Monica Murphy - Four Years Later

“I do. Drew wants to talk to him. See if that’s what Owen really wants. Though I’m not sure what Owen really wants.”

I don’t think Owen knows what he wants, either. He’s just cruising through life without a plan. Without a net. Whereas me, I like to plot and plan and figure out my next step. After graduate school, I’m going to teach, most likely at college level. That has been my plan since I was a little kid. Mom had instilled it in my brain that it was the best possible future for me. The only option I had.

But now … I wonder. It sounds so boring. Teaching. Doing the same thing, day in and day out. Would I want that? Would I be happy? Would I really be fulfilled? If you’d asked me this question a few months ago I would have answered yes without hesitation.

Now, I’m not so sure. Meeting Owen, spending time with him, letting him take me off track and actually learn how to have a little fun, changed me.

For the better.

Owen

It felt good to be out on the field and winning the game knowing my girl and my sister and niece were in the stands watching me. I caught sight of them a few times, chatting with each other more than keeping their eye on the game, and I could forgive them for that. Fable’s probably seen enough football games to last her a lifetime and Drew’s career is really only a couple of years in. And Chelsea isn’t big on football.

Plus, they’re getting to know each other, and that’s important to me. If Chelsea is going to become as big a part of my life as I hope she will, then I want them to like each other.

I’m at home with my girl now, kicking it in the living room, waiting for her to finish taking a shower. I’d tried to get in the shower with her but she’d shoved me out of the bathroom, giving me that look—the one that said no way, asshole—while whispering, “Wade’s right out there. He’ll know.”

I didn’t push. Hell, I’d cleaned that bathroom like crazy to ensure she’d even want to take a shower at my place. Guys are pigs. I’m no exception. But when we made plans for Fable to be here this weekend a few days ago, Chelsea had said she might stay the night and take a shower at my place. She even asked if that would be okay.

Took a lot for me to play it off and act like that was no big deal. While inside I was dying to tell her, move in with me forever.

How I feel about Chelsea is just … fucking ridiculous, in the most awesome, unbelievable way.

“Going out with your girlfriend?” Wade’s tone is kind of snide, a little joking. I think he’s still mad at me about the Des thing, but what can I do? It’s too late to back down now, and I kind of like not having Des here all the damn time, bringing his posse of druggies with him.

“Yeah. My sister’s here, you know.”

“Right. I talked to Fable after the game.” She’s always liked Wade. Though she’d probably hate him if she ever discovered all the trouble we got into numerous times throughout our high school years. Thank God we hadn’t been caught.

That hadn’t been all Wade’s fault. We were a bad influence on each other.

A knock sounds on the door and Wade goes to answer it. I’m feeling too lazy to even move from the couch. I played a hard game today. Truthfully, I was trying to show off for Fable and Chelsea. I’m going to pay the price tomorrow, especially if I get what I want later tonight.

Chelsea, naked in my bed. Beneath me, making her cry out my name when I first enter her.

Yeah, I’ll gladly suffer through sore muscles for that.

“Uh, Owen.”

I glance up at the sound of Wade’s voice to see him with the door partially shut, his head tilted toward it and his expression one of pure panic.

Shit. I think I know who’s waiting on the doorstep. I gotta get rid of her, quick.

Pushing up from the couch, I rush toward the door, Wade backing away so he’s not in the middle of the family drama. Because there will be drama if I let her linger for any length of time. Fable is supposed to meet us here with her car before we head to The District for dinner. I can’t have her see Mom.

That is the absolute last thing I need.

“What are you doing here?” I say the moment I step out onto the front porch and slam the door behind me.

Mom glares at me, her arms wrapped around herself. She’s wearing raggedy old jeans, those same damn Nike shoes that have probably been around for ten years and look it, and a freaking T-shirt.

It’s like 50 degrees outside. She must be freezing.

You don’t care, man. You. Don’t. Care.

“It’s been almost two weeks.” Her expression turns pleading in an instant, but the hard glare is still in her eyes. I’m trying to look at her and see nothing, but it’s so damn hard. She’s my mom. I always feel like I owe her. “I need money, Owen. I need a smoke. I—I need to come down.”

Come down? Shit. “I don’t have any weed in the house.”

Her mouth hardens. “Don’t lie to me. You always have weed in the house.”

“Not this time.”

We stare at each other in silence, neither of us moving. We’re at a standoff and we’re both too stubborn to give in first. All I can think is the clock keeps ticking, bringing us closer to Fable showing up here soon, and Chelsea coming out of the shower and going in search of me.

“I need money,” Mom finally says, caving first.

“I don’t have much of that either. I’m taking less hours at work.”

Her mouth drops open. “Why would you do that?”

“Football season is eating into my time. Plus my schoolwork.”

“Still trying to pretend you care about school, huh? You can tell me the truth. I know how you really feel.”

“Yeah, when I was fifteen and always wanting to skip,” I say, glancing behind me. The blinds are open; I can see Wade pacing the living room but no Chelsea yet. Hopefully he’ll distract her for me.

“Like you’ve really changed. You’re the same ol’ Owen. My baby.” She reaches for me like she’s going to hug me, and I step out of the way, shocked that she’d do it. I can’t remember the last time she’s touched me with any sort of affection.

Her arms drop at her sides, her mouth turned into a deep frown. “Come on, Owen. Give me some money. I need at least twenty dollars. I have nowhere else to go.”

