Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2) (18 page)

It’s that one thing she said that drums in my head when I close my eyes. It was in there, with all of those other things she said. But it’s that one thing that hit my ears as if she were assaulting me with her words. That one phrase, it felt important, and I was too angry to stop and acknowledge it, to question it further.

One question, really.

Don’t you know, Emma? Don’t you know where I went?

“
I
’m scared
,” I say under the comfort of my mom’s hand on my forehead. I won’t admit this in front of my dad. As strong as he is, I’m his weakness. My mom—she’s the one who can handle life’s imperfect parts, but my dad, he doesn’t like to know I have nightmares or misgivings or regrets.

“It’s okay to be scared,” she says, her smile soft. “But…” she scoots in closer to me on the bed, moving the long tubes and cords out of our way, “it’s also okay to be hopeful. And excited. And driven, or curious, or the millions of other things you get to feel now.”

Her eyes are teary, but I know it’s not because she’s scared. She’s happy. We’ve all waited for this day for so long. I’m getting a new heart. In an hour, I will be taken through those doors I’ve envisioned in my head, put to sleep, cut open—and a miracle will happen.

I will be a miracle.

A few nurses come in to take vitals and check on me. My mom steps out of the way, but she keeps her hand on mine as they work around us. I’m glad. The moment she lets go, I know the trembling will start.

I’m scared. But I’m hopeful too.

I’ll be able to do so many things—things I always dreamt of. I’ll be able to skate again. Maybe…maybe I’ll find Andrew?

“Hey, Mom?” I tug on her hand, and she leans down to give me attention while the nurses finish their prep work.

“Have you heard from Andrew’s mom yet? Dad said he found her number and left her a message. Have you…did he…or did they ever call back?”

It’s been six weeks since Andrew was taken away in the back of a squad car. The officers that drove me home after the accident told my parents very little. But they said enough. Andrew was taken in for possession and driving under the influence. None of what they said made sense with the Andrew I knew—or the Andrew I was with all night. He wasn’t acting weird, and I didn’t smell any alcohol or see any drugs or smell marijuana. But maybe you can’t see those things?

I guess he couldn’t see my problems either. My heart was broken, but in Andrew’s mind, it pumped blood and beat just as his own.

I waited to hear from him. I waited for nearly a week, figuring he was probably in trouble for the accident and for the possession charge. From what I could figure out online, he likely got some community service. And he probably lost his license until he’s eighteen. He’s a minor, so I can’t find his court-hearing record online. But he said he would be okay, and he knew what he was doing. He promised, and that’s the only reason I let him do what he did.

Every night, I expected to hear him below my window. I’d sit there and look out at the long roadway leading up to my house, waiting to see him. Maybe he’d walk, or maybe he’d drive even though he wasn’t supposed to.

He never came.

“Mom?” She’s paying attention to a conversation with a group of nurses, but shakes her head and looks back at me.

“Sorry, I was trying to see when they were taking you,” she smiles.

“Andrew?” I remind her.

Her smile stays in place, but even though her mouth doesn’t move, the meaning of her smile—it changes.

“Did Dad talk to him? Is he okay?” I try to sit up, but my mom holds my arm and shakes her head and chuckles at me.

“Honey, no, nothing like that,” she says. I liked it better when I was excited, when I thought my dad saw Andrew. “He heard from his mom. And he’s going to live somewhere else for a while. With a relative, I think. He has some things he needs to work through. Drugs…Em, whatever he has going on, it’s serious.”

I swallow and watch her face for a clue that she has more to say. She brushes a few pieces of my hair back and straightens my eyebrow by running her finger along it—a doting thing she’s done since I was a kid. And after a few seconds, I realize that’s all the information she has.

Andrew left. No goodbye or letter or stone at my window. Just some secondhand hint that he has a drug problem and “things to work through,” and I just can’t quite buy the full story. There’s something missing, something I’m not being told.

But if Andrew really wanted me to know, he’d tell me.

“Well hello, Emma,” Dr. Wheaton says, practically glowing like an angel as she passes through my room door. She’s in scrubs; I like this look even more than the white coat she wears normally or the business suits she has for our monthly meetings at her office in the city. Everything else goes silent the moment she arrives. The chaos stops—no more Andrew, or machines beeping, and the sound of privacy curtain rings dragging open and bed guardrails flipping up. It’s all gone. All I see is Dr. Miranda Wheaton’s smile, the same one that made me a promise six months ago that this day would come.

