Four Years Later

CHAPTER 4

Monday #1

Owen

My weekend dragged on for what felt like forever. Friday, after making sure my paycheck was direct deposited into my account, I cruised to the bank and took out some cash, then texted Mom to meet me. I handed over a stack of twenties and she took them greedily, her eyes wide, her mouth curved in what I suppose was a smile.

Later she brought over two twelve-packs to the house and we got high together, though really I only took one puff. It bothers me, doing that with her. I’m to the point where I can’t stand it. And I only smoke with her when no one else is around.

I don’t need the guilt, or the weird looks. Wade knows my relationship with my mom is twenty flavors of fucked up, but Des doesn’t. He thinks my life is sunshine and roses.

Irritated with everything going down in my life, especially Mom, I got her to leave pretty quickly and she went without protest, happy because she was high as hell and had a pocket full of cash.

I made a mental bet with myself she’d be back within a week, needing more.

Wade, Des, and I hung out together all weekend when I wasn’t working, and considering my boss cut my hours because the owner said he had to, I was glad to be working at all. We drank beer, watched shitty movies, and talked about nothing in particular. The usual. I wanted to forget my troubles. The fact that I wasn’t able to play in this weekend’s game ate at me, though I tried to not worry about it. Still, I was pissed when Wade was gone, playing without me.

Looking for a distraction, I was glad when a couple of girls came over late Friday night. But I realized quickly that I didn’t want to deal with them. I don’t remember their names, even though one sat on my lap, stroking my hair, whispering in my ear how hot I was and how much she wanted me. I let her do it, my attention focused on the shit movie rather than her, and I know it pissed her off. I wasn’t into her. So she left me and went and sat on Wade’s lap.

Pretty sure he scored with that one.

I worked Saturday night. The rush of the dinner crowd kept me busy, my brain occupied, which I needed. My shift was till eleven but I stayed later, past midnight because it got so busy, and I helped out wherever I could. The tips were extra good and I stashed the cash in a secret spot in my closet, in the pocket of one of my old jackets. Fabes taught me that trick.

Hopefully I’d be able to hang on to some of the money and not have to give it all up to Mom.

Each night I lay awake in bed for way too long, thinking about my tutor. Chelsea. It’s as if I can’t stop thinking about her, which is pointless. Stupid. Remembering how I found her resting her head on the table, fast asleep. Her pink lips parted, her breathing even, looking like a dark-haired angel. She’d been incredibly still, fascinating to watch, and doing so made me feel like a voyeur. Seeing her like that felt like an incredibly intimate experience I had no business being a part of.

And when I touched her? I don’t know what made me do that. Her brown hair looked like silk, and I wanted to see if it felt like silk, too.

It did.

When she stirred, I yanked my hand back as if I’d just touched fire and got burned. No way did I want her knowing I had my fingers in her hair. She’d probably freak out. I don’t think she likes me much.

I make her uncomfortable and sick asshole that I am, I like it. I pushed her on purpose last Thursday. Wanting to see a reaction, needing to see her cheeks turn pink and her lids slide down so they were covering those too-blue eyes. She has thick, dark eyelashes and a sprinkling of freckles, just like I thought.

Never knew I had a thing for freckles, but I’ve come to realize I might.

You don’t even know this girl. What gives?

When did knowing a girl ever matter to me before?

Sunday I didn’t do shit. Slept in, lay around in bed until finally Wade asked if I wanted to order a pizza for dinner. I agreed and pulled out the assignment sheet Chelsea gave me while we waited for the delivery guy. What I needed to do to catch up and get my grade out of the gutter wasn’t that bad. Answer short essay questions about books we were supposed to have read that I haven’t yet. Or questions asking for our opinion on a certain topic—simple stuff that I could handle. I found one of the assigned books for cheap and downloaded it on my phone.

After I wolfed down half the damn pizza I worked on a few of my assignments, feeling like I’d actually accomplished something when I finished two of them. I thought of how much that might please Chelsea and that spurred me on, making me finish another assignment after I skimmed the other assigned book, which I finally found under my bed.

