I want her but I don’t. I’m attracted to her though I shouldn’t be. I’m high, and it’s not just from the weed.
I’m also high on Chelsea.
Chelsea
He’s pushing through his assignments way quicker than I thought he would. I knew Owen was smart. I’d studied his student file well enough to see he just lacked focus or flat-out didn’t apply himself. His past grades reflected that. Going to college does that to a person. It’s all so much, sometimes too much, and students either thrive or they fail.
I’d thrived. The structure, the complexity of the courses, all of it had given me such a rush I’d dived right into my classes headfirst and never looked back. No one cared how old I was here; none of my past mattered. I could blend in, become someone new, someone free.
But I’m not free. I’m still tied to the guilt of my mother and the anger with my father. Deep down inside, I’m still a scared, too-smart-for-her-own-good little girl who’s afraid to really live for fear she’ll get hurt.
Boys are trouble, my mom would say. Then they grow up to be men and become even more trouble. Stick with yourself, sweetie. Count on only you. Everyone else will just disappoint you.
Mom had whispered those words of so-called wisdom to me when I was fifteen. The year before I graduated high school. I’d known there was trouble in my parents’ marriage. From the time I was eleven, when I became privy to a secret phone call between my dad and one of his mistresses, I knew he was unfaithful to Mom.
He didn’t love her. And if he didn’t love her, he didn’t love me. That’s what I believed at fifteen. I would listen to Mom talk about how awful men were, how bad they treated women. She would talk that way when she was mad at him, when she knew he was cheating on her.
Then he’d sweet-talk her, convince her she was the only one for him, and she’d change her tune. Her reaction to him, the constant push and pull between them, left me a confused mess most of the time, especially over boys and relationships.
I don’t really talk to my dad. He’s tried. He’s called me a few times, but I always hang up when I hear the recorded message from the jail. He has to know I don’t want to have contact with him.
When Mom was in one of her moods, working me over, she told me I needed to do right by my father and stand by him. So right before he was convicted for his crime last year, I’d gone to visit him in jail. He’d promised me he would get out. He’d be acquitted. He’d been so sure, so convincing, I believed him.
I’d gone home and begged my mom to let me go to court. I wanted to watch. Wanted to be there when he was set free and we could celebrate together. She told me no. Her excuse? I was too young and might not be able to handle it.
I’d been so confused, so devastated, I hid away in my room, crying into my pillow, believing that my mom didn’t understand. Why would she ask me to stand by him and then tell me I couldn’t go to court? It made no sense.
Now I’m glad I wasn’t there. He’d been found guilty. I heard they carted him back to jail and he’d been in a state of utter shock, Mom wailing the entire time.
Men can’t be trusted, Mom said before I left for college this last summer. But you already know this. You’re doing such a good job, sweetheart. Keep focusing on your schoolwork. Get your degree, find a career that is fulfilling. Then you can worry about a husband and babies, if that’s what you really want.
She’d said the last bit with such resignation, I wondered if Mom would prefer I become a lesbian rather than find a good man to settle down with. That had been during her down-with-men stage. The one she still clung to. It’s sort of funny, considering she hadn’t believed me when I came to her with my lesbian declaration.
Sitting next to Owen, I wonder what Mom would think if I became involved with him. What would she say if I brought him home and introduced him as my boyfriend? She’d probably tell me to run. I would tell me to run. His home life sounds chaotic. He has drug issues. Drinking issues. School issues. All sorts of issues.
He is an issue … for me. I’m drawn to him despite all the arguments that war inside my too busy, overthinking brain. All the danger signs that I usually bow to, I’m ignoring. Instead I’m just blazing on, fascinated by every little thing he does and says. He’s sitting next to me at the table, concentrating on whatever assignment he’s completing while he stares at his laptop, and I’m preparing a lesson plan for one of the students I’ll meet with tomorrow.
We consumed the Chinese food as soon as it arrived, and I was inordinately pleased by how much he liked it. He raved on, eating enthusiastically while my appetite slowly vanished, replaced with a battlement of butterflies fluttering in my stomach. He makes me nervous in the most delicious, oh-my-God-I-want-him kind of way.
And I’ve never wanted any guy. Never felt that instant connection with one, either. I always figured I’d want someone like … me. Steady and patient and smart. Quiet and shy and kind of nerdy.
Owen is seemingly none of those things. He’s gorgeous and sexy and charismatic. Tall and broad and athletic. Says what he wants and does what he wants—goes after what he wants. He acts like he can do anything.
Is it wrong that I wish he wanted to do me? God, I can feel my cheeks heat just thinking it, let alone I could never say something like that out loud, especially to his face.
I’m a complete weenie. I’ve coasted my entire life in this sort of subexistence. Not really noticed for anything beyond my brain and even then, I hide behind it. My father becomes the biggest scandal in my hometown—heck, in all of California—and still I hide. No one knows Chelsea Simmons.
I never wanted anyone to know me … until Owen.
Mom would think I’d completely lost my mind for even thinking something like this.
“Are you okay?”
His deep voice washes over me and I lift my head to find him watching me, his brows furrowed in concern though his mouth is quirked up on one side. Almost like he’s … laughing at me.
