Lost: A New Adult Contemporary Romance Part 13

"I'm scared, Maria. This is my last semester, and I still don't have a job."

He chokes up as he talks, and I don't know what else to do but hold him and listen.

"I don't want to go back home," he whispers. "I don't want to be a kid again because going back there means going back into h.e.l.l."

"What about your sister?" I whisper, rocking slowly back and forth as I hold him close. "Is she still back there?"

He lays his head on my shoulder and bursts into tears.

"G.o.d, I miss her more than anyone on earth, Maria," he sobs. "I'd do anything to bring her back. Anything!"

"Bring her back?" I repeat as a terrible chill runs down my spine.

Owen looks up at me, his cheeks wet with tears and his eyes wide with fear and distrust. I immediately understand the look on his face. He's feeling exactly what I felt when I first told Tina about Darren: the fear of rejection, the terror that comes with trusting someone with your darkest secret.

Owen just told me his secret, and now he's afraid that I'll hurt him with it.

I'd rather die than hurt him.

"Her name is Samantha, and she died when I was seventeen," he whispers. "She tried to stand up for mom during a fight, and Dad beat her to death."

He starts to cry again and I wrap my arms even more tightly around him.

"I promised I'd protect her," he sobs inconsolably. "I promised I'd protect her from him, and instead I got scared and hid from him!"

All I can do is hold him as I stare at the tiny girl in the photograph. Now that he's told me his secret, I can see the fake smiles and forced happiness. The only person with a genuine smile is his father.

"She's gone, and it's my fault."

His voice is cold and dead as he finishes, and he pulls away from me and returns to the couch.

"When was your last pain pill?" I ask, hoping to pull his attention away from the miserable memories.

"Four hours ago," he answers, glancing up at the kitchen clock.

"Okay, let's get you another."

He slurps it down with his tea, which has long since gone cold, and he lies back on the couch as I sit beside him.

"I'm sorry, Owen," I say, picking awkwardly at my fingernails. "I didn't mean to hurt you by bringing it up."

"It's okay," he answers. "You needed to know what a wreck I am."

"You're not a wreck!" I protest, but he only shakes his head and changes the subject.

"You didn't eat your pomegranate," he whispers, pointing at the dull red fruit sitting on the coffee table.

"You were more important," I answer, running a hand through his soft hair as he stares down at the fruit.

"You know why I like pomegranates?" he asks, closing his eyes and leaning his head on the arm of the couch. His voice is dull and slow, as if he's teetering on the edge of sleep.

"Why?"

"Because they're so ugly," he whispers. "They look like they're totally disgusting."

"Then why..."

"Yeah... look so disgusting," he babbles quietly. He's getting loopier and loopier as the Vicodin kicks in.

He opens his eyes and sits upright again.

"But then... you go and open one," he says, and he stares at me as if waiting for me to do something.

I stare right back at him, completely confused, until he finally points to the pomegranate.

"Go on. Open it."

With two quick slices of a b.u.t.ter knife, I cut through the soft husk of the pomegranate and pull it apart into four quarters.

"When you break one open, it's beautiful and delicious," whispers Owen. "It's absolutely perfect, but not until you break it."

I stare at the glistening red fruit-each deep red pip glowing in the dim light of the apartment-and the pool of juice forming beneath it on the dish. I'm not one for poetry, but I'm stunned to silence.

He lies back down on the couch and closes his eyes. The Vicodin is knocking him out cold.

"Maria?" he whispers, his voice soft and his breathing slow as he begins to fall asleep.

"Yes?"

"You're just like me, aren't you?"

I look back at the pomegranate, not sure how to answer him. He's right-it really is beautiful now that it's been ripped apart.

"I guess I am," I finally answer, but it's too late. He's already fast asleep.

I run my hand gently through his hair again. He looks so peaceful now that he's asleep, but once he wakes up, he'll be weak and scared again just like me.

He rolls in his sleep, and as he turns his head, I see the scar running along his jaw. I nervously reach out and run a finger softly along it. It's a fine, white line against his already pale skin. Now that I'm close to him, I see more and more scars just like it under his chin, on his neck, and even one running along his eyelid.