Now here I am moving down the crowded hall, pushing through the throng of students, anxious to reach the room where I know Chelsea’s waiting for me. I’d put on jeans and a brand-new black T-shirt I picked up in a pack at Walmart, throwing one of my favorite old flannel shirts over it because it got damn cold outside. The sky is gloomy and gray; I think it might rain, and I wonder how long the decent weather will last before summer leaves us for good.

I finally find the room and see that the door is closed. Approaching it, trepidation fills me. What am I doing? Why do I look forward to seeing her? She’s nothing. Nobody. She’s not even that attractive.

Liar.

Fine. She’s cute. But nothing special. I don’t understand why I feel this way.

Clutching the door handle, I push it open and walk inside. She’s sitting at the same table, hunched over her cell phone and tapping away at the screen. Texting someone, no doubt. I wonder who.

A friend, a family member, a … boyfriend?

I don’t like the idea of her having a guy and I sort of find it hard to imagine, too, though that makes me sound like a dick. But she gives off that untouchable vibe. Chicks like that normally don’t interest me whatsoever. Fine, you don’t want me to touch you, let alone look at you? No problem.

So why does seeing Chelsea make me want to touch her all over?

Focus, asshole.

“Hey.” Her soft voice breaks through my thoughts and I glance up, meet her gaze to see she’s smiling at me. Seeing that smile shoots a zing straight through my heart, but I ignore it. “You made it.”

Flicking my chin at her in greeting, I settle in the chair across from her, not right next to her like last time. I’d done that to rattle her before. It had worked. But not today. Today I’m thinking we need to act like she’s my tutor and I’m her student.

“I completed a few assignments,” I tell her as I unzip my backpack and dig through it, pulling out the three assignments I worked on last night. “Here you go.” I hand them to her.

Chelsea’s entire face brightens as she takes the papers from me, our fingers grazing, her gaze roving over each page as she looks through them. “I’m so glad you did this. Did you go to class?”

I nod. It had been kind of hard, because I was behind in assignments and it was difficult to keep pace, but I pretended to keep up as well as I could. “Went to my Creative Writing class, too.”

“That’s the one class I’m looking forward to working on with you. I’ve heard it’s your secret talent,” she says, grabbing her phone so she can shove it into her backpack before she opens up my academic file.

“I have lots of special talents.” When she glances up to look at me with a frown, I raise my brows at her, trying to look like an egotistical ass.

She rolls her eyes. “I’m sure,” she says sarcastically, but her cheeks are tinged with pink, giving away her discomfort at my dirty joke. Cute. Most girls would flirt right back or call me out on it.

“So what do I have due in the Creative Writing class?” I may as well get it out in the open and make it happen. The faster I can get through this, the faster I can get rid of her and get on with my life.

“You could start on these shorter assignments. They’re quick and should be easy for you.” She hands me a sheet of paper and I take it, glancing over the missing assignments and the requirements they have before I turn them in.

Great. I need to actually create and keep a portfolio of my writing for the entire semester. Considering I’m already about six weeks behind, I have a lot of catching up to do. At this rate, I’m never going to get back on the football team.

Fuck that.

“Can I ask you a question?”

She glances up at me with startled wide eyes, her lips parted. “Um, sure.”

“Do you really think I can catch up on all of these assignments quick enough so I can get back on the field and play the rest of the season?” My heart feels like it’s nearly stopped as I wait for her answer.

Chelsea sinks her teeth in her lower lip, flicking her gaze away from mine. “I … don’t know. You have a lot of missing assignments.”

“Will you help me?” I clear my throat, hating how hopeful and pleading I sound. I don’t beg. If shit doesn’t go my way, I let it go.

But I can’t let this go. School, football, my sister’s approval … I need it. I want it.

“I am helping you.” Chelsea smiles, her voice soft, her eyes filled with this sparkly glow that’s pretty damn mesmerizing.

“I know. You are. Can you help me more, though? Like with the portfolio and stuff? Maybe I can see you more than just twice a week?”

She blinks, looking at me as though I’ve lost my mind for making the suggestion. “I don’t know …”

“I’ll pay you,” I interrupt.

