Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2) (31 page)

“Maybe someday. I’m working on it,” he says.

I want to tell him he’s already there, and to thank him for taking care of me, but the doors burst open behind me and several boys come running, two of them grabbing onto Andrew’s right arm when they reach him, climbing him like a jungle gym. A few of the parents are standing behind me, waiting to talk to him, so I just hold up his key and suck in my lower lip as I smile.

I take the long route to my apartment—my
old
apartment—and Lindsey is gone by the time I get there. I pull a few bags from under my bed and fill them with most of my clothes, thankful Andrew seemed to grab many of my necessities last night. When I glance at my desk, I realize my letters and backpack are also gone, and my body jolts with a shot of adrenaline. I panic at first that something happened—that during their talk, Lindsey discovered them, destroyed them, that they’re gone. But my backpack is gone, which means Andrew must have seen them and brought that to his apartment too.

Andrew saw them.

I pause at that thought, not sure if it’s good or bad. He wrote them for me, but now that we’re both aware of the words he wrote—or at least many of the words he wrote—something deeply personal feels like it’s settled in between us.

Lindsey will be gone for several hours—today is one of her longest, and though I used to wait desperately for her to get home so we could have dinner together, I’m grateful for the time now. I sit on my bed and pull my phone out of my purse, dialing on rote and in a trance. When my father answers on the other end, I’m not ready to speak—my mind still caught between being angry over the letters he kept from me and wanting to run to his familiar embrace after what Graham did. He waits me out, though.

“You get my package?” he finally asks. I nod even though he can’t hear me.

“I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you sooner,” he says, and I hear him swallow, hear him thinking of ways to explain.

“Why?” I ask, a tear forming in the tender corner of my right eye. I pull the bottom of Andrew’s shirt up to dry it.

“Your mom wanted to give them to you,” he says, and knowing that makes me feel both grateful and terrible at once. “She made me save them. I threw the first one away, and she went out to the trash by the curb and pulled it from the bag.”

My dad laughs, but it’s a sad sound that comes out—one made of memories and repentances. “She told me it was a federal offense,” he laughs through a cry. I join him, wiping away another tear, this one for that memory of my mom. “She said that any boy who took the time to write a letter, to mail it, with a stamp and everything, was worth rescuing. But I was so afraid of what might happen if Andrew wasn’t worthy of you. I was afraid he would take you away—and not that he’d make you run away, but pull you away from us. His home life was so…”

“His brothers and mother and step-father—they’re all really close and amazing dad. That isn’t fair. That
wasn’t
fair!” I shout, glad to be alone, free to be angry and feel.

“I know that now. But your mom…she was sick, and I just couldn’t risk it. Oh god, Em…I’m so sorry. I was so scared, and I didn’t want to lose you too…” My dad’s words end with his crying, and I hear him let out heavy sobs, miles away from me, nowhere near me so I could hug him and assure him I was still here, even if I was angry with him. I got it.

I get it.

“I’m glad you didn’t throw them away,” I whisper as he grows quieter. “I’m glad…I’m glad Mom told you to keep them.”

I listen to my father breathe, and I lay back on my bed that isn’t really mine and wait for him to speak again. A few minutes pass before he finally does.

“Did he tell you that he came?” My eyes pop open, and I sit up straight.

“After Lake Crest? Yes…” I say, wondering if there’s more to the story, if there are parts Andrew didn’t tell me.

“Oh, no…not then. I didn’t know…I didn’t know he came then. I meant a couple days ago. He visited me, wanted to know why his letters never made it. He…he could have hit me he was so angry. I could tell,” my father says. “But he didn’t. He took everything in, everything I had to say, and as much as it wrecked him to know the truth, he respected me, and my bad decisions. I was wrong, Emma. And I’m sorry you didn’t know about the letters before.”

“I know now,” I say in a faint voice. “I know now.”

My eyes close at the thought of Andrew, at how much he cared for me then, and how much he must care for me now—even after so many wrong turns.