She almost sounds like she’s going to cry, but I don’t remember the last time I saw her do that either—if ever. So I call bullshit on the pathetic act. “You need to go, Mom. I—I can’t have you hanging out here.”

Her eyes narrow. “Why not? You got something to hide? Why won’t you smoke with me? What’s going on?”

“I don’t have any weed on me, I swear.” I really don’t. After I flushed the first joint down the toilet, I got rid of the rest. I haven’t had a smoke since that night at the hotel with Chelsea. Whatever Wade might have is on him. But me?

I’ve got nothing.

“What about your roommate? Let’s go ask him what you have. I remember that boy, you know. I used to talk to his mom sometimes. Real snob, that one.” She tries to dodge around me and grab the door handle but I’m quicker than her. I block the door, slapping my hand against the handle.

“Wade’s mom took care of me when you couldn’t,” I remind her. “She’s definitely not a snob.”

“That was your sister’s deal, not mine. She’s the one who always passed you off on that woman. Too busy out fucking around to worry about her baby brother.” Mom sneers.

Anger boils in my gut. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

“I can talk about her any way I want. She’s my goddamn daughter. Not that she knows how to act like one.” Mom points her thumb at her chest and stumbles, almost falling right off the porch. I lunge for her, grabbing her by the elbows so I can set her back on her feet.

It happens so fast, she takes total advantage, darting beneath my arm and going straight for the door. I run after her, slap my hand against the door to keep from opening it, and she tugs on the handle, putting all her weight into it, though that’s not much. She’s like a shadow of her old self. Thin and frail-looking, her fried blond hair wispy and dry, her jeans bag off her body, and when I get close to her, I realize she smells. Bad.

“I want to talk to your roommate,” she says, her teeth clenched as she puts all her might into tugging the door handle again. “Stop trying to block me, Owen.”

“Where the hell are you living, Mom?” I wince. She doesn’t really like it when I call her Mom. She doesn’t want me to call her anything.

“What do you care?” She tosses over her shoulder. “I don’t have a home. Not that it matters to you or that bitch sister of yours.”

“Stop insulting Fable. I can’t stand it.”

“Good, because I can’t stand her and I can’t stand you! Always passing your judgment, acting like you’re so much better than me! You’re just the same, Owen Maguire. You and me, we’re exactly the same.”

I push away from her, staring at her in disbelief. She’s expressing everything I’ve always worried about but never put into actual words. Hearing her actually say it is …

Devastating.

“No we’re not,” I protest weakly, but she laughs.

Actually laughs.

“Oh yes, we are. It’s why I loved you best. You’re just like me, Owen. Whether you like it or not, you’re going to end up like me. Wandering through your life with no goals, no success. Every time you build yourself up, someone will kick you back down. That’s what always happens. They’ve all held me down through the years. Everyone. No one ever gave me a break. No one will ever give you one, either.”

I try to fight against her words but it’s hard. So hard. I feel like I’m ten years old again. She used to scare the hell out of me when she went on her drunken binges, cursing me and Fable and whoever happened to be the boyfriend of the month. It was always some loser who’d live with us for a little while, using her up only to spit her out.

We saw it happen time and again, to the point where Fable tried to run away more than once, the summer she was fifteen.

We never talk about that, though. We don’t talk about a lot of stuff. Those types of memories are best left forgotten.

“And if you think you can find love, you’ve got to be kidding.” When I open my mouth to say something, she laughs again. “I saw you come home with that silly girl. Hanging all over your arm and looking at you like you’re her hero. You’re nobody’s hero. Does your stupid little girlfriend know you smoke weed with your mom? That you’re nothing but a worthless drug addict? That you give me all the weed and money that I want? That you hide me from all your friends and your sister because you’re ashamed of me? You should be ashamed of yourself. You make me sick.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The words come out stiff. I don’t even sound like myself. “I don’t have a girlfriend,” I tell her, because that’s the last thing I want Mom to know. Somehow she’ll use it against me, and God, she might even … even approach Chelsea.

And no way can I have that.

“Don’t lie. I saw her.”

“She’s no one. Just a friend.” It pains me to even say that. She’s more than just a friend.

Chelsea is … everything.

“Owen?”

I turn to find Chelsea standing with the door open, her hand clutching the handle. She’s wearing jeans and a black sweater, looking like my every dream come true with her wet hair piled into a bun on top of her head, her face freshly scrubbed and her skin glowing. But her expression is one of ice-cold shock. She’s looking between my mom and me like she can’t quite figure out what’s going on.

Dread sinks my gut to my toes. She had to have heard what Mom said. And what I said. She’ll know. All of it.

And she’ll hate me for what I’ve done.

Chelsea

“Chelsea.” He says my name but I can hardly hear it. The words this woman—his mother—said are still ringing in my ears, clanging through my mind. Harsh and ugly, growing bigger and bigger inside my head until they’re all I can hear. All I can think about.

Does your stupid little girlfriend know you smoke weed with your mom? That you’re nothing but a worthless drug addict?

And Owen’s devastating, horrible reply.

I don’t have a girlfriend.

She’s no one. Just a friend.

“Well, lookee here, there’s your not-a-girlfriend right now. And aren’t you a plain little thing?” His mom sneers at me, her thin lips curled, her face worn and faded and so full of hatred I take a step back, surprised that she’s aiming all of that anger at me. “You really think my handsome boy would want to be with you? Look at you. You’re nothing.”