“Of course you’ll pay me,” she retorts, making me smile. Okay, my tutor is a little feisty. Good. I was hoping she had a backbone. “It’s just that I have a pretty packed schedule.”

“Tutoring around the clock, huh?” I lean back in my chair, curious to hear what’s keeping her so busy.

“Well, no. Not exactly.”

“Heavy class load?” I suggest.

“Definitely that.” She nods.

“Your social calendar is jammed with upcoming events.” I don’t even know where I’m coming up with this crap. “I’m guessing you’re part of a sorority, right?”

She laughs, scrunching her nose. “Not quite. And no, I’m definitely not in a sorority.”

“Steady boyfriend who never lets you out of his sight?” Okay. I threw that last one out because I had to fucking hear it. Does she have someone? Even a casual someone? I’d like to know. Why, I’m not exactly sure, because I don’t have plans on ever doing anything with this girl, but I’m curious.

Her cheeks turn this rosy pink as she drops her head, studying my open file with rapt attention. I know it can’t be that interesting. “No. No boyfriend.”

Relief surges through me, which is absolutely ridiculous. I should not care.

“How about you?” she asks. “Do you have a girlfriend?” Her voice shakes on the last word and I stare at her, willing her to look up, but she doesn’t.

“Nope. No girlfriend,” I mimic her answer. She lifts her head at that and I find myself momentarily lost in her gaze. Stupid. “Why do you ask? Hoping for a chance?” I smirk at her like the asshole I am, because I can’t help myself.

She grimaces. “Yeah, right.”

Ouch. I bet she looks at me and sees a dumb jock, which is kind of true. She probably likes brainy, skinny dudes who study all day and never make a sexual move on her. They probably make her feel safe.

I am the farthest thing from safe for her, especially when I look at her and all I can think about is what she looks like naked.

Fucking get over it, Maguire. This chick is not your type.

“I have another job, I’m taking sixteen units this semester, and my tutoring schedule is the heaviest I’ve ever had,” she explains. “So it’s going to be sort of hard to fit you in for extra help. I’m sure you’re busy, too.”

I am. But not at the moment, what with my reduced work schedule and my temporary suspension from the football team. “Not as busy as I was last week, that’s for sure. Listen.” Leaning forward, I rest my forearms on the table, trying to get close to her so I can get my point across. “I’ve got to accelerate these tutoring sessions. I need to get back onto the team. I—”

“Why?”

I lean back. “What?”

“Why do you need to get back on the team?”

Because I want to get in my sister’s good graces again. I don’t want Fable mad at me anymore. And maybe if I’m too busy, Mom will eventually give up and stop hassling me. That last one is pure bullshit. In my dreams Mom will stop coming by and begging for money. “They need me.”

She studies me closely and I’m tempted to look away, but I hold my ground. I have the distinct feeling she doesn’t believe me, but what do I care? “Then write about that.”

“What?” I ask again like I’m stuck on repeat.

“Write about how much your team needs you. There’s your first piece for your portfolio.” Chelsea smiles, looking awfully pleased with herself. “And you’re welcome.”

Chelsea

He is waaay too good-looking. Sitting this close, asking me super-uncomfortable questions like whether I have a boyfriend. I mean, talk about awkward. Why does he care? And because he asked, I had to ask back, under the pretense that I want to know how busy he is.

Please. I’m dying of curiosity to know if he has a steady girl, because he’s definitely good-looking enough to have one. He’s a total catch, though maybe not so much on the intelligence part.

Well. That’s a lie. I’ve looked at his academic file. I probably know it by heart. He’s smart; he’s just not applying himself. Something’s distracting him and I don’t know if it’s football or whatever, but he’s barely bothering going to class.

Right now, he’s tapping away at the keyboard of the laptop he pulled out of his backpack a few minutes ago. That was sort of fun, suggesting the story idea. Here he was, trying to wheel and deal with me, convince me to meet with him more often, when really the guy just needed to focus and actually work.

