“Who hit you?”
“Connor Tunstall.” The words are almost pulled out of my mouth against my will. Owen just unloaded this monumental life secret and it feels awful to keep one from him.
“Why?”
“I took Maegan to a party at his house last night. He was being a dick, so I punched him.” I pause. If I mention the earrings out loud, it makes the theft real. I take a breath. “Connor was waiting in my bedroom when I got home.” I glance his way. “He still had a key.”
Owen says nothing.
I fix my eyes on the windshield. “You want me to get out so you can take a swing, too?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
His answer surprises me.
Even more so when he says, “You want to come in and play Xbox?”
“I thought … never mind. I’ll come in.” I turn the key and the engine dies.
He still doesn’t move. “You thought what?”
“I don’t know.” And I don’t.
He shrugs. “Then come on.”
Owen’s mother is drying dishes when we walk in, and she stops when she sees me.
“Rob,” she says warmly. “I was hoping I’d see you again.”
“Stop it,” says Owen. He breaks off two bananas from a bunch on the counter and tosses one at me.
“What are you boys up to?”
I have to remind myself that she’s suing my family. That my dad screwed her over. That she doesn’t really know who I am, because if she did, she wouldn’t be smiling at me.
I’m a thief. I’m a thief. I’m a thief.
I break open the banana, glad for something to do with my hands. “We went for a run.”
“It’s cold out for running.”
“That’s why we’re inside to play Xbox.” Owen turns away from her and heads toward the narrow staircase.
I follow him, very aware of Mrs. Goettler’s eyes on me.
I’m worried she’s put two and two together somehow, and she’s going to start throwing knives at my back, until she says, “Leave your bedroom door open,” in a knowing voice.
“He’s straight, Mom,” Owen calls. “Give it up.”
In his room, he shuts the door.
His bedroom is tiny, with a twin bed and a narrow dresser in the corner. He’s got a desk under the window, with a small television taking up half of it. His Xbox is up here today, and he switches it on, then tosses me a controller.
His door opens almost immediately. Despite the fact that I’m standing in the middle of Owen’s room, my cheeks catch on fire.
I expect her to yell, but she says gently, “I said open, boys.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
Owen rolls his eyes. She leaves.
“Your mom is really friendly,” I say as he turns on the television.
“She’s great usually.” He slides a disk into the player. “She started crying when I brought her the shoes.” We had them delivered to an anonymous Amazon locker. His eyes flick up to meet mine, and his voice drops. “I told her I had been saving up for a Christmas present.”
He doesn’t sound happy about that. “Do you regret doing it?”
He swallows and glances at the door. “I regret her thinking I saved it.”
“Lexi won’t even know the money is gone.”
“I know.” He gives a half-hearted laugh. “I can’t imagine dropping a hundred bucks on shoes without thinking about it. Without even noticing.”
The words stick in my brain. Mrs. Tunstall isn’t even going to notice her missing earrings, and those cost a lot more than a hundred dollars.
The game loads. I press buttons on my controller to select my player, then drop beside him to sit on the edge of the bed. We play in silence for a little while.
I’m still struggling with the morality of it all. Dad stole for himself. For us, indirectly, but really, the money was for him. For his image, for his enjoyment, for whatever he wanted. I stole the money with Owen, but his mom needed the shoes. Lexi won’t miss it. If I sell the earrings and use the money to help other people, Mrs. Tunstall won’t miss them. Does that make a difference? That one person can afford it, but another one can’t? I don’t know. My father stole from people who couldn’t afford it.
That is clearly wrong.
I don’t know where the line is, though.
“Can I ask you a weird question?” I say finally as I’m watching his character leave mine in the dust.
“Sure.”
“How do you have an Xbox?”
He presses a button and the screen goes still, and he swings his head around to look at me. His eyes are dark and angry, and I wish I could suck the question back into my mouth.
Owen sighs and turns back to the television without saying anything. He presses a button. Continues playing.
“Owen—”
“Stop.” His voice is clipped. “I’m thinking.”
I wait.
Eventually, he pauses the game again and gets up. He roots through his narrow closet and fishes out two game boxes. One is for a basketball video game that was hot a few years ago. The other is something I don’t recognize. He slides them together in his hands and drops into his desk chair, blocking the television.
“When I was thirteen,” he says, his voice low, “Mom got the Xbox off Craigslist for fifty bucks.”
My throat feels tight.
“When I was fourteen,” he says, “Mom had saved up some money for Christmas. Not much, but a little. The car broke down on her way home from work, though, and all that money had to fix the car. She had to max out her credit card, too.” He hesitates. “It was fine. Like, I get it. I didn’t believe in Santa. She’s got to work if we’re going to eat, right?”
My shoulders are tense. I asked for this, but I don’t like what I got. At the same time, I feel like I deserve to hear this. I force myself to hold his gaze.
Owen’s gaze flicks to the door, and his voice drops further. “She felt bad, though. She signed up for one of those Christmas Angel things. You know, where you list a few things you want, and some nice person buys them for you. It’s all anonymous. Mom wrote two things on the list: a winter coat, and Xbox games.”
