Four Years Later (12 page)

“Well, it can be used as a noun. ‘Chelsea is smart as fuck.’”

Oh my God.

Is he really using it as a noun, though? Even if he’s not, I’m not going to argue with him.

“And then it can be used as an adverb. As in, ‘Chelsea is so fucking smart.’”

I want to laugh but I clamp my lips shut. He knows it, too. The look in his eyes is telling. He’s totally trying to get a reaction out of me but I refuse to give him one.

“Or it can be a verb. Like, ‘Owen really wants to fuck …’” His grin fades, his expression going from amused to sexy in a millisecond. He drops his arms to his sides and shrugs. “You know what I mean.”

Everything inside of me goes loose and damp. I do know what he means. But is he referring to me?

No way.

“Um, yeah,” I finally say, slamming my textbook shut. “I should, uh, really get going. I have to be at the diner soon.” I stand and start gathering all of my stuff, keeping my gaze averted from his. He gets up, too, grabbing our dirty plates and stacking them before he takes them into the kitchen. I watch his retreating back, my breaths coming fast, my heart racing.

There is no way he was talking about me being someone he really wants to … I can’t even
think
the word. I press my hands against my cheeks, can feel the heat emanating off my skin, and I wonder if he saw me blush.

I hope not.

He comes back toward the table, stopping right in front of me. Reaching out, he grips the top of the chair next to him with one hand, his fingers curled around the metal so tight his knuckles go white. “Did I offend you?”

“What?” I zip up my backpack and sling it over my shoulder before I turn to face him fully.

“With all my ‘fuck’ talk. Did that bother you? I was just teasing. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He looks remorseful, a little worried, as he flicks his gaze downward at the floor. His eyelashes are long and thick, and golden-brown stubble highlights all the places on his face where I want to touch him. When he lifts his lids to meet my gaze once more, I’m dazzled by the look in his gorgeous green eyes.

Then I remember what he said. What he’s trying to tell me without coming right out and saying it.

He didn’t mean anything by implying he wanted to …
me.
Heaven forbid he misled me in any way.

“I get it. Really.” I smile, but it feels forced. Like I’m baring my teeth or something. “Don’t forget to turn in your assignments tomorrow.”

I turn away from him and hurry toward the door, ready to make my escape. My heart pounds with my every quick step and I need to get out of here quickly. I can’t take this any longer.

Being in Owen’s presence messes with my head. He’s too much.

And I am definitely not enough.

“I won’t forget.” He’s right behind me, lightning quick, and he reaches out around me, grabbing hold of the handle so he can open the door for me. “I’m sorry, Chelsea, if I embarrassed you. I didn’t mean to.”

I stand there in the middle of the open doorway, closing my eyes for the briefest second as the sound of his voice saying my name washes over me. I really love it when he says my name. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t like anything about Owen Maguire. “You didn’t. I’m fine. I just … I need to go and get ready for work. Thanks for the Chinese food.”

And with those last, extremely lame words, I escape from his house as if the very devil were chasing me.

“How’s the tutoring going? Are your grades picking up?” Fable asks, sounding distracted. I hear the baby coo in the background and I know she’s holding Autumn. Fable can’t seem to concentrate on just me anymore. She’s always multitasking and juggling a million things at once.

Sometimes, when I have these thoughts, I yearn for the old days. When it felt like it was just me and Fable against the world, doing whatever we had to do in order to survive. When I could take off and claim I was with Wade at his house when really the two of us were out fucking around. My biggest responsibility back then had been homework.

Oh, and taking care of Fable and my mom. That had always weighed heavily on my shoulders.

It still does.

“They are. I turned in a bunch of assignments at the end of last week.” I’d even been allowed to come to Saturday’s game, though they hadn’t let me play. I sat on the bench the entire time, suited up and ready to go out onto the field, but the coach wouldn’t let me.

I think he had me sit there to prove a point.

See what you can’t have?

It worked. I slaved away on the portfolio for my Creative Writing class most of Sunday. Begged my boss at The District to start giving me more hours again when I went in to work my lame-ass four-hour shift that evening. And I plan on going to practice later tonight after I meet with Chelsea and hopefully present my coaches with my new grades so they’ll allow me to play.