It’s here.

My heart—it’s here.

T
he potatoes are good
. If nothing else, my mother’s garlic mashed potatoes are so goddamned good, I’ve been able to drown myself in helping after helping, which has somehow kept much of the conversation off me.

Not entirely—just
mostly.
There was that brief moment when I came in and Mom was finishing up in the kitchen where she went through the list of things I need to pay for this month; the bill for spring tuition is due, and my insurance is apparently going up…again. Not that I ever get to drive. My car has been sitting in the apartment storage garage since the accident, the damage to the wheel well just enough to throw the alignment to shit. It’s fixable, but just like everything else in my life, it costs money.

“I hate you; I hope you know,” Kensi whispers in my ear, leaning into me while my mom, Dwayne and Owen talk about Germany more. I stop eating, my fork stuck in my mouth as I turn my head sideways and look at her, taken off guard by those words.

“Wha?” I say, mouth stuffed full like a chipmunk.

Her serious face breaks slowly into a smile.

“If I ate like you did, my ass would be so fat. It’s not fair, and I hate you for it,” she says.

“Oh,” I grin, laughing with my full mouth. I swallow my last bite, stand, and pick up my plate and hers to take them to the kitchen. She follows me, and I hear Owen’s steps coming behind her. I’m too full to eat any more, so I guess I should take his last lecture before he leaves the country. I ready myself for a litany of reminders not to fuck up, be good to Mom, and never trust House, but the lecture doesn’t come. Instead, he leans silent on the counter opposite me as I rinse the dishes and slip them into the dishwasher.

I pick up the towel, sensing he’s still staring at me, and finally give in. “What is it?” I sigh.

He chuckles, his arms crossed over his chest, finally nodding his head to follow him outside. I narrow my eyes, but toss the towel on the counter behind me and move toward the door, pausing for Owen to slip on his jacket. Kensi follows us both out the door, and I notice she’s shivering by the time we step down the stairs and begin to head toward the parking lot. Today’s the coldest it’s been this fall.

“Here,” I say, pulling my sweatshirt from over my head and tossing it to her.

“Thanks,” she smiles, putting it on without hesitating. I shove my hands in my pockets to keep warm in just my black T-shirt.

“Why do you always have to make me look like a dick in front of my girlfriend?” Owen says, pulling his jacket off and handing it to Kensi. She laughs and shrugs it away.

“I don’t need it now. I’m good in Andrew’s sweatshirt,” she teases.

“Seriously? He’s all skinny and shit. My jacket’s warmer.” I think he might actually have hurt feelings over this. He doesn’t sound like he’s joking, and I think…shit…I think he might be pissed. I look at Kensi, and we both purse our lips, trying to remain composed. It doesn’t last long as I practically spit out the laugh I’m holding in.

“You’re such a pussy, O. I haven’t been skinny in four years. In fact, I’m pretty sure I could kick your ass without working up a sweat now—so don’t distract from the fact that I’m a bigger gentleman to your girlfriend with some false illusion that I’m still just a kid. I haven’t been a kid for a long time now. Maybe you’re just an insensitive dick who needs to pay more attention to her,” I say. My words somehow fell into bitterness. I’m not sure how or why, but it’s too late now. Nobody quite knows how to respond, either. We’re all standing in the parking lot caught in the cone-of-awkward-silence I just plopped on top of us.

Owen looks down at his jacket in his hand, then glances sideways to Kensi, who shrugs at him. He lets out a breath of a laugh, then looks back up to me, pointing at me while he puts his jacket back on.

“You are going to take that shit back in about fifteen seconds,” he says, his mouth in a hard line.

I shake my head and whisper, “Whatever.” It’s easier than apologizing.

Owen walks to my mom and Dwayne’s storage garage and punches in the code, and I step forward to stand next to Kensi while the door lifts. I feel better standing next to her, especially when I’ve done something wrong. And I did—do something wrong. My brother didn’t deserve any of that. I’m just in a mood; one I can’t shake. That’s not an excuse to shit on him, though.