“You should go to class, too, you know,” I suggest out of the blue, causing him to peer at me from above his laptop. “That all counts toward your grade. The more absences you have, the worse your grade becomes.”

“It’s gonna take more than me showing up in class to improve my grades enough to get back on the team quick, and you know it,” he says, annoyance tingeing his voice. “I’ll consider your advice, though.”

“Good.” I nod, feeling stupid. And I never feel stupid with anyone. I’m the smart one. I’ve been told more often than not that I’m the one that makes others feel dumb. Uncomfortable. Or they flat-out don’t like me, think I’m some sort of freak of nature with the too-big brain and the thieving father.

Blowing out a harsh breath, I push all thoughts of my dad from my head and slap Owen’s file shut, grabbing a textbook out of my backpack and setting it on the table with a loud thump.

Owen doesn’t even glance up from his laptop screen, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the keyboard, and I’m glad to see him getting into it. This is what he needed. A push, the realization that hey, he’d better get to work before he fails and ruins everything.

He can handle it, though. I know he can.

I flip open the textbook and start reading, feeling bad that I’m giving him no real direction, but what else am I supposed to do? He’s the one who needs to do the work. There’s nothing else I can do but wait him out while he writes. So I may as well work on my own assignments to pass the time.

It’s either that or stare at him unabashedly while he works.

Stealing a glance at him, I drink him in, my breath stalling in my throat at the sight before me. His brows are furrowed in concentration, his mouth scrunched, those pretty green eyes narrowed as he stares at his laptop screen. His fingers keep up an impressive pace and he looks up, catches me staring at him.

His fingers pause and I hurriedly look down, staring unseeingly at the words in front of me while deep inside, my heart is racing a bazillion miles a minute.

He doesn’t resume typing for a while and I slowly start to realize it’s because he’s still staring at me. I can feel the weight of his gaze pressing on me, burning my skin, making me want to squirm in my chair. I refuse to look back up, resting my elbow on the table so I can prop my cheek on my fist, hiding my face from his eyes.

“Must be real interesting,” he drawls. “What you’re reading.”

There’s no hiding for me. He can see right through my act.

“Fascinating,” I murmur, not even sure what the heck I’m reading, since the words are all blurry thanks to my gone-hazy vision. All I can think about is him. Owen. Watching me and teasing me, the scent of his cologne and soap and shampoo and whatever else he uses tickling my senses. That spicy, autumnal scent that’s driving me crazier the deeper I breathe him in.

“What’s it about?”

I still refuse to look at him. “Shouldn’t you worry about your own work?”

“Sorry.” Now he sounds irritated. Great. “Just trying to make conversation.”

“Don’t you want to get a move on this stuff so you can get back to playing for your team?” I finally drop my hand and look at him. Really look at him, and I can tell my words affect him.

He doesn’t need to antagonize me when he should be using his time much more wisely.

“You’re right.” Heaving a big sigh, he starts typing again, his fingers going clackety-clack upon the keys. “Keep me on track, Chelsea. I think I’m going to need it for the next few weeks, months, whatever. Need you.”

Those two words pound a restless rhythm in my soul the rest of the time I sit with him. The entire walk back to the tiny apartment I share with Kari, I feel those simple words pulse in my blood with every step I take. I hope she’s not home because I want to sit alone on the couch, in the dark quiet, and savor the simple words.

Need. You.

I’m probably insane for thinking this way. Boys don’t matter. Boys are bad. Look at my father. He’s done nothing but hurt Mom their entire marriage. That she still supports him and remains married to him despite everything he’s done makes me want to hit something.

Preferably my father.

I don’t romanticize anything. I’m straightforward in how I think, what I do. Everything has a cause and an effect. A reason. And there is absolutely no reason for me to react this way when it comes to Owen. I hardly know him, and what I know of him doesn’t impress me.

But I want him. I want to keep looking at him, get to know him. I want to know what it feels like to have him touch me. I want to touch his lips and see if they’re as soft as they look. I want to feel his arm slide around me and hold me close. I want to …

My cell rings just as I approach the front door of my apartment. Pulling the phone from my pocket, I check who the caller is and answer. “Are you home?”