My life is coming together again. I’m getting back on track, and this is a good thing.

So why do I feel this nagging, incessant buzz just beneath my skin, as if I’m forgetting something or someone?

Chelsea.

Yeah. She’s pissed at me. I went in to see her after that semi-disastrous night with her at my house and she’d been distant. Not cold or bitchy, but … preoccupied. All business, no friendliness, and she’d shot out of her chair and exited the room the minute our hour was over. Didn’t even bother to say goodbye.

It sucked.

“Your coach called Drew,” Fable says nonchalantly.

I collapse in the overstuffed chair in my room, sitting on top of the pile of clothes I always leave there as I lean my head back and close my eyes. This could be either really good or really bad. “What did he say?”

“That he’s impressed with the way you’re playing and wishes he could have you back on the team. Drew said he’s eager to work with you again. He can’t wait for you to pick up your grades.” She pauses. “Sounds like you’ve done that. I’m proud of you, Owen.”

“My English teacher said she talked to my tutor and that my grades are going to be updated within the next couple of days,” I say.

“That’s awesome. So you like the tutor, then? You two get along and it’s working out?”

Wish she were working out
beneath
me, but that’s definitely not going to happen. I screwed all that up by being a crude asshole and offending her. “She’s nice. Super smart.”

“Cute?”

“Gimme a break, Fabes.” I crack open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. Chelsea is more than cute. She’s beautiful. Intelligent. Sweet. And she hates me. Because I’m a foul-mouthed idiot who acts like a little boy every time I get near her.

“That means you think she’s cute.”

“She’s out of my league.” The words leave me before I can stop myself. No way did I want to admit that to my sister.

“Please. No one is out of your league. You’re good-looking, smart, and you’re on the freaking football team. What girl wouldn’t want you?” She bursts into laughter. “What am I saying? I ran from Drew as fast and far as I could when I first met him. Maybe you intimidate her.”

“No, that’s not it.”
She
intimidates
me
. Chelsea has her shit together. I’m just some jackass still out fucking around, smoking too much weed, trying to please someone who’s only using me for money—and just so happens to be my mother—and I can’t keep my life together unless someone is right there beside me with a checklist, asking if I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do. “Why am I even having this conversation with you? There’s nothing going on between me and Chelsea.”

“Oooh,
Chelsea
. Your voice changed when you said her name. Got all soft and stuff. I think you like her.” Fable’s teasing me, just giving me shit, but it cuts too close to the bone.

Because I do like her. In more than a
hey, let’s bang
kind of way, too. I like talking to her. Looking at her, just basking in her presence. She offers up these little tidbits about herself that are never enough for me. I want to know more, more, more, but I don’t push. I’m afraid she’ll push back. I have enough secrets—she’d go running if she discovered them.

But Chelsea? She’s a mystery. And I desperately want to figure her out.

“My voice did not change.” Jesus, she may be a wife and mother, but Fable is still my pain-in-the-ass sister sometimes.

“It so did. Say her name again.”

“No.” I push out of the chair and go to the mirror that hangs on the back of my bedroom door. I need to get a shirt on and get to school soon. Probably should take a shower before I do all that because …

Yeah. Because I’m seeing Chelsea today.

Sucker.

“Oh come on, Owen. Say it. I dare you to.”

Hell
. She knows that’s my weakness. “Fine.” I heave an exaggerated sigh. I think Fable’s enjoying this.

Correction: I
know
Fable’s enjoying this. I miss her. I think she misses me, too. I hate that she’s so far away, but I guess I shouldn’t complain. Drew could be playing for a team clear across the country. I’d never see them then.

“Okay. Repeat after me.” She pauses and I can hear the baby coo again, a soft, sweet little sound that strikes me right in my heart. Damn it, I wish we were all in the same room together. “‘I’m in love with Chelsea.’”

Now it’s my turn to burst out laughing. “I am definitely not saying that.”

“Spoilsport.” She laughs, too, but it’s tinged with sadness. I need to go see her. I don’t know when I can find the time, but I want to see Fable and the baby and Drew. I want to watch Drew play live. It’s been too long.