Wariness settles over me like deflective armor and I flick my gaze away from his, focusing on the textbook open in front of me but not really seeing the words. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
“You’ve been staring off into space for, like, the last five minutes at least.” When I look back at him, shock and horror rushing through my veins, he shrugs those impossibly broad shoulders, a sheepish expression on his face. “I was watching you.”
Now I’m gaping at him. He watched me? And just admitted it? “I was …”
“Lost in thought? You looked worried.” He reaches out toward me and I go completely still, my breath lodged in my lungs as he brushes his finger across my lower lip. “I was afraid you’d chew a hole through your lip.”
I want to die. Both at him touching me and at the fact that he called me out on my bad habit.
“I used to chew it so bad I’d make it bleed.” Okay, why did I just go and admit that?
He frowns. “You have that much to worry about?”
I want to laugh. He has no idea. “Kind of.” I need to play this off. “I’ve never really … fit in.” Seriously? Now I’m pointing out my lack of social skills? What is wrong with me?
“I find that hard to believe.” He looks surprised as he leans back in his chair. His T-shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of flat stomach, and my gaze automatically drops to that spot. “Why?”
I’m completely transfixed. There’s a trail of dark hair that starts just below his navel and disappears beneath his jeans. My mouth goes dry and I’m filled with the urge to trace it with my finger. “I’ve always been kind of a nerd. I kept getting tested and the schools kept moving me up a bunch of grades. I graduated high school when I was barely sixteen.”
“Really? So you’re like a genius? How old are you?”
“Almost nineteen. I’m a junior,” I say, knowing that’s going to be his next question.
“Wow. No wonder you’re a tutor.” He laughs and shakes his head. “You make me feel like a complete dumbass.”
&nbs
p; I should never have told him. I make everyone feel dumb when they realize what I’m capable of. And really? I’m not capable of much. I’m great at memorization. I have a photographic memory. I’m a fast reader. Big deal. “You’re not a dumbass,” I tell him, my voice gentle.
He settles his chair back onto all four legs, a giant grin on his face. “Did you just say what I think you said?”
“What do you mean?” Then I realize what he’s referring to and I roll my eyes. “Okay, fine, yes. I said a bad word.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say a bad word.” His grin widens and it’s downright irresistible. I can feel my mouth tremble at the corners, ready to break out into a smile. “I’ll have you saying fuck in no time.”
“No way.” I shake my head, my smile blooming despite what he’s saying. “That is like the worst word ever.”
“Not even. It’s more like the most versatile word ever. You can use it in so many ways.” He stretches his arms out, then curls them behind his head, elbows bent, hands linked at his nape. His biceps bulge against the sleeves of his T-shirt and my body goes all fluttery and weak.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, it can be an adjective, a verb, a noun. It’s fucking magical.” He laughs when I glare at him. “I’m dead serious.”
“Prove to me all its uses, then.” I may as well turn this into a lesson. I have to go soon and clearly I’m not going to get any more work done, with the way he’s looking at me, talking to me. My concentration is shot.
For once, I don’t really care.
“Well, it can be used as a noun. ‘Chelsea is smart as fuck.’”
Oh my God.
Is he really using it as a noun, though? Even if he’s not, I’m not going to argue with him.
“And then it can be used as an adverb. As in, ‘Chelsea is so fucking smart.’”
I want to laugh but I clamp my lips shut. He knows it, too. The look in his eyes is telling. He’s totally trying to get a reaction out of me but I refuse to give him one.
“Or it can be a verb. Like, ‘Owen really wants to fuck …’” His grin fades, his expression going from amused to sexy in a millisecond. He drops his arms to his sides and shrugs. “You know what I mean.”
Everything inside of me goes loose and damp. I do know what he means. But is he referring to me?
No way.
“Um, yeah,” I finally say, slamming my textbook shut. “I should, uh, really get going. I have to be at the diner soon.” I stand and start gathering all of my stuff, keeping my gaze averted from his. He gets up, too, grabbing our dirty plates and stacking them before he takes them into the kitchen. I watch his retreating back, my breaths coming fast, my heart racing.
There is no way he was talking about me being someone he really wants to … I can’t even think the word. I press my hands against my cheeks, can feel the heat emanating off my skin, and I wonder if he saw me blush.
I hope not.
He comes back toward the table, stopping right in front of me. Reaching out, he grips the top of the chair next to him with one hand, his fingers curled around the metal so tight his knuckles go white. “Did I offend you?”
“What?” I zip up my backpack and sling it over my shoulder before I turn to face him fully.
“With all my ‘fuck’ talk. Did that bother you? I was just teasing. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He looks remorseful, a little worried, as he flicks his gaze downward at the floor. His eyelashes are long and thick, and golden-brown stubble highlights all the places on his face where I want to touch him. When he lifts his lids to meet my gaze once more, I’m dazzled by the look in his gorgeous green eyes.
Then I remember what he said. What he’s trying to tell me without coming right out and saying it.
He didn’t mean anything by implying he wanted to … me. Heaven forbid he misled me in any way.
