Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2) (5 page)

He glances at me again, and I can’t seem to smile back at him, as much as I want to. I can’t because I know
exactly
what he means
.
I want to feel more, but I’m on pause—not allowed to really feel anything until I’m cleared and told it’s okay to do so.

I’m feeling things now. And I intend on keeping all of that secret.

“Maybe that sounds crazy. God, you probably think I’m nuts,” he says as he runs his hand over his face and through the blowing wild strands of his hair.

“You’re not nuts,” I say, and notice his jaw twitch at my response, his lips tight in a straight line. He clears his throat and leans to the side to roll up his window. We stop at a light in the center of town, and the loud clicking of the blinker fills the dead air, and eventually Andrew and I both laugh.

“Goddamn that’s loud, right?” he says, leaning toward me and looking at the gear shaft as if somehow he can control the sound from there. He glances back up, now inches closer to me, and his breath falters again. “So maybe that goes on the list of things to fix.”

“No, don’t,” I smile. He flinches and squints, sitting back comfortably as he turns and pulls into a diner parking lot. “If you fix it, then it won’t make that sound anymore, and now it’s sort of our thing. We’ll always be able to laugh at the loud blinker noise.”

His bottom lip sucked into his mouth, he nods as he pulls into a spot and shifts into park, tapping both hands along the black rubber of the steering wheel.

“Well then that’s settled,” he says, grinning as he pulls the keys from the ignition. “The clicking noise stays.”

I nod in agreement, then reach to my door handle.

“Hang on, wait for me,” Andrew says, springing from his seat and jogging around the front of the car. He’s wearing the same gray jeans and black shirt he wore Friday night, and I’m glad. He looks nice like this. With a jerk of the handle, he has my door open, and I step out and make a silent wish to feel his hand along my back, the way a guy walks a girl from the car when they go on a date in the movies. I get to the restaurant door without ever feeling it, though.

Andrew raises two fingers, and a waitress shows us to a booth in the back corner of the restaurant, our feet touching underneath as we climb into our seats. I move my right foot out of the way, but I leave my left foot in place against his, almost like a test to see what he’ll do. He doesn’t move either.

We both flip open the menu, and I wonder if he’s reading without reading like I am. My eyes are passing over the words, but my attention is on the outer edge of my left foot, the one lodged against the inside of his right one. It’s such a stupid touch, but in some small way, it feels like I’m holding his hand.

“So it’s a…Camaro?” I ask. I looked at the logo on the way into the restaurant.

Andrew chuckles, his eyes still on his menu, his foot still against mine.

“Yeah, it’s a seventy-six,” he says. I have no idea what that means, but I nod and smile as if I do. He reads me quickly though and laughs again as he flattens his menu. “There’s a guy down our old street who has a backyard that’s just…like…
filled
with these classic old cars. I used to go visit him with Owen, and we’d sit in them and pretend we were driving around. This one was always my favorite though. Anyhow…he stopped by my apartment just before we left to visit my brother and said he was getting rid of a few. He sold it to my mom for five hundred bucks. I’m getting a job this summer to pay her back.”

I might not know anything about cars, but I understand dreams. I get wanting things, and I can imagine how it must feel to finally have something in your hands you want so badly.

“It’s a great car,” I say, my smile soft. He looks into my eyes for a few seconds before shaking his head and picking his menu back up.

“It’s shit right now. But…it will be a great car. I promise,” he says, and there isn’t a doubt in my mind that it will be.

We both order sandwiches and sodas when the waitress comes, and with our menus gone, I feel a little more exposed—and much more aware of the weird footsie standoff happening under the table.

“Delaware,” Andrew finally says, breaking a long rut of silence. “Tell me about it. What’s your story, Emma Burke?”

When he says my name, his lips take care of every syllable. I wonder if he says every name like this, or just mine.

“Well…” I start, pausing to tuck my right leg over my left, shifting my weight, but never moving the foot against Andrew’s. I glance up to catch his smirk when I do, and I know he’s playing the same game I am. “You saw my little brother, right?”

Andrew nods, and I swear his smile has stretched to cover more of his face.

