“I’m…I’m sorry. I just found out,” I say, reaching toward him, but not quickly enough. He’s shoved his hands in his pockets and is already standing and sliding away from me.

“Nah, it’s all right. Next time, maybe. Hey…I won’t be in class this afternoon, so maybe just hit me up with whatever I missed?” he says, his eyes still low—low and sad. So unbelievably sad.

“Yeah. Sure, I’ll just send you a text later,” I say, keeping my focus on his face, the voice inside me begging him to look up, begging him to be okay. I feel like I’m holding the paddles to his chest, shouting “clear!” and counting over and over while I watch his life drift away. With his back against the door, Owen finally lifts his chin, and that same ice and hardness that was there the first time he looked at me is back, and he doesn’t bother to smile as he turns to leave.

“I’m not hungry,” I say, standing with my full tray and rushing to the trash. I follow Owen’s footsteps to the doorway, but after I dump my food and step onto the walkway outside, I’m only there in time to see his truck speed around the corner of the lot, out onto the roadway, the motor revving like it does when he races—when he runs away.

“Kens, I’m so sorry,” Willow says, her hand on my back feels like a knife.

“Just…don’t,” I say, jerking away. It’s not her fault, and I know that. But I don’t want to hear empty apologies. They won’t make me feel better. “It’s okay. I just didn’t want him to find out…like that. I’m just worried about him, that’s all.”

I turn to her and shrug, taking in a deep breath and exhaling slowly, trying to keep the mist in my eyes from forming full tears.

“You just didn’t want him to find out at all,” she says. I close my eyes and nod slowly. “It’s a small town, Kens. By dinnertime, everyone is going to know. That flyer I showed you this morning? There will be one on every tree in town, every business window, and probably everyone’s front door. He was bound to find out. And he’ll be okay.”

I let out a breathy laugh, my gaze falling to Willow’s feet first before shifting up to her eyes. “Owen is so far from okay, Willow,” I say, my chest crumbling with my admission, with hearing me talk aloud about Owen—the Owen I think I know—to someone else.

“You can’t hold him together,” she says, stepping an inch or two closer to me. She stops before she’s close enough to touch my hand. I think she can sense how fragile my spirit is right now—how volatile my emotions are—so she doesn’t say another word. Instead she goes back into the cafeteria to join our table of friends, where I’m sure they’ll analyze everything that just went down.

Ryan will stand up for Owen though. And I’m thankful for that.

As promised, Owen skipped classes for the rest of the day. He missed the following day as well. I texted him both nights, giving him the basic points he missed and due dates for assignments. But I didn’t hear back from him. And his house was dark both nights, his truck never once appearing in the driveway.

I never saw Andrew, but I’m sure Owen stopped in for his brother, somehow getting him to school and bringing him home. But I have no proof. The hoop has been silent out front too. In fact, I wouldn’t be shocked if Ryan told me that Owen packed up after our last conversation and skipped town. I think part of me was trying to convince myself of that lie. But now I’m confronted with an entirely different truth—the truth where Owen is back outside on the lunch tables with his friends, and another girl is sitting on his lap, his tongue on her ear.

“I told you he’d be okay,” Willow says, and even though she’s trying to couch it like she’s trying to make me feel better—what she’s really doing is saying “I told you so” about Owen being Owen and going back to his cruel and hurtful ways.

“Looks like it,” I say, not giving her—or Owen—the satisfaction of looking up from my lunch.

I eat slowly, and I turn my profile to the side, keeping Owen just in my sight’s reach, but I deny myself every temptation of looking his direction. I know he wants me to see him. I know that’s why he’s out there, making this spectacle just for me. And I know he’s doing it because something else hurts.

But fuck him. I have no role in what happened to him years ago. And he’s not going to use it as an excuse for being an asshole.

Jess is talking about the parade Saturday, and Elise keeps switching the conversation to the rides she’s seen coming into town. I’m not sure about hooking myself into something that arrives by truck in the middle of the night, and is disassembled minutes after the carnival closes, but I remain rapt in Elise’s conversation, pretending I’ll ride anything and everything she wants.