“Did he tell you why he went to Lake Crest?” I say, my eyes still closed, picturing everything that happened that night—picturing the resolve on Andrew’s face when he told me to trade him places.

“I know, Emma. And even if he wasn’t drunk or high at the time, it still…it still sticks with me that he was driving you around that way—” I cut my father off, before I lose the courage to tell the truth—the first time I’ve done so to anyone but Andrew.

“He wasn’t driving, Dad. Andrew traded me places. I was the one who wrecked the car, and he…” I start to choke as the tears rush my face. “He took the fall for me, Dad. Andrew didn’t want me to face any repercussions—and even though he didn’t know it was my heart I was afraid of losing, he knew I was afraid of something. So he gave up a year of his life for me. A
year
, Dad.”

“Emma…” my dad’s breathing stutters as he tries to catch up to the truth, to soak in everything I just told him. “Emma?”

“I was driving. And that man stepped out in front of me, in the dark. And all I could think about was how any kind of misdemeanor or indiscretion would make Dr. Wheaton change her mind, would take me off the list. I was selfish, Dad!”

“Stop it!” my father yells on the other end. “Don’t you dare think that, Emma Jane. Don’t you ever call yourself selfish. You were scared, and it’s okay to be afraid when you’re sixteen and looking at the possibility of—”

“He lost so much, Dad…” I cry to my father. “So much…”

“He did,” my dad agrees. If only my father knew how much Andrew truly lost—how much of himself was gone.

Another long silence passes while we both sit together on the phone, both of our thoughts consumed with Andrew Harper I’m sure—both of us thinking of the good he has to offer, the good he gave, and how very ungrateful we were for it.

“Thank you for giving me the letters,” I say finally, sitting and looking at my stuffed bags at my feet. I look around the room, and I think of my friend that I’m leaving behind, but when I look at the clothes I’m in, I think of the friend I’m running to, and I consider how my life seems to need to be in balance—to always give me something, but lose something else in return.

I will never give Andrew up again, though. But I want Lindsey, too.

I don’t say it to my father aloud, but I think it:
I am selfish.

Somehow, I was on point today at practice. I have no idea how with the mess swimming in my head right now. I’m too distracted by everything to attend class, which was the first thing Coach brought up as I passed his office in the locker room. My mouth almost made it worse when my argument for him was that I didn’t really
need
my advanced calculus classes, because I could build a working rocket out of the parts from his car right now—and ensure it had enough power to reach the stratosphere. He told me I was a smart ass and better show my face to my professors tomorrow. He’s right, on both counts.

I’ve been waiting for Trent to ask about Emma, to want the details. He’s doing that thing where he talks about everything
but
the elephant in the room, though. He even asked me about laundry, and if I’d done my load for the week or not. He’s pushing me to let all of my baggage out, without prying—
directly—
and it’s working. His goddamned method is working.

“Emma’s moving in,” I sigh as we pull into the only open space along the street by our apartment.

“Aha!” he exclaims, as if that…
that
is the thing he honestly expected me to say. He remains still, his hands on his knees; he sits proudly, like a fucking peacock in the passenger seat, then the meaning of what I said sinks in. He jerks to the side to look at me again. “Wait, what?”

I lean back in the seat and pull my hat from my head, tossing it on the dash, then run my hand through my hair, holding it between my fingers. I nod as I speak.

“Emma’s moving in. Just…just for a few days. Lindsey’s pissed,” I say.

“Yeah, saw that coming,” Trent says with a short laugh.

“Okay, no need to be a righteous asshole about it. You were right, bad idea, I’m a dick, got it,” I say, glancing sideways at him before opening the car and slamming the door behind me. Trent follows suit and walks behind me up to our apartment door.

“Good, glad we’re on the same page with all of that,” he says. “So where, might I ask, will Emma be
staying
in our apartment?”

I sigh and let my head fall on our door as I wait for Trent to push his key in the lock. I shrug because I really hadn’t thought about that yet. I was assuming she’d just stay with me, in my room, but maybe that’s a little too presumptuous.

“Your ass can have the couch. No way am I giving up my room,” Trent says.