My eyes go to the games in his hands. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t—I didn’t—”
He thrusts them at me. “Check them out. They were the hottest games that year. New games are like sixty bucks. Pretty generous, right?”
I take them from his hands, though I don’t want to. “Yeah.”
“Those cases were brand new when I got them. Before that, I only had two games, so I was pretty stoked.”
“Sure.”
“Open them up. Check out how awesome the games are.”
I don’t want to open them. They’re empty. I can feel they’re empty. I can see where this is going. “Owen—”
“Open them!”
I hold my breath and open them.
They’re not empty.
No game discs. Just a note inside each.
Get a job and buy your own presents.
I’m frozen, staring at the line of neatly printed text inside each box.
“You know what kills me?” says Owen. “The boxes were brand new. Even had the tape over the edge. Whoever did that actually went to the store to buy them and took out the disks to prove a point.” He snatches them out of my hand and slams them closed. “He probably had the same thought you did. ‘How’s this poor kid have an Xbox?’ ”
“No, Owen, I didn’t—”
“Come on.” The look he gives me could wither stronger men than me.
The problem is, he’s right. I remember hearing similar comments around Dad’s office when I was interning last Christmas, and the family we anonymously “adopted” asked for a Blu-ray player. Who do these people think they are?
“My mom works sixty hours a week,” says Owen. “I can’t drive, and we don’t live where I can easily get a job.”
My throat is so tight that it’s making my chest hu
rt. “I don’t know what to say.”
He must not either, because he sits there silently.
His mom walks by the door, carrying a basket of laundry, and she must pick up on the tension, because she hesitates in the hallway. “You boys okay?”
“We’re great.” Owen’s tone is flat and even.
All of a sudden, being here feels cruel. Like I’m taking advantage. Was I so desperate for company that I latched on to the last person in the world who should want to spend time with me? His situation was already crap, and then my father flushed it down the toilet.
This is worse than hiding in Mr. London’s office.
I stand and turn for the door without looking at Owen. “I need to go home.”
Mrs. Goettler stops me in the hallway, putting a hand on my arm. “What happened? Rob, are you all right?”
I can’t take her kindness. Not now.
“I’m Rob Lachlan,” I say. “Junior.”
Her expression shifts as the impact of this sinks in. She lets go of my arm. Takes a step back.
I can’t meet her eyes. “I’m sorry.” My voice cracks. “I shouldn’t—I’m sorry.” I turn and fly down the stairs. The door barely makes me pause. My car is at the end of the block, and bitter wind whips at my eyes, stinging with censure.
I’m almost to the Jeep when feet slap the pavement behind me. “Hey,” says Owen, nearly breathless.
I don’t look at him. “I already gave you a chance to punch me.”
“Rob. Stop. Look—wait, are you crying?”
“No.” I swipe at my face and turn away. I am. Great; this can be doubly humiliating.
“Stop.” He grabs my sleeve. “Stop. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone off on you like that.”
I give half a laugh. “You’re sorry? Owen, I ruined your life.”
He doesn’t let go of me. “No. You didn’t. Your father didn’t, either.”
“Come on.”
“I mean, not directly. She’d finally built up a little savings, and a friend told her your dad could help—” I grimace, and he breaks off. “We weren’t living on it. It was just …” He frowns. “For a minute I forgot you’re not you anymore.”
What a loaded statement. I sniff and look away from him. “Oh good.”
“I hate when people ask things like that. It’s not you. It’s—it’s everything.”
“I’m sorry.” His hand is still fixed on my sleeve. “I’ll go. Okay? Just let me go.”
“You don’t have to go.”
I glance back at his house. The curtain is pulled partially to the side, though I can’t see Mrs. Goettler. “I’m pretty sure your mom hates me.”
“Mom doesn’t hate anyone.”
“I saw her face.”
“She was surprised. I was going to tell her. I didn’t want to hurt her—”
Hurt her. “I get it. Just let me go, okay?”
His grip on my sleeve doesn’t loosen. “Rob. What I said. That wasn’t—that wasn’t about you.”
“It was about who I used to be.”
Owen’s face goes still, and I wonder if he’s realizing I’m right. I expect him to let me go and turn away.
Instead, he screws up his expression and says, “Maybe? Not really? You can’t be so different.”
I think of my father, probably sitting in his chair in the family room, drooling all over himself while the television blares Sesame Street. I think of my mother and the sudden appearance of wine bottles.
I think of myself adjusting the feeding pump under Connor’s judgmental eyes. “I’m different, Owen.”
“Yeah, well, I like who you are now.”
It’s more than I can take. Especially after everything with Maegan, with Connor, with Owen’s mom just now. My throat closes up and my eyes burn. I press my free hand to my face.
Owen lets out a breath. “Dude.”
His hand releases my sweatshirt, and I swipe at my eyes, ready to bolt.
Instead, he wraps me up in a hug. It’s so unexpected that I can’t even get it together to pull away. I don’t want to pull away. I lean against him and try to steady my breathing.
“Still friends?” he says.