I miss my family.

“I don’t ever plan on falling in love,” I say, turning away from the mirror so I don’t have to see myself when I say something like that. It’s such a macho, assholish remark and I know Fable’s going to give me shit.

Maybe I said it on purpose so I can get her to stop talking about Chelsea.

“You can’t make such a broad statement like that. It’s guys like you who are the ones that fall hard and fast. Just ask Drew,” she says, ever my wise and level-headed sister.

“Whatever. Love is for sissies.” I flop onto my unmade bed and stare up at the ceiling, cradling the phone between my shoulder and ear. “I should go, Fabes. I need to get to class soon.”

“Be good, okay? Have fun with your tutor. What’s her name again?” She asks the question innocently, trying to get a rise out of me, but I don’t take the bait.

“Chelsea.” I say her name again because I want to. I like how it rolls off my tongue. And yeah, my voice did soften when I said it, but I’m not going to examine that too closely.

I might not like what I discover.

“Yes. Chelsea.” Her voice softens, too. It’s taking everything within her not to make total fun of me. She’s a total brat. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do with your precious Chelsea.”

“Ha, that leaves it wide open.” I laugh.

“Jerk,” she says good-naturedly. “Love you.”

“Love you, too, Fabes.” I hang up and toss the phone onto the mattress beside me, my gaze locked on the ceiling fan circling lazily above my head. Inhaling deep, I recognize the pungent smell of weed and I wrinkle my nose.

No way can I bring a girl into my room with it smelling like this.

You’re not thinking of just any girl. You’re thinking of …

I close my eyes and fight my thoughts about Chelsea. I don’t know her that well. There’s really nothing to know. Within the next few weeks, everything will be over between us and I’ll never see her again. We definitely don’t run in the same social circles.

Resting my hand on my chest, I feel my heartbeat beneath my palm. The steady thud, thud, thud letting me know I’m alive. But I don’t feel alive. Not really. Everything just … happens. I work hard and it’s the same old thing. I work not as hard and it’s still the same thing.

Nothing changes. I go to school, I play football, I work, I get high, sometimes I get drunk, I want to knock Wade and Des’s heads together. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Then Chelsea walks into my life and I’m thinking differently. I think … I want to ask her out. On a bona fide date. And I never want to date anyone. I fuck around and that’s it. Something lasting isn’t what I want. A quick lay? That’s always worked.

But it’s not working when it comes to Chelsea. I want more. And I doubt she wants to give it to me.

I’m nervous. Owen should be here any minute for our meeting and I don’t know what to do, what to say. The last time we saw each other, I’d been so stiff and uncomfortable I hardly said anything to him. Then I bolted out of the room like a frightened chicken without saying goodbye.

He probably hates me.

I pace the classroom, too agitated to sit. Back and forth in front of the whiteboard, my gaze constantly straying to the door no matter how much I tell myself I don’t care when he shows up. I’d prefer he never show up.

I am also a complete liar.

Yet again I dressed with care, wanting to impress him despite myself. Another good pair of jeans; these are old and worn, a little faded and comfortable, yet they make my legs look long. Not that I care about what my legs look like. Or any part of me. I just want to look nice. Not because I’m trying to catch Owen’s eye or whatever.

God, I sound like such a failure even in my own mind. I stop pacing and hang my head, staring at my feet. I’m wearing fake Ugg boots—it was cold this morning—and I have my jeans tucked into them. And a big, slouchy cream-colored sweater that keeps slipping off my shoulder and revealing my pale pink, lacy bra strap.

I withhold the groan that wants to escape. My entire outfit looks calculated. Even Kari asked me earlier this morning when we were both getting ready for class who I was dressing for, and I lied. Told her no one. She doesn’t know about Owen. She never seemed to care what happened that night at The District when I left her with Brad. I told her I found a ride home when she asked. That I saw someone I knew and he offered.

She never questioned me beyond that. Kari’s too wrapped up in her own thing lately. I know she’s been seeing Brad casually but he’s not giving her the attention she wants.