But hitting him only made me feel bad.

I don’t hate Owen Harper. But I want him. Unlike I’ve ever wanted anyone. And while that takes away the ugly I feel about my father, it also scares the ever-loving crap out of me.

Chapter 8

Owen came to school for the rest of the week, and his routine was back to the same—his feet up on my desk, his make-out sessions on display at lunch, this time with a new girl I didn’t recognize. His friend he called House started nodding to me in the hall, and by the end of the week, I was nodding back. Owen was still making me the focus of his attention, but it felt less cruel now.

“I’ve never actually seen him flirt with anyone before,” Willow says, throwing a French fry at my plate, drawing my attention from the window where Owen is backing away, nodding his chin at me with a slight acknowledgement and an even slighter grin.

“What, that? Please. He’s not flirting. He just helped me out with some crap at my house this weekend, and we talked a little. But he’s still an ass. Just less of an ass,” I say, trying to convince Willow, but clearly doing a very poor job as she smiles at me like she knows all of my secrets.

“Right, he’s an ass. Or…is he dreamy? Which one is it?” she teases, and I pick up her fry and throw it back in her lap.

“He’s an ass,” I say, standing with my tray and pulling my bag over my shoulder.

“Okay. But, I’m not stupid, you know. I can tell you like him,” she says, throwing her trash on top of mine, then passing me to hold open the lunchroom door for me to follow.

I don’t answer her, because I don’t want to lie. I do like him. I’ve been dreaming about him, and when I don’t dream about him, I pray to dream about him. I wait by my window, hoping to hear the sound of his ball bouncing in my driveway. He hasn’t been out there since I’ve put the hoop back up, though. Most nights, I lay quiet and listen for his truck to leave or pull into the driveway. I wish I had a car, so I could follow him to his work—so I knew where he was when I don’t see him.

We get to the spot in the hallway where our paths divide, and Willow tugs on my sleeve, stopping me before I’m about to say goodbye.

“It’s okay to like him, you know. I meant what I said the other day. You know, in front of Ryan? I kissed him, like two and a half years ago, at a party. It was nooooo big deal. And I love Jess. I don’t have a thing for Owen Harper. Yes, I think he’s a jerk. But…” she pauses, looking down and stepping closer to me. “But I don’t have to like him. And if you do, I will still like you. And maybe you’ll make me think more of Owen, just because you’re so awesome.”

She smiles when she’s done and tugs at my sleeve one more time, a nonverbal queue asking for my acceptance and understanding.

“Okay,” I say, sucking in my bottom lip with the weight of everything that small okay admits to. Willow doesn’t judge, and she doesn’t make it more than it is. She just nods and tells me she’ll meet me in the parking lot so we can go grab a bite to eat before the football game tonight.

Owen is waiting for me in science class, his feet on my chair this time rather than my tabletop. His hands are folded behind his head, and my heart is literally smacking into my chest bones, rattling my insides to the point that I actually feel dizzy. I’m sure it’s in my head, but I swear he heard me say “okay” too.

“This is a record for you, isn’t it?” I say, pushing his heavy Converse-covered feet from my seat before sitting down and pulling out my notebook. I can hear Owen leaning forward, and I know his face is close to the back of my head, but I will myself to face my desk and not turn around.

“What’s a record?” he asks.

“You’ve been here every day this week. Seriously, they should give you an award. At least a certificate,” I say, not feeling as proud as I usually do when I take digs at him.

“Didn’t have to work this week,” he says. I can hear him lean back in his seat. “Got fired.”

I turn around when he says that, wanting to evaluate the look on his face, make sure he’s being real. His eyes meet mine the second I lean over the back of my chair, and there’s a heavy seriousness to them.

“I’m sorry. That…sucks,” I say.

“Yeah, it does,” he says, bending forward to pull a pencil from the side of his backpack. He slides a notebook out and flips through the pages, and I can’t help but notice that his paper is filled with notes, and his handwriting is actually decent.

“Well, at least now you have time for school,” I say, moving my gaze from his hands to his eyes and back again; the intensity of the way he looks at me makes it hard to stare at him long.