“I know,” I sigh and push through the door the second he unlocks it. I head straight to the kitchen and grab a beer, twisting the cap and gulping half of it down like water.

Trent sits on one of the stools at the counter and studies me for a few seconds. “What else?” he finally asks.

“What do you mean
what else
? Emma’s moving in because I fucked up her living situation. What else is there?” I say, pulling the bottle up to my mouth. Trent lowers his brow at me when I do. “What?” I ask.

“Nothin’ man. Just…slow it down. You got sloppy last night, and that’s how you fucked things up in the first place,” he says. I nod and slide the beer to the middle of the counter, then pull myself up to sit on the seat opposite of my friend.

“I fucked things up a long time ago. Last night was nothing—trust me,” I say. I let my eyes focus on the beer, on the label and the gray color of the paper, the way it matches Emma’s eyes. I can literally see her everywhere. I retrain my gaze to Trent, and he’s studying me. “I love her. And it’s so fucking bad. And it’s messed me up…damn. Trent, I’m so messed up over it, I don’t even know what to do.”

“You tell her,” he answers quickly.

I laugh in response, but he shakes his head and simply repeats his answer.

“Tell her what? Hey, I’m sorry I’m a loser who doesn’t know how to have a real relationship; so instead, I steal chick’s wallets—and love them and leave them? But really I’m not
that
broken, so maybe try me out?”

“Uh…no. You don’t say that,” he says, getting to his feet and grabbing my beer in his hand, finishing it. I raise an eyebrow at him, and he points a finger at me. “Hey, I don’t do dumb shit after a beer or two. That’s your thing.”

“That Graham dude wants to fight me,” I say, catching Trent off guard as he’s about to toss the empty bottle in our recycle box. He pauses, pursing his lips before finally throwing the bottle away and moving back to his seat.

“So he, what…like challenged you to a duel at dawn or something?” he jokes.

I shake my head and let my gaze fall to my lap.

“No, or maybe, yeah. I…I don’t know. It was before this whole thing happened, before last night. He knows Harley, and he’s got some major bank.”

“So you want to fight him for the money,” Trent says, and I can hear his disapproval loud and clear. I fill my lungs and hold my breath, letting the air seep out slowly before looking my friend in the eyes.

“At first, yeah. It’s a lot of money,” I say.

“At first,” he repeats me.

I nod.

“Now, I just want to beat the shit out of him for free,” I say, my mouth hard, my breathing stopping, my eyes angry as I imagine the feel of my fist landing on him. I want to destroy him.

Trent doesn’t respond, and eventually he slides from his seat and moves into our living room, picking up the remote and putting on ESPN, going right to his routine. I watch him for a few seconds, and I try to find the courage to ask him what he thinks I should do. But I already know—he doesn’t think I belong in the ring with that guy, and he knows I won’t be able to control myself when I face him. And I don’t want Trent to tell me not to do it.

After a few minutes, I leave the kitchen and kick my shoes off by the front door, then grab my backpack from the table and start to carry it to my room.

“You should take her out on a real date. That’s what you do. Buy her flowers, give her chocolate, or a teddy bear. Hell…do all three. You need all the help you can get,” he says, stopping me before I reach my room. I turn my head back to look at him, and at first he keeps his attention on the TV, but eventually he faces me, giving me a slight shrug. “You asked me what you should do, and if you really love her, you should make that absolutely clear to her.”

I chew at the inside of my mouth for a few seconds, considering what Trent said. Eventually, I nod in agreement, then make my way to my room so I can come up with something perfect for Emma—something I can do tonight, because I cannot let one more day go by where I’m anything but in love with this girl.

I
skipped
Miranda’s lecture today. I’m sure she’ll text me. I’ve only missed once before, and it was because of a financial-aid meeting. She questioned my absence then, and it was easy to explain. Today’s is a little more challenging.
“Oh, well, you see…your son got all grabby with me, then hit me when I fought back, and I want to hide this from you because I’m afraid you’ll pick his side.”

Yeah—skipping was a good call.