“You deserve a better friend than me.” My voice sounds like it’s coming out of a sniveling toddler.
“I’ll take what I can get.” His voice drops. “Though it’s going to be tough to get Mom to believe you’re straight if she’s seeing this.”
That makes me laugh, and I draw back.
Owen’s eyes are repentant, lit with a touch of concern. So different from Connor’s eyes last night. “I shouldn’t have gotten all over your case. You just asked me a question.”
“I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, you should. Mom always says we shouldn’t hide from questions. People who ask want to know the answer. It’s different from people who judge without asking.” His expression sobers. “I guess that applies to you, too. Everyone thinks you’re a thief, but you’re not. Not really.”
It’s a generous statement. Much like everything else about Owen, I’m not sure I deserve it.
Looking into his eyes, I know he would have answered my call after I found my father. No doubt about it.
“I stole earrings.” The words fall out of my mouth in a rush.
“What?”
“I stole earrings.”
“You what?”
“I stole earrings. From Connor’s house. His mom had left them on the side of the hot tub. She won’t even know they’re gone. I don’t know why I did it.” I rake my hands back through my hair. “I guess—I thought—I wanted to do something to hurt them … but I also want to do something to help someone else. Like the girl you gave the forty dollars to. Or your mom.”
His eyes are big as saucers. “You … you stole—”
“Yes. I did. They’re in my glove compartment.”
“How much are they worth?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“Come on.”
“Like, at least two thousand dollars.” I grimace. “I am a thief.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
We’re quiet again. My heart is hammering blood through my veins.
“You’re not stealing for you, though,” Owen finally says. “You didn’t even keep the ten bucks you threw at me that day.”
“I’m still stealing.”
“Yeah, but it’s different.”
“How?”
“Your dad was stealing from people who couldn’t afford it. He was doing it to put money in his own pocket. That makes him like … like the Sheriff of Nottingham.”
I roll my eyes. “And what? I’m Robin Hood?”
“Yes!” He claps me on the shoulder and grins. “Because that makes me Will Scarlet.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Maegan
I brush eyeshadow across my lids, wishing I was as skilled at this as Samantha is.
She’s still not talking to me. She hasn’t left her room all weekend. Mom’s been bringing her meals.
My phone lights up with a call. It’s Rob.
I give a startled yip and almost knock the phone off my vanity. I slide the bar to answer, my heart in my throat. “Hello?”
“Hey.”
He has the sexiest voice in the history of time. I have no idea how I’ve never noticed that before. I nearly melt out of my chair.
“Maegan?” he says.
So much for being cool. “Yeah! Yes. I’m here. Sorry.”
“I can’t go out tonight.”
I freeze. His voice may be sexy, but I can’t tell what this means.
“I’m sorry,” he says in a rush. “I didn’t think. Mom never goes anywhere, so I didn’t think it would be a big deal. But she’s got plans with friends from work, and we can’t … my dad can’t be left here alone.”
“It’s okay.”
“I wanted to catch you before you left. I really had no idea.”
An edge hides under his voice, but
I can’t figure it out. “You sound upset.”
“It’s been a long day.” He takes a breath. “I was hoping to get out of here for a little while.”
I inhale—but my answer stalls.
“What?” he says. His voice is flat, as if he expects something bad, and he’s resigned to it.
“I could come there,” I say.
Absolute silence in response.
“I don’t have to,” I continue. “I don’t want to invite myself over. I don’t—I don’t want to put you in a weird position.”
“My whole life is a weird position.”
“Yeah. Well.” I fidget. He says nothing. “It’s fine. I shouldn’t have invited myself—”
“He might freak you out.” Rob speaks in a rush. “I don’t—sometimes he’s fine, but sometimes he’s a mess, or he’ll get upset, or it’s—”
“Rob. Rob, stop. It’s okay. It’s fine.”
He takes a long breath. “Okay.”
“I mean, all of that is okay with me.” I hesitate. “You don’t have to hide your dad.”
He gives a low, humorless laugh. “You’re wrong about that.”
“Do you want me to come over?”
He’s so quiet. I wish I knew what happened between last night and this morning.
“Rob?” I whisper.
“I feel like I shouldn’t be allowed to say yes,” he says quietly.
I swallow. “Then don’t. Text me your address. I’ll break in.”
I hang up the phone.
For the longest time, the screen is blank. I don’t think he’s going to text me anything at all.
Finally, after an eternity, the phone chimes.
Rob’s house is massive. His driveway curves through half an acre of trees that give way to a large clearing where a tall blue Craftsman-style home sits. His front porch runs the length of the house, with narrow square pillars supporting an overhang, gas lamps glowing on each one. The gabled roofs would be amazing with Christmas lights. The three-car garage looks like it must have once been detached, but a short, blue-sided section connects it to the main building now.
When I step out of the car, I can’t stop staring. I expected a McMansion like Connor’s, but even in the dark, it’s gorgeous. A house from a magazine or a catalog.
The front door swings open, and Rob steps out, completing the photoshoot image. He’s wearing a blue cable-knit sweater and jeans. His feet are bare.
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