“Yeah, and I bet a week ago you thought your dad was the greatest man alive,” he says, moving the small shot glass closer to me.

I take it in my hand and look at it, smelling the edge of the glass and feeling surprised that the odor isn’t strong. It’s only a small shot, and I won’t drink any more—just this one. The urge to do something wrong—something against my grain—is suddenly overwhelming. I lift the glass to my lips, pausing before I drink to look into Owen’s eyes. When I do, they’re glowing again, and that same feeling of connection is there—the one from the driveway, the one from when he apologized for scaring me on the highway.

I tilt the glass back, and cough the second the burn hits the back of my throat. Owen chuckles softly, then hands me a bottle of water, and when he takes the glass away, I notice his fingertips tickle against mine, pausing as if they’re surprised by our touch.

“Just so you know,” I say, waiting for him to look at me to finish the rest, “I never thought my dad was the greatest man alive.”

He holds my sightline and his mouth sits in a comfortable, flat line as he steps backward until he’s at his beanbag again, and he lowers himself to sit.

“Just so you know,” he says, holding a newly filled shot glass in his hand, holding it steady in front of his face, but pausing when it’s raised between my gaze and his. I sense he’s reading me, but I don’t know why. “I always thought my dad was…”

He drinks fast, and his eyes close as he holds the burning sensation in. After a few seconds, he opens his eyes again, and the look, the pained, lost boy, is there now.

“I always thought he was the greatest man alive. All the way until he wasn’t,” Owen says, and my gut twists with a hurt I’ve never felt before. Sympathy. That’s what I feel for Owen Harper.

Just then, I realize, he’s not really wild at all. He’s heartbroken. And maybe I don’t hate him as much as I thought I did.

Chapter 7

Owen didn’t talk for the rest of the night. We spent several more hours at that house—the one I found out later belonged to some girl named Sasha. Her family farms, but they have a large staff that really runs most of the business. Sasha is home alone often—alone with Owen and his friends and their…recreational habits.

We didn’t talk during the ride home, but Owen drove slowly. I think he did it for me. The ride home felt…different. I didn’t fear Owen. I hated him for telling me what he told me. I also hated my father. And Owen missed his. As the sun rose, I spent the miles we drove trying to find a way to make those thoughts match up in my head—find a way to make Owen’s pain hurt just a little less. And then I became consumed with the realization that I was caring a little too much about Owen and his feelings.

I’m starting to recognize the town, the trees of my street are familiar, and the closer we get to my house—and Owen’s—the more my stomach hurts. I sit up on the edge of the truck seat and push my hands under my legs, worried about what will be waiting for me in my driveway.

My phone doesn’t have any messages on it, and I’m grateful for that. My mom let me run away, probably because she needed to be alone too. What worries me is where my father is—and if he’s home.

Home. Such a farce. This is nobody’s home, and now I hope like hell my mom kicked my dad out of it.

“You’re worried about your old man. Worried he’s there, huh?” Owen asks, his tone on the verge of caring, as if he’s really interested, as if he isn’t loving every second of my suffering. I won’t look at him, only glancing at his profile, but I notice the tilt of his face toward me. It’s just enough to let me know he’s looking at me, and it makes me uncomfortable, so I pull my arms around my chest. This is the first time I’ve heard his voice in hours. He had two or three more shots, long ago, but still I should have driven the truck. I don’t like that I let him drive.

Maybe I’m still afraid to confront him.

“Yep,” I respond to him, nodding as I let my head slide to the side, my cheek pressed on the passenger window. I let my breath fog it up, blurring out my view, like I’m erasing the parts I don’t like outside.

“His car’s gone,” Owen says, making my heart slow instantly.

“Good,” I say, pausing with my lips open, my breath fogging the glass once again, this time making the cloud on the window thicker. “I think that’s good. That’s…good, isn’t it?”

I look at him when I ask this, something pulling me to him, forcing me to look at him. When I’m confronted with his calmness, the serene look on his face, a renewed fire grows in my belly, and it makes me angry again—angry with Owen, angry that he was the one to tell me, angrier that he took pleasure in it. He’s barely pushing his shifter in park when I shove him hard against his door.