“I get it. Really.” I smile, but it feels forced. Like I’m baring my teeth or something. “Don’t forget to turn in your assignments tomorrow.”
I turn away from him and hurry toward the door, ready to make my escape. My heart pounds with my every quick step and I need to get out of here quickly. I can’t take this any longer.
Being in Owen’s presence messes with my head. He’s too much.
And I am definitely not enough.
“I won’t forget.” He’s right behind me, lightning quick, and he reaches out around me, grabbing hold of the handle so he can open the door for me. “I’m sorry, Chelsea, if I embarrassed you. I didn’t mean to.”
I stand there in the middle of the open doorway, closing my eyes for the briefest second as the sound of his voice saying my name washes over me. I really love it when he says my name. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t like anything about Owen Maguire. “You didn’t. I’m fine. I just … I need to go and get ready for work. Thanks for the Chinese food.”
And with those last, extremely lame words, I escape from his house as if the very devil were chasing me.
CHAPTER 8
Owen
“How’s the tutoring going? Are your grades picking up?” Fable asks, sounding distracted. I hear the baby coo in the background and I know she’s holding Autumn. Fable can’t seem to concentrate on just me anymore. She’s always multitasking and juggling a million things at once.
Sometimes, when I have these thoughts, I yearn for the old days. When it felt like it was just me and Fable against the world, doing whatever we had to do in order to survive. When I could take off and claim I was with Wade at his house when really the two of us were out fucking around. My biggest responsibility back then had been homework.
Oh, and taking care of Fable and my mom. That had always weighed heavily on my shoulders.
It still does.
“They are. I turned in a bunch of assignments at the end of last week.” I’d even been allowed to come to Saturday’s game, though they hadn’t let me play. I sat on the bench the entire time, suited up and ready to go out onto the field, but the coach wouldn’t let me.
I think he had me sit there to prove a point.
See what you can’t have?
It worked. I slaved away on the portfolio for my Creative Writing class most of Sunday. Begged my boss at The District to start giving me more hours again when I went in to work my lame-ass four-hour shift that evening. And I plan on going to practice later tonight after I meet with Chelsea and hopefully present my coaches with my new grades so they’ll allow me to play.
My life is coming together again. I’m getting back on track, and this is a good thing.
So why do I feel this nagging, incessant buzz just beneath my skin, as if I’m forgetting something or someone?
Chelsea.
Yeah. She’s pissed at me. I went in to see her after that semi-disastrous night with her at my house and she’d been distant. Not cold or bitchy, but … preoccupied. All business, no friendliness, and she’d shot out of her chair and exited the room the minute our hour was over. Didn’t even bother to say goodbye.
It sucked.
“Your coach called Drew,” Fable says nonchalantly.
I collapse in the overstuffed chair in my room, sitting on top of the pile of clothes I always leave there as I lean my head back and close my eyes. This could be either really good or really bad. “What did he say?”
“That he’s impressed with the way you’re playing and wishes he could have you back on the team. Drew said he’s eager to work with you again. He can’t wait for you to pick up your grades.” She pauses. “Sounds like you’ve done that. I’m proud of you, Owen.”
“My English teacher said she talked to my tutor and that my grades are going to be updated within the next couple of days,” I say.
“That’s awesome. So you like the tutor, then? You two get along and it’s working out?”
Wish she were working out beneath me, but that’s definitely not going to happen. I screwed all that up by being a crude asshole and offending her. “She’s nice. Super
smart.”
“Cute?”
“Gimme a break, Fabes.” I crack open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. Chelsea is more than cute. She’s beautiful. Intelligent. Sweet. And she hates me. Because I’m a foul-mouthed idiot who acts like a little boy every time I get near her.
“That means you think she’s cute.”
“She’s out of my league.” The words leave me before I can stop myself. No way did I want to admit that to my sister.
“Please. No one is out of your league. You’re good-looking, smart, and you’re on the freaking football team. What girl wouldn’t want you?” She bursts into laughter. “What am I saying? I ran from Drew as fast and far as I could when I first met him. Maybe you intimidate her.”
“No, that’s not it.” She intimidates me. Chelsea has her shit together. I’m just some jackass still out fucking around, smoking too much weed, trying to please someone who’s only using me for money—and just so happens to be my mother—and I can’t keep my life together unless someone is right there beside me with a checklist, asking if I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do. “Why am I even having this conversation with you? There’s nothing going on between me and Chelsea.”
“Oooh, Chelsea. Your voice changed when you said her name. Got all soft and stuff. I think you like her.” Fable’s teasing me, just giving me shit, but it cuts too close to the bone.
Because I do like her. In more than a hey, let’s bang kind of way, too. I like talking to her. Looking at her, just basking in her presence. She offers up these little tidbits about herself that are never enough for me. I want to know more, more, more, but I don’t push. I’m afraid she’ll push back. I have enough secrets—she’d go running if she discovered them.
But Chelsea? She’s a mystery. And I desperately want to figure her out.
“My voice did not change.” Jesus, she may be a wife and mother, but Fable is still my pain-in-the-ass sister sometimes.
Four Years Later Page 9