I look down at his crossed arms, and now that I know what to look for, I see the scars there too. He has more of them than I can count-some older and nearly invisible, some newer and more obvious-and they're everywhere.

"He really hurt you, didn't he?" I whisper, and I gently touch his cheek.

He stirs in his sleep and I yank my hand away in fear. He doesn't wake, though, and my nervousness settles quickly.

Owen's sister is dead, and he clearly can't turn to his parents for help. I have Tina to protect me, but who does he have? He's completely alone.

No, he's not alone at all. Not anymore.

He has me.

Sat.u.r.day, March 2 10:30 AM.

Owen.

When I wake up the next morning, I feel as if I've been run over by a truck. My hand hurts, my neck hurts, everything hurts. I try to sit up and nausea hits me like a hammer. I feel like I'm going to vomit, but I'm too dizzy to get up and race to the bathroom.

"Take it easy, dude," says Craig from somewhere nearby. I could figure out where he was if my head would stop spinning.

"What the h.e.l.l's wrong with me?" I groan.

"It's called Vicodin on an empty stomach," he answers calmly.

My vision starts to settle out and my eyes finally focus on him. He's sitting in the armchair across from me, flipping through one of his textbooks. I struggle to my feet and catch myself on the arm of the sofa as I lose my balance and nearly fall over again.

"G.o.d, I feel like s.h.i.t."

"You look like it too, buddy," he tells me, shaking his head. "Seriously, go eat something. There's yogurt in the fridge, or leftover pizza if you think your stomach can handle it."

It feels like someone's. .h.i.tting me in the head with a crowbar as the harsh fluorescent lights flickers to life overhead. I shield my eyes from the glare of the refrigerator's light bulb and then wobble back to the couch with a slice of cold pepperoni pizza.

"Hey Craig, what time is it?"

"Don't worry about it. Just relax," he answers, and I shake my head at him.

"Professor Meador needs me to grade some homework and he wants me to pick it up at noon."

"I've already called him," Craig tells me, his voice calm and peaceful. "He knows you're not coming."

"Craig! That's my only paycheck!"

I try to get up from the sofa but immediately fall back down.

"I said relax! Just sit down and get some food in your belly, okay?"

"But..."

"Maria's picking up the homework for you," he blurts out.

I stare blankly at him, and then suddenly, last night comes rushing back to me.

Maria took me to the hospital. How did I forget that so quickly? She was here with me! She sat next to me on the couch until I fell asleep.

She took care of me all night. I remember it now.

A wave of embarra.s.sment washes over me as I remember telling her about the pomegranate, and then my heart drops into my stomach as I remember the rest.

I told her about Dad and Samantha.

I can't believe it. I seriously went and told her about my disaster of a family. I close my eyes and sigh as I lean back on the couch. There goes whatever chance I might have had.

I should have known that it was hopeless in the first place; why would a girl as perfect as her want anything to do with a mess like me? I have more baggage than most airlines, and unlike them, I can't seem to lose any of it.

"Did Maria say anything to you?" I ask quietly, dreading Craig's response.

"She told me about the Vicodin and the trip to the hospital last night," he answers. "Sorry I wasn't around, dude. I had no idea you were hurt. Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I didn't want your help. I didn't want anyone's help."

"You just let yourself sit there with a broken hand? Seriously?"

"Yeah..."

"And here I was thinking Maria was the nutcase!"

I nod sheepishly and pick at the unappetizing slice of pizza.

He's right-I'm totally crazy. I don't even know why I hurt myself like this in the first place, and it's a part of why I'm scared of letting Maria in. If I get close to her-even if she can handle my problems-what happens if I turn into my father someday? I don't want to hurt her.

"So if you didn't want help, why'd you go with Maria?" asks Craig, thankfully interrupting my thoughts before they went too far into the dark.

"She convinced me," I whisper, looking down at the pomegranate still sitting out on the table. Someone popped out a handful of pips and left them sitting in a pile beside it.

I bolt upright as someone bangs on the front door and cringe as my head starts throbbing painfully. Vicodin is supposed to be a painkiller, but it sure isn't acting like one.

"Hey, I'm back!" chimes Maria from the kitchen