“Insensitive dick, huh?” he says, tossing a key at me as he gestures toward my car with his other hand. I let my eyes move from his to the keys in my hand, and it clicks with me instantly. I practically trip over myself as I step to the driver’s side front tire—to the side of the car, the bumper, the front door, the paint—it’s perfect.

“Shit, O!” I run my fingers along the side of the car as I kneel down. “Turns out
I’m
the insensitive dick. When…how? This must have cost a fortune!”

“It wasn’t cheap,” Owen says. Kensi moves to stand behind me, putting her hand on my shoulder as I stay crouched down, looking at my reflection in the black sheen of the paint. It looks better than it did before Emma and I wrecked it.

Before Emma wrecked it.

I force that thought away, instead wanting to focus on the good things happening right now. I look up at Kensi, and she nudges her head sideways toward my brother, raising her eyebrows. That selfless fucker did this for me.

Damn.

I stand slowly, leaving my gaze on what is probably my most prized possession for a little longer before turning my focus to my brother. Owen simply smiles, raising his shoulders, his hands never leaving the pockets of his jacket while he owns his good deed.

“O, I…I’m sorry,” I say. There’s quiet between us for a few long seconds, and I let it take us over so I can stand still for once in my life and appreciate what I have—appreciate my brother.

“It’s no sweat. You deserve something nice; I’m still proud of you,” he says. “Just as proud as I’ve always been. Maybe…maybe a little more, even.”

I pinch my brow and gaze down at the keys, my keys, in my hand. I haven’t held these keys with an intention of using them in years. Tonight, I’m driving home on my own. No cab for me.

“Why a
little more
?” I ask, curious how anyone could be proud of me lately.

“Because when shit got hard, you found another gear. It isn’t easy,” he says, his eyes zeroing in on mine. Owen and I never really talk about James. In fact, we never really
have
talked about our late brother—about what happened, about James’s addiction and suicide. But we don’t have to say words—the scar is there for both of us, different but the same, and we can see it in each other’s eyes. James was hurting, in his own way, and Owen and I are hell bent on never letting each other feel that helpless. We lost James, and the loss is going to stop there.

I move to Owen and reach for his hand, gripping it when he puts his palm out for me to shake. When our hands meet, I move closer to hug him firmly, feeling the tightness I’ve been carrying around in my chest release just a little, simply from holding my brother close.

“Thanks, O. So much,” I say over his shoulder, my voice hoarse. His hand on my back brings me peace. “I’m gonna miss you.”

“Me too, bro. Me, too,” he says, patting me hard on the back a few times before we both let go for good.

“I’ll pay you back,” I say, looking back to my keys again, still a little stunned that my car, my baby, is back and running and beautiful again. Owen starts to chuckle.

“I don’t want you to pay me back, but there’s one thing you can do,” he says, pulling Kensi into his side, hugging her and moving his hand up and down her still-cold arms. I shrug at him with a questioning look. “You can quit hitting on my girlfriend with your
oh, I’m a gentleman, here take my shirt and…oh…did you see my abs?
move.”

I smirk as he mocks me, then start to laugh hard when the words he just said finally hit me.

“Dude…my abs? Really? Jealous much?” I look to Kensi, who’s laughing too. Owen’s eyebrows are raised, but he’s not laughing like we are—so we both try our best to stop. “Got it. Okay. No more abs or winter-wear for Kensi. Done. Kens?”

She looks at me.

“You’re gonna need to start bringing your own jacket to things and opening your own car doors and junk, ’cuz…well…you know he’s not going to do any of it,” I say, laughing halfway through as I needle my brother for the last time until he comes back from Europe in a year. He steps forward and pushes me off balance, but his right cheek rises with his grin.

T
oday was
the first in a long time that everything in me felt right. It was certainly the first in many trips home that I returned to my apartment without feeling like a failure. Mom was easy on me—minus the few reminders about financial responsibilities—and Dwayne was…Dwayne. He’s always neutral, which I suppose I can’t blame him for. He has to be on our mom’s side, but Owen and I make difficult enemies. He really can’t win.

I think what really made the world shift for me today though was the feeling of driving myself back home—in my car. I was careful, always right at the speed limit, several lengths away from the cars in front of or behind me. Nothing was going to touch my car. No scratches, no dings. Not even the threat of a hard break to throw the alignment out of whack.

