Gus steps back from me, reaching for the edge of his bed, so I move with him to make sure he finds his seat safely. He looks a little uneasy on his legs. “Are you sure you haven’t heard this story before?” he asks, his eyes glossier than they were a moment ago. He’s fumbling with his hands, his fingers working for his pocket, pulling out his handkerchief again, then reaching for the small glasses hanging from a chain around his neck.

“I’m sure,” I say, my voice soft. I’m not positive how best to answer him.

“Oh, baby girl. I miss you,” he says, and I can see actual tears forming at the edge of his eyes as he looks at me. Gus is confused. I recognize it. My grandfather had dementia, and often thought I was my mom. I can see what’s coming; I am good at this terrible game of pretend. “Did I tell you Gracie died? Her funeral was so sad. Your mama was the prettiest girl in town.”

I hear Owen slip in, and I turn to look at him, unable to mask my concern and sadness.

“This is Kensi, Gramps. You just met her,” Owen says. He looks over the few books out on his grandfather’s side table, surveying the room without making it look like he’s snooping. Sadly, I recognize this too. My mom used to have to search my grandfather’s room for stashes of untaken pills.

“Right, sorry. It’s getting late. I get confused sometimes. I think maybe it’s time for my medicine,” he says, trying to stand. Owen puts his hand on his shoulder and smiles.

“I’ll get Emma for you,” he says, nodding to me to follow. We dip into the hall, and the woman who let us in is coming with a small box and a glass of water. She slips into the room with us and doles out a red pill, carefully handing Gus the glass of water and waiting while he drinks it down.

She smiles at us again, her lips never quite making the full curve though, then she whispers something to Owen, both of them looking at each other with a certain heaviness. When she leaves, Owen reaches for his grandpa’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “I’ll be back again in a day or two, Gramps. I promise,” he says, leaning forward and kissing his grandfather on the forehead. I notice the nice leather shoes in the corner, the ones that used to belong to my father, and it makes me smile. They are in a far more deserving place, being worn by a far more deserving man.

Gus sits perched at the end of his bed, his gaze drifting off to the quiet happening outside his window, and Owen and I move to his door.

“You take care of my baby girl now, you hear Billy?” Gus says, his eyes never veering from the window.

“I promise,” Owen says. What seems such a simple gesture, pretending to be someone he’s not, is so far from that. Owen stepped into his nightmare just to let his grandfather live in a dream for a minute.

Another glance is exchanged between Emma and Owen as we leave, and when we reach the porch steps, I feel the darkness wrangle a hold of Owen even more. Everything about right now feels cold—more frozen than the ice beginning to frost the ground.

Owen walks to my door first, holding it open for me to climb inside, and he stays there long enough to close the door for me. It’s gentlemanly, but it’s also very robotic. When he gets to his side, his face is completely void of any emotion—he’s wiped himself clean. He fires the engine and pulls away, his tires kicking up rocks as he pulls out of the long drive with too much speed. It makes me nervous, and I reach forward, gripping the dashboard’s edge with one hand. Owen’s eyes dart to my hand, and he sighs heavily, never really slowing down.

We drive in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the clicking repetition of the blinker while Owen waits to enter the highway.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly, wanting to show him how much I understand, how bad I feel, how I know how much it hurts—those memories, his grandfather’s illness, being called his father.

“Don’t,” he says quickly. Softly.

Cold.

Everything. Cold.

I keep my mouth shut for the rest of the trip, but my inner voice makes up for everything I don’t say. I question it all. Question what Willow told me, what others said about Owen. I think about the warnings. I think about his brother, about his father, about his grandfather.

And I question everything I’ve felt. I still feel it though. And that’s the problem. I want to scream at him, punch him, kick him and hurt him physically. I want him to feel the pain this frustration is causing me. But I love him too. And the only conclusion is that something must be wrong inside of me to feel this way. Loving Owen Harper is dangerous; yet I can’t help myself.

“Why did you even ask me to go with you?” I ask finally, my voice shouting from the frustration of being stifled for so long. We’re pulling into the school parking lot, and the sun is setting. Owen’s mouth is in a hard line, his forearm muscles flexing. His head covered in his black beanie, hiding.