I left my things at Andrew’s this morning, and somehow, despite months of walking home in one direction, my legs managed to remember that today they lived somewhere else. The tickle in my tummy is constant the closer I get to his apartment, and I can’t decide if it’s because I’m excited, or because I’m anxious over Lindsey. I think maybe it’s both.

I still feel selfish.

I’m about to push his key in the lock when the door suddenly opens in front of me, Andrew stepping through it and closing it behind his back. He’s wearing a thin white T-shirt with skulls on the front over a black long-sleeved shirt, tight black jeans, and gray lace-up boots. His hair is combed back, and he smells almost edible. I swear his cologne is circling me for the kill. He pushes his hands into his pockets nervously, and shuffles his feet as he looks down at them while he talks.

“So I have plans. I mean, for me and you. I mean…shit. I’m already messing this up,” he stammers. I suck in my bottom lip, trying not to smile or embarrass him. He looks me in the eyes and takes a deep breath, holding up a finger, stepping into his apartment and exiting it again just as he did before. “Let’s try this again. Emma, I’d like to take you out tonight. On a date—a
real
date. And if this turns out to be corny or lame or if I gross you out or…whatever…then it’s all Trent’s fault. He told me I should show you how I feel. So, tonight, if you’re willing to give me a shot, I’d like to start over. I’d like
us
to start over. And I’d like to treat you like you deserve to be treated…like I should have treated you all along. Whadaya say?”

My lip slides loose from my hold, and I can’t stop the quick spread of my smile. Andrew smiles in return, nodding once and letting out a heavy breath. “Phew. Good. Okay then, before you go inside, I want you to know that I realize I might have gone a little overboard. But like I said—I didn’t want there to be any question in your mind about my intentions here. I’m asking you on a date, and that date ends when you say goodnight. And then I will take my place on our
very
comfortable couch, giving you your privacy in my room for as long as you need it.”

I open my mouth, my brow pinching with guilt; I hate the thought of pushing him out of his room, but Andrew holds a hand up quickly. “No questioning me. Not tonight. I’m too nervous about everything being perfect for you to question tonight, okay?”

“Okay,” I say. Andrew closes his eyes, his smile once again relieved.

He pushes his door open, holding his arm out to direct me inside, where there are three gigantic boxes placed on the floor—wrapped in purple paper with white bows.

“Purple’s my favorite color,” I say.

“I know,” he says in return. “Go on. Open them.”

I look to him nervously, but move to the first box, excited to see what’s inside. I tear away the tissue paper and pull off the lid to find two enormous Care Bears sitting inside. I lift them up and cradle each one on a hip, like they’re children, and the silliness of them makes me giggle.

“Okay, so hear me out,” Andrew starts, closing the door behind him and leaning against it. “That one there, the blue one? His name is Grumpy or Grouchy or…”

“Grumpy,” I confirm for him, my mouth aching from my smile.

“Good, right. Well, Grumpy…that one’s me. He’s got this cloud that follows him around, and he’s just generally blue and mopey and shit, and he doesn’t really have any friends, other than this yellow bear here with the sunshine on it’s stomach.”

“Funshine Bear,” I answer, looking over at the yellow bear on my other hip.

“Right…wait…Funshine? That’s really his name?” Andrew asks. I nod
yes.

“Wow, this is getting even lamer, and I’m really embarrassed,” he says.

“Don’t be,” I say, catching his gaze before it falls. He squints one eye, questioning me. “So far, this is really sweet. Keep going.”

He nods, his cheeks dented with the dimples of the smile he’s trying to hide. The bashful boy from our youth is coming out to play, and it makes my heart soar to see.

“Okay, well
Funshine,
or as I called him,
Happiness…
this one’s you. She’s Grumpy’s only friend in the world. And she’s the only one that can make Grumpy forget about the damn cloud stuck on his body. He needs her. Without her, he’s just not…well, without her there’s just too much of the cloud,” Andrew says, his mouth settling into a more serious smile. I notice how fast his chest is rising and falling, how hard he’s breathing. He’s scared.

