason had removed his coat and sat on the couch. She caught his eyes and looked at the top of Owen’s head, which was ducked into his homework. When she looked back, she mouthed the word sorry.
Jason offered a smile and shook his head.
“Coffee will just take a minute.”
“That’s great. What’s your address? I’ll let Nathan know where I am.”
Rachel gave it to him and moved to Owen’s side.
“What are you working on?” She tried to ease the tension in Owen’s face.
He glared at her.
She accepted his anger so long as he maintained a level of respect.
They sat in silence while Jason finished his short call. “He’s about a half an hour out.”
Rachel wanted to tell him not to hurry, but the tension in the room wouldn’t go away until he was gone. “That’s fine. How do you take your coffee?”
“Black is fine.”
She poured the coffee faster than a coffee shop waitress and brought it back.
Owen hadn’t moved a muscle, and she was fairly certain he hadn’t progressed on his homework either.
“This is good, thanks.”
She took the seat opposite of Jason and tried not to stare. Short brown hair, blue eyes, strong jaw, the kind you knew Clark Kent would have, if he were real. Wide shoulders that looked at home in his suit. He didn’t wear a tie. She wondered if it was a casual thing, or if he’d lost it before getting in his car for the long drive home. Without thought, she looked at his hands for the first time. No ring.
A strand of wet hair fell across her face. She closed her eyes to stop staring. The need for that hallway mirror was now pushed to the front. Not that she needed her reflection to know she looked a mess. Still, it would be nice to casually glance at herself and know she wasn’t a complete disaster.
“You weren’t kidding when you said you’re not moved in.”
She followed his eyes to a box that doubled as a coffee table. “Not yet. I’ve been doing the home improvement thing on my weekends before I clutter the space.”
“Looks like it’s coming along.”
“Thanks. Owen and I have mastered the art of the paint roller. Isn’t that right, Owen?”