She sang for me on the highway as I drove home in the late afternoon sun. The engine purred with every mile, the rumble of the road below me, and the angry tires still with plenty of tread, gripped the road. One day soon—when I’m comfortable again—I’m going to take her out in the country and open her up.

For now, though, I think I’ll just enjoy driving her with the same amount of zeal that my grandfather would have behind the wheel.

Nice and easy.

Trent is leaving, locking up our front door as I pull up to park along the sidewalk, revving the engine until he can’t help but turn around.

I leave the motor running and step out to look at him over the top of the car, my hands flat on the surface, loving it like it’s a woman.

“Please say you did not steal that,” he says, rolling a basketball from one hand to the other as he steps closer, admiring. This car demands attention, and I can tell it’s won over Trent’s heart just as it does every person with a penis.

“Ha ha, very funny. O fixed it up for me. Where you headed? I’ll give you a ride,” I say, twirling the keys like a teenager who just got his license. I might as well be.

Trent’s mouth quirks into a half grin, his eyes still on the shape of the car.

“Yeah, a’right. I’m going to shoot at the rec center. You wanna come?” He opens the door, letting out a soft whistle as he feels the weight of it as it swings wide. The car still needs some fixes—the interior is still a little rough and it could use an upgrade on the air conditioning and stereo system, but the body and the engine are levels beyond what I ever thought I would get them to.

I slide in and shut my door as Trent climbs in.

“I’m not up for shooting, but I’ll drive. I’ll take us to practice tomorrow too,” I say, pulling out slowly on our small side road.

“Fuck that shit, you’ll drive us everywhere from now on,” he says, looking in his side mirror. “Though…are you always going to drive like a fucking old woman?”

“Yes,” I say quickly, glancing to him, but only for a second. Eyes back on the road. “Yes I am.”

He chuckles, and I look both ways at the stop sign, checking my mirror for a sign of anyone behind us before I rev the engine once more and let the tires squeal just enough to give us a good jump off the line. I cut us off when I hit forty and back it down quickly to senior-citizen pace, but the thrill I feel from punching the gas, just a tiny bit, lets me know this careful habit—it won’t last forever.

“Hey, so that Harley dude from the gym stopped by earlier, said he tried calling you, but couldn’t get through,” Trent says. I pull my phone out and slide it on my lap, not looking until we hit the red light before the main road to campus. My phone was low when I left for my mom’s this morning; it must have died in the middle of the day.

“Did he say anything?”

My mind goes right to the list of bills I have due and the pathetic double-digit dollar amount I have in the bank right now. I don’t get paid for the before-school program until Friday, and even then, five hours of morning coloring with five-year-olds isn’t going to make a dent in my tuition bill. I’m not due to fight for him until later this month, but the thought that maybe he could use me a little earlier has me driving faster so I can say
yes
before he asks someone else.

“Nah. He just told me to tell you to stop by when you got home. He’s a weird dude,” Trent says. “He seems young to own a gym.”

“Yeah, but it’s not a very nice gym,” I say.

Trent’s never been. I’m pretty sure if he saw the sketchy warehouse set-up I spend time in, he’d start to question my sanity more than he does now. As scary as the gym is though, Harley is just the opposite. He comes off as a preppy young businessman from money, and that’s because that’s exactly what he is—on the outside. But he’s also connected, with people who help him make things happen, people who make large bets with him, and sometimes, for him—and the money always flows. If there’s ever a kink in the system, Harley makes sure it’s taken care of. He might dress like a lawyer, but he’s built like a fighter.

And when I do him a favor, I
always
get paid.

“Nice gym or not, junior Wall Street freaks me out a little,” he says as I pull up to the drop-off for the rec center on campus. Trent steps out onto the lighted walkway, girls in yoga pants and tank tops walk along behind him with mats rolled under their arms. I laugh to myself at how different this gym is from the one I’m about to drive to.

“I’ll be okay,
Mom,
” I yell through the open window.

Trent rolls his eyes, then starts dribbling as he turns and heads toward the building. As a new group of girls passes the car, I wait to see if they notice, glance my direction, take in the ride, and wonder about the driver. Only one of them does though, and not for long. Their attention is focused on my roommate about twenty feet ahead of them. As nice as my car is, it’s still nothing compared to the Captain America of hockey.