I look at both of the bears and squeeze them to my body, then look back at him. “I love them. I’m keeping them with me all night,” I say, and his lips slowly curl up again.

“Good,” he nods, looking down. When he glances back up, he gestures to the second box. “Go on. Open it.”

I tuck both bears under my left arm and move to the second box, working with one hand to unwrap it. I finally get the lid off the top and when I look down, I notice a pair of pink and white ice skates that look to be my size. I flash my eyes back to Andrew’s, smiling.

“Holding your hand on the ice is the one memory I turned to when my cloud got really dark and heavy and hopeless. I’d like to take you skating tonight, at the rink, so I can hold your hand…if you’ll let me?”

He’s not breathing as hard as before, but he still sucks his bottom lip in, anxious for my answer. I nod
yes
quickly, then move to the third box. Before I can dig into the paper, though, Andrew places his hand on top, stopping me.

“This one comes at the end. It’s…well…it’s sort of important that I keep everything in order. When we get back from the rink, I’ll let you open it up,” he says, his head leaned to the side, his eyes pleading.

“Okay,” I say.

He’s close enough that he could kiss me. I want him to. He never does, though. Instead, his eyes dance over me, following the curve of my face and line along my shoulders. For class, I changed into one of my turtlenecks and jeans, but I crave the warm feeling of being in his clothes again.

“You look nice,” I say to him, my eyes moving to the top of his head, to the hair that’s usually stuffed under a hat or twisted in all directions. He runs his hands through it, smoothing it back again, but messing it up just enough that a few strands fall forward over his brow, somehow making him even sexier.

“This is the best I’ve got,” he says, arms outstretched. “I’m not really a suit-and-tie kind of guy.”

It’s my turn to let my eyes roam down him, his wide chest and thin waist, his arms filling the fabric of his shirt, his jeans tight around his muscular legs. I bite my lip on one side and smile through the other.

“I like this look better anyhow,” I say, peering up at him.

His lips fall open with a breath, and I hold mine, thinking that maybe now he’ll kiss me. But he closes his mouth quickly, smiling and taking a step back.

“We should get to the rink. I managed to find a half an hour that it’s not being used, and the guy doing me a favor will be pissed if we’re late,” he says.

“Okay,” I say softly, holding my bears tightly.

Andrew picks my backpack up from the floor and slings it over his shoulder, then tugs at the bears in my hand. I resist at first.

“You can’t skate with these,” he chuckles. “But…I’ll put them with your things. You can have them back the second we get home.”

Home.

How strange that he feels like home. And yet, how very not strange at all.

“Okay,” I say again. I’m unable to do anything but agree with him. It’s not that I owe him. It’s that I
want
to go along with him. I meant what I said last night—I trust Andrew Harper…with my life.

I let him guide me back outside after he deposits my things in his room, and when he opens the door of his car for me, I force myself to keep my thoughts ahead—to focus on the future and possibilities rather than the past. Andrew’s careful with me, taking my hand as I sit in the low bucket seat. He leans forward through the door as I buckle the belt, his head cocked to one side, silently asking me if I’m all right—the last ride in this car flooded me with painful memories.

I smile at him when my belt clicks, and his eyes skim down my body, down my legs, then back to my lips, and they quiver under the heat of his stare. Nothing about the way he’s looking at me feels threatening or possessive; it’s adoring, and it makes my palms sweat. Adored is exactly how I always wanted to feel, and I haven’t felt it since he left my life five years ago.

He exhales slowly, backing away from the door and nudging it closed with the tips of his fingers, bringing both of his hands up to his mouth and closing his eyes as he continues to back away, shaking his head and smirking underneath it all.

When he gets into his seat, sliding in, buckling, and starting the engine, I question the soft chuckle and grin he’s still wearing. He looks into his rearview mirror, almost like he’s working extra hard not to look at me again. The tension causes my heart to speed up.

“What is it? Come on, Andrew…don’t tease,” I say.

His eyes shut; he laughs once again, his head falling forward, then his eyes open as he leans to the side, resting his head on his steering wheel.

“You have no idea how you bewitch me, Emma Burke,” he says, his teeth dragging his bottom lip, his tongue caught in their snare next. “No idea.”

His eyes wander around my face, and in that instant I see it—Andrew Harper is worshiping me. My heart drums louder, and I tuck my hands underneath my legs, holding my own breath.

The trip to the rink is short, and we spend those few minutes both blushing and taking small peeks at each other, like grade-schoolers who’ve passed notes back and forth and have just gotten thrown together in some playground tunnel. I don’t know what to do or how to act—only that I know I want to leap onto his lap right now and never let go.

I stay put, and wait for Andrew to round the car to open my door for me on his insistence that I let him
play gentleman
for the night. He walks me up to the back door of the rink, and hands a guy a fifty-dollar bill before we slip inside. I wince at the amount of money, knowing how he earns it, and how little he has to throw away. But the slight smile he gives me keeps me from protesting. He’s proud of this date—and I am going to love every second of it.

“Are we supposed to be here?” I ask, noticing most of the lights are off, minus three or four shining on the center of the ice.

“Define…
supposed to,
” Andrew says, rolling his neck and grimacing at me.

I stop and watch him take a few steps in front of me, his body older, his legs longer, his look so very much the Prince Charming I’ve cast in my dreams. He was the original—the only.

“I don’t think I should define it. I have a feeling the answer’s
no
either way, so I’m just gonna go with the flow,” I say, a little nervous that we’re breaking a rule—a little excited by it, too.

“Probably for the best,” he winks.

We slip through a small opening in the bleachers, and Andrew reaches for my hand, linking a few of his fingers with mine to guide me to my seat. When he stops, he doesn’t let go of his slight hold, but turns to the side, his chin toward me and his breath tickling against my neck.

“Do you…” He stops, swallowing hard. “Do you need help with your skates?” I get the immediate sense that’s not what he really wanted to ask. I know it’s not what I wanted him to say.

I shake my head in tepid movements and take my skates from his other hand and sit to lace them. Andrew sits across from me, and when his skates are done, he slides his toe forward, knocking his blade into mine. We both look at it, then gaze up at each other, instantly breaking into laughter.

“I think you have a foot fetish,” I tease as he reaches a hand out and helps me to stand.

Andrew shakes his head slightly as we scoot along the rubber floor out to the ice, his grip growing in strength. We switch to the icy floor and my skates begin to slide out from under me. His arm swiftly moves from my hand to around my body, steadying me on my wobbly legs, and he chuckles to himself.

“Emma, I don’t have a foot obsession…I have a
you
obsession,” he says, and my breath stops short, my ears working hard to make sure they heard that right, my heart secretly knowing they did.

Andrew leads me slowly to the other end of the rink, careful to keep us closer to the center of the ice, where the light reaches. We’re far away from the wall, though, so my grip on him is a little more desperate, and I wonder if that, too, was maybe part of the plan.

“You’re better on your feet this time,” he smiles.

I giggle because just as he says it, my left leg sweeps out from under me, and I nearly fall on my ass. Andrew’s hands are fast, though, and he saves me again, this time spinning me around so I’m facing him, his hands under my elbows and forehead against mine as we both stare at my awkward feet.

“Sorry,” I say. It comes out in a breath, very little sound, because being in front of him like this brings me back to our last kiss—a feeling I want again so desperately.

I roll my head against him and shut my eyes, letting him guide me in a slow circle around the middle of the rink.

“Hey, it’s our first dance,” he says. I pull my head back a few inches and spare a glance at him, glad I did as the right side of his mouth is raised just enough to leave a dimple.

“It is,” I say. “You would have been such a better date for prom.”

His smile fades, and I kick myself for mentioning anything about those years that we missed.

“I would have taken you,” he says, his words coming out a little somber. I feel his fingers move along my sides, almost as if they’re grasping to hold onto me tighter—to keep me from going away. I dare myself to move in closer to him, to embrace him more, and his grasp tightens again to steady me. He wants me here, too.