“I don’t think they ever really were,” I say. I know they weren’t, but admitting this out loud, saying it without someone on the other end protesting—it feels nice.

“Do you still like playing?” he asks.

“Yes, of course I do,” I say. “But not any of the things he would want me to play.” Saying that feels good too, and it makes me stretch and move my fingers in anticipation.

“So play for you. Tomorrow. Play for Kensington. I’d like to hear you. I mean…if that’s something you’re okay with. Someone listening to you play?” The nervous, fumbling Owen who’s unsure of his words seems rare, but he makes my heart race.

“I could do that. I mean, unless it’s not cool for Owen Harper to be hanging out with a band geek,” I joke, my palms actually sweating. I can’t tell if I’m excited at the thought of playing for Owen or terrified.

“I’ll make an exception,” he says, his laugh even raspier than before, and his voice saturated with sleepiness.

“Well look at that,” I say.

“What?” he asks.

“You’re finally tired,” I smile, satisfied, as if I actually did something to help Owen find sleep. His effect on me was just the opposite, and now all I want to do is tiptoe downstairs and play my piano.

“Yeah, I think you’re right. Hey, thanks,” he says.

“For what?” I ask.

“I’m not really sure. But I know I should say it anyway,” he says, one final yawn escaping his throat.

“Good night, Owen Harper,” I say, loving every syllable of his name on my tongue. Owen drifts off before he can say another word, and I leave my phone on for a few more minutes just to listen to him breathe.

He isn’t scary at all.

Chapter 10

Owen must have worked all day Sunday because I never saw him again. And I looked—constantly. My mom seems to have found a way to put on her performance face at work, but at home, she’s simply…manic. When I woke for school this morning, she had started ripping out pipes from under the sink, and all of the cabinet doors were down. She said something about finally getting her hands into something, making it her own.

If it keeps her from crying on the foot of the stairs, I guess tearing apart our house is a good alternative.

Willow’s horn blaring outside saves me from having to help with my mom’s latest plumbing emergency, so I yell that I’m leaving, grab my backpack, and rush out the door. Being in band means we always have to get to school early, and though the first few weeks had me grumbling from waking up before the sun, this morning, I’m practically skipping. I’m skipping because Owen’s truck is in the driveway, which means he’s probably going to school today.

“Wow, look who’s all happy this morning,” Willow says, snapping the gum in her mouth twice and chomping loudly while she analyzes me and my happiness.

“Had a good weekend,” I say, meaning it. True, Friday night was a nightmare, but my short-lived basketball career made up for the unwanted visit from my father and from Gaby the week before.

“Uh huh,” Willow says, pulling a thermos from her center console and loudly sipping on what smells like coffee. “So, Owen dropped you off for the game Friday night. You, uh…see him again?”

The blush that radiates all over my face is fast and unexpected, and I know I wouldn’t be able to lie now even if I wanted to.

“That’s a yes,” she says, and her smile is genuine, but there’s still a shade of disappointment there, too.

“You sure it’s okay, that it doesn’t bother you if I’m friends with Owen?” I ask, wondering if Willow was being totally honest about her feelings and being over him.

“Kens, I cross my heart. Just promise me you’ll be careful. I know it’s been three years since I hooked up with him, and he’s probably grown up a lot, but still…just be careful,” she says, repeating that word again.

I’m always careful; it’s why I did exactly as my father said for most of my life—played things carefully, classical…perfect. I hold up my hand in what I think is the scout’s honor sign and smile a promise to Willow, but I never say it. And as much as I probably should be careful, I kind of want to be reckless.

We pull into the school lot and park right next to Jess. There are no reserved spots, but everyone sort of has their place. We always park at the bottom of the hill, right by the exit. Jess is swinging his feet, clutching a paper in his hand while he sits on the trunk of his car. He looks like an actual kid in a candy store, his smile large and his cheeks red from the morning air. The vision has Willow and me giggling.