“Nope, and you won’t be either when I come and pick you up in twenty minutes,” Kari says cheerily, in this tone that tells me she’s up to no good.

“What’s going on?” I ask as I unlock the door and enter the apartment. It’s quiet and dark, would have been the perfect scenario for me to sit and go over what happened with Owen earlier again and again, but …

Kari is totally ruining that option. And she’s not even home.

“We’re going out for drinks. I talked to these two cute guys in the library and they asked if we wanted to meet up with them later tonight.”

“Kari. I’m not even old enough to order a drink.” Uneasiness slips over me, settling low in my stomach. If they want to meet for drinks, they are most likely older. They’d probably run screaming the minute they met me. Kari’s good at the flirtatious, carefree thing. Me, not so much. “Who are these guys?”

“I don’t know, but they’re pretty. And when I say pretty, I mean gorgeous. They’re in a frat.” At my hesitation she rattles on. She knows I’m going to say no or come up with some sort of excuse. She’s got me all figured out. “Hey, we can just drink water and eat appetizers, Chelsea. We don’t have to tell them we’re not old enough for alcohol.” Kari mutters something unintelligible. “I’m telling you, we need to get fake IDs, and soon.”

The very last thing I want to do is get a fake ID. I’m not about to get into trouble with the law. “Where do they want to meet us?”

“The District.” Kari’s voice is practically vibrating. Her excitement is infectious. I can feel it bubble up inside of me despite my apprehension. “I’ve never been, and you know I’ve been dying to go there.”

Kari wasn’t exaggerating. The young, beautiful, and very trendy types hang out at The District. Kari would definitely fit in.

Me? Not really.

I set my backpack on the tiny kitchen table and go sit on the couch, heaving a big sigh. “I don’t know. I have home—”

“If you say you have homework, I’m going to beat you.” Kari’s voice is so fierce I don’t doubt her threat for a second. “You never, ever go out. Ever. You’re going to shrivel up and die an old maid if you don’t at least make an attempt at a social life. Despite what your mom says, and who is she to talk, boys are not the devil. They’re actually a lot of fun if you’d just talk to one once in your life. Come on, Chelsea.” Her voice takes on that pleading sound that tends to work on me. “Do it for me. We’ll have fun.”

I want to believe her. I desperately want to fit in. It’s been a struggle since I was nine and they accelerated me into the sixth grade when I should have been in the fourth. The older kids wanted nothing to do with me; the younger ones thought I’d ditched them and ignored me. I’ve been an outsider ever since.

Even now. Kari’s the only one who stuck by me, even when we were in different grades. Look at her now, my roommate, helping me out. Trying to get me dates.

“For once in your life you should ignore your responsibility and go hang out with a boy. Have some innocent fun and kiss him.” I start to protest but she cuts me off. “I’m dead serious. There is nothing wrong with meeting a guy, flirting with him, have a little make-out session, and then move on. It’s called being young.”

My problem is I don’t know how to be young. I’ve been saddled with all of this intense responsibility all my life. If it’s not trying to keep up my grades, it’s trying to take care of Mom when Dad’s ditched her yet again.

I swear I’m a middle-aged woman trapped in a teenage body.

“Fine,” I say, sounding all put out, feeling all put out, too. I don’t want to do this. But I don’t want Kari to hate me, either. I never go out with her. I’m always studying or working or avoiding real life so I don’t get hurt. I’d rather lock myself up in my room and study when I don’t really need to than go out and have fun.

Fun … scares me.

“Yay! You won’t regret this, I promise. I’ll be home in an hour. I told them we’d meet up around nine or so. We can hunt through my closet for something for you to wear and you’re going to look smokin’ hot. Trust me.” Kari prattles on, talking about makeup and hair and whatever else. I’m really not paying attention. All I can think about is another boy. Someone else I’d rather impress, but he doesn’t really see me like that.

I’m just the girl who’s helping him out. Some nameless, faceless brain who’ll get him where he wants to be. He’ll forget all about me once he’s finished.

Just like everyone else does.