“I got a ticket. Two hundred and eighty dollars, you believe that shit?” he says, pulling a folded, pink paper from his other pocket, a court appearance date stapled to the top. “I drove so fast. I didn’t even see the cop on the side of the road. And I picked right back up after he wrote me this, because I had to get back here…back to you!”
The relief continues to wash over me, every minute a wave crashing and pulling away more of the fear and worry and pain that consumed me when I woke this morning. Owen and I stay here, me in his arms, for the entire period, ignoring the bell when it sounds, and passing on the next one too.
A few students come and go from the band room, the lunch hour now, and some people open the door to our tiny haven, hoping to squeeze in some practice. Everyone leaves us alone, though. They don’t know our story, or understand how long it took for us to get here, but they let us have our moment anyway. No comments because it’s Owen Harper, no questions over my tears, and no lame jokes about needing to get a room. Our affection is chaste, more of a never-ending embrace, and our love for each other the realest damn thing I’ve ever known.
We stay here, hidden from Owen’s past, for as long as we can, finally slipping back into the masses as the lunch hour ends. Owen walks with me to our algebra class, passing Mr. Chessman’s classroom along the way, and he sees us. His chest fills slowly with air, and his hand rubs at his neck as I pause at the doorway to our next class, holding my hands together in front of me, praying a thank you to him. He closes his eyes, and I know he’s saying it back.
Owen’s feet slide into their rightful place, his heavy shoes leaving chunks of dirt and debris next to my leg on my seat. When he threatens to pull his foot away, I cling to it, and he laughs.
“All right. I’ll leave it,” he says.
After the first few minutes of class, the door opens and one of the student aids passes a note to our teacher, both of them looking to Owen. I’m not surprised when they call him to the office. I look at him as he stands, tugging quickly on his arm before he leaves.
“What are you going to tell him?” I ask, knowing Mr. Mathison is waiting for his answer, wanting Owen’s commitment just as much as I do. Owen doesn’t answer me, but he bites his lip and lets his smile slide up one side of his mouth, winking as he backs away, turning to take the slip from our teacher then make his way out the door.
He’s gone for the rest of the class period, and I waver between believing this time is a good sign and a bad one. I practically race from the classroom when the bell rings, and my eyes begin searching for him as soon as I step into the hallway. He pulls me back against him, his body leaning along the wall just outside the door.
I turn into him, and his hands find their place along my face quickly, his lips on mine within seconds, his mouth consuming me until his smile forces itself to break free. I love the way his smile feels against me.
“Well, does this mean you’re going? Did you commit? Everything’s…good?” I ask, pressing myself closer to him, students bumping into me as they leave the class and hurry through the halls.
“Everything’s…very good,” Owen says. His eyes look up to the ceiling as his grin takes over again, the smile somehow growing bigger than him. He looks back at me, his tongue caught between his teeth, something important waiting to spill from his lips. He’s staying. Owen is staying, and he’s going to DePaul and life is going to be amazing. It’s in his face. I know it—just looking in his eyes.
“How do you feel about orange?” he asks finally, and the only reaction I have is a firm shake of my head, my eyes closing with confusion. But my heart—it still feels happy.
“Orange. Orange is good…I guess,” I say, my eyes on him with playful suspicion.
“I’ve got an idea to run by you,” he says, his hand sliding down my arm until he finds my fingers, threading his with mine and tugging me toward the door. “We should go home to discuss.”
My legs follow willingly. But my heart follows first. It can’t help itself. Owen—he owns it. I gave it to him.
And I will follow him anywhere.
Chapter 24
One Year Later
“Leave her drum alone,” Willow says, slapping Jess’s hand away from the harness and snare drum on my floor at the end of my bed.
My roommate this year has been very tolerant. I knew the second I was accepted to the University of Illinois’s jazz program that I would also join the marching band. Turns out, though, that playing the snare drum is harder than it looks. I’ve had to practice, and my roommate Shay invested in some seriously awesome headphones to block out my constant noise. I think she was excited to meet Willow, mostly because she knows I’ll be rooming with her instead next year.