Four Years Later (28 page)

“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 fucking 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.

“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 fuck 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 fuck 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 …
fucking
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.

His earlier denial sliced my heart in two.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me. About my mom,” he says, keeping his head downcast.

“I know. Because you never tell me what’s going on. I’m completely in the dark here, Owen.”

“Really? You feel that way? Because you don’t tell me shit either, Chels. I know nothing about you.
Nothing.
Beyond you being some sort of child prodigy and graduating high school when you were sixteen—that’s all I got. And that’s not enough,” he says, his angry words flowing out of him like a dammed river that’s finally been let free.

“So you’re saying
I’m
not enough. That’s why you told your mother that you don’t have a girlfriend.” I wrap my arms around my waist and rub my hands on my arms, but there’s nothing I can do to ease the shaking, or the cold, dark ache that’s consumed my chest, the weight so heavy I can hardly breathe.

“Now you’re just putting words in my mouth.”

“I heard you say it. ‘I don’t have a girlfriend.’ Those words came out of your mouth. Oh, and my favorite, ‘She’s nothing.’ That sentence hurt the most, Owen. Can you deny you said them?” I approach him, stretch my arms out so I can shove at his chest. He goes stumbling backward, his expression one of total shock, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. None of it does. I’m hurting too much. “No, you can’t. So guess what? You don’t have a girlfriend? And I’m nothing? Then you’re right. You don’t have me.”

“I had to say it. I had to tell her that.” His voice is ragged, his expression full of anguish. His eyes are dark and full of so much … too much emotion. I can hardly stand to look at him it’s so painful. “If she knows we’re really together, she’ll try and talk to you. Ruin you. Use you. She uses everyone. It’s what she does best.”

“She hates me.” I pause because I’m finding it hard to breathe. “She doesn’t even kn-know m-me.” My teeth are chattering and I will them to stop. I refuse to fall apart in front of him. He shouldn’t matter so much.

But he does.

“She hates me, too.” He exhales roughly and hangs his head. “And I don’t think she really knows me either,” he mumbles.

I stare at him, dumbfounded. I wonder if
I
really know him. Did I ever? I believed I did. Only a few minutes ago, I thought I did. “Where’s Fable?”

“Back at my house, chasing our mom out of there.” His expression crumples and I swear, he looks close to crying. My already broken heart threatens to crack deeper and I take a sharp breath, trying to keep everything together. “I should’ve told her Mom was back,” he says. “I’ve kept it from her for months.”

“You should’ve told the both of us. You should’ve been honest with me, Owen.” I turn on my heel and start to walk but he doesn’t chase after me. Not that I expected him to, but … well. Fine.

I
did
expect him to.

Turning, I look at him. He’s still standing in the same place I left him, in front of someone’s house, standing next to a white picket fence and staring at me as if he can’t believe I would leave him.