“His name’s Cole. He’s three. It’s just us, and my parents. My mom’s a telemarketer…”

“Wait,” Andrew interrupts, looking up and holding his question while our waitress delivers our plates and drinks. When she leaves, he leans forward, elbows on either side of his plate. “Your mom is a real-life telemarketer?”

My eyes wide, I nod, not sure what makes that so interesting.

“Man, that’s like the suckiest job! Do people hang up on her all day? Oh…I bet she gets cussed out all the time. Or…do people prank her?”

“I have no idea,” I giggle.

“Sorry, I just…I’ve always wondered who does that job. Every time someone calls us, I wonder how bad it is on the other end. I mean, though…I’m sure your mom is a really nice person,” he stops abruptly, then sucks in his bottom lip.

“Okay…anyhow…” I start again, but he holds up his hand to stop me.

“One more question, and that’s it. I swear,” he says, and I laugh. “What does she sell?”

“Uh…she does surveys, I think. For things like commercials people remember and different food chains,” I say, realizing I don’t really pay attention to the words my mother says when she’s on the phone all day. I just know she gets to work at home because of it, and
that…
has come in handy.

“Okay, I don’t think I’ve answered one of those. Just…ya know. Wanted to make sure I didn’t get one of her calls,” he says, his lip ticked up on one side. “I’m not real nice to telemarketers. But I’ll change that; I swear.”

He crosses his chest with his finger then picks up a fry from his plate, chewing it whole.

“Okay, well…you’ll love this then. My dad’s a dogcatcher,” I say, covering my eyes with both hands. When I let my fingers fall open so I can peek at him, he’s squeezing his eyes shut.

“I know…he’s like Cruella de Vil kinda evil. Except he’s not,” I begin to defend my dad.

“Uhm…dogcatcher . I saw
Lady and the Tramp
when I was a kid. That shit messed me up, and it’s the reason we still don’t have a dog. If I accidentally let it loose, your meanie dad will haul it away and lock it up in the rain somewhere,” he says, shaking his head.

“So…that’s not how it works—and
dogcatcher
really is more like
stray-dog finder.
He always finds a home for animals, and usually he gets called on to deal with strange animal situations for animal control,” I explain. Andrew keeps staring at me with one brow quirked.

“Hmmmm, okay, but I’m starting to wonder about you, Delaware. You better want to be something happy when you grow up,” he says through a full mouth.

“Surgeon.” My answer is one word, and it’s definitive. I’ve known what I want to be since the day I understood who the person was that did that job. I want to save people. I want to be their last hope. Because I will never quit.

“Oh yeah sure, surgeon. Like
those
are good people,” Andrew kids. I pick up one of my fries and throw it at him. He catches it against his chest and drops it on his plate, then taps his foot into mine twice, reminding me it’s there.

He doesn’t move it, though.

We’re quiet while we’re eating. A group of seniors I recognize from my school spill into the diner loudly, interrupting the awkward quiet. It distracts both of us, and we smirk at each other when one of the girls laughs—her cackle comes out almost sounding like a dolphin’s call. I hold a fist to my mouth to keep myself from laughing; Andrew stuffs more fries in his and looks out the window, knowing if we make eye contact again, we’ll both lose it.

After a few seconds, we glance at each other, exchanging a silent look that says we both think that chick should do her best not to laugh out loud—ever again.

The group settles down, but after a few minutes, their whispers are what catch our attention the second time. I notice Andrew glancing up from his plate, beyond my shoulder, then back down to his food. His movement is repetitive, and each time he looks at the group behind me, his scowl grows a little.

His reaction forces me to pay attention, too. Eventually, I hear one of the girls speak a little too loudly, mentioning James and Owen, and then I hear one of the guys in the group say something about betting “he’ll end up shooting himself just like his brother did or becoming some hardcore junkie.”

They’re talking about Andrew—or his brother, Owen. It doesn’t matter which one, because I get the sense that Andrew and his brother are so close that if you cut one the other bleeds.

Everything that follows happens in milliseconds—my eyes zero in on Andrew’s hand, the contraction of his muscles as he grips his fork. Then, I see the flex of his jaw and the strain in his neck followed by the cold shadow consuming his eyes. The hurt he’s feeling is there—I see it—but there’s anger and hate brewing, too.

I sense his conflict—ignore the wave of familiar ridicule being spun behind me or stand up to it and become one more reason for people to talk. His eyes watering, Andrew has been at this crossroads before. I have a feeling he’s been here a lot. And I also think I’m the thing keeping his feet tethered to this side of the line this time.

When our eyes finally meet, Andrew almost looks as if he’s apologizing to me, sorry that I am witnessing any of this. It’s more than being embarrassed; it’s being ashamed. That one look from him breaks me and resolves me all at once.

I smile and hold up a finger, my shift in mood halting him for long enough—the few seconds I need to slide out of our booth. I hear his feet shuffle behind me, and I turn to see him starting to step out behind me, but I smile bigger and hold a hand up with a wink. “Just give me a sec,” I say.

Andrew looks uneasy. I feel uneasy. But I also feel right about this, so I keep walking toward the group of seven strangers until I’m leaning over the counter next to the stools they’re gathered around at the other end of the restaurant. I purposely brush the arm of one of the girls to get her attention, and she apologizes and steps from her seat to give me room, assuming I’m trying to reach for salt, or napkins, or any of the other tiny things piled in a basket near them.

“Oh, no. I just heard you all and thought I’d come over to join in. You’re talking about the Harpers, right?” I say, glancing from one set of eyes to another, an interested smile on my face feigning that I also want in on this
oh-so-fun
gossip fest. They all look uncomfortable, and the girl closest to me—the one who moved out of my way—keeps looking over my shoulder toward Andrew, as if she’s trying to clue me in that I should keep my voice down.

“Oh, I know, you’re totally right. I should be quiet, huh?” I whisper. “I bet he can hear me.”

I leave my eyes on hers for an uncomfortable amount of time. There’s a flash of guilt in them when I say it out loud, publicly acknowledging that we heard everything. And normally, I’d stop there; she’ll learn a lesson from this, and probably not gossip about the Harpers except in the privacy of her own home for at least a month. But that look on Andrew’s face sticks with me, so I take things just a little farther.

“You know, I hear there’s a foster home around here that takes care of kids who lost their parents to horrible accidents or illness. Maybe when we’re done here, we can go make fun of them for a while, tease them about how they’re going to die in car crashes too one day. Or…or…wait! Even better…let’s make one of those viral videos where we wake people up in the middle of the night and remind them that their loved one is dead. That would be awesome…no?”

A can see a chill fall over them all, and the guy who was talking the most five minutes before, swallows hard. We all hear it. I step closer to him, letting my fake smile fall back into the hard line my mouth wants to make. “Or, if you’d rather, you can just keep being assholes over here, and I’ll go back over there and try and ignore you,” I say, pleased at the regretful feelings I’ve nurtured. “Your call.”

I reach to the counter, grabbing a bottle of ketchup, then spin on my heels and walk back to Andrew, who’s still sitting with his legs stretched out underneath the booth, munching on his fries one at a time. He doesn’t look up at me when I sit back into the booth, and he never glances up when I twist the cap off the ketchup, pouring a small amount on the corner of my plate.

When I’m done, I move the bottle on the table until it clinks against his plate, and I let my hand rest flat on the space between us. After a few seconds, the group I’d just left leaves the restaurant. Neither of us turns to look—the only confirmation, the small chime of the cluster of bells tethered to the door. Once we hear the sound of their cars pulling from the lot just outside, Andrew reaches up, sliding the bottle out of the way, and takes my fingers into his hand, squeezing just hard and long enough to let me feel him.

That’s when I finally smile for real.

We finish our meals, and Andrew pulls a twenty from his wallet, not letting me chip in for my half. I follow him to his car and wait while he lifts the handle, then move into my seat.

He attempts to slide over the hood of his car, but his skid stops midway, so he pushes down the front and walks to his door, reaching into the backseat to grab a beanie for his head, sliding it on and pulling it over his eyes, playing up his humiliation.

“Massive fail,” he says, poking fun of his bombed attempt on the hood.

“Oh, I just assumed that’s how that was supposed to go,” I say, pretending to be impressed.

“Uh yeah…I mean, bitchin’…” he says, puffing out the collar of his shirt and shrugging with a sniff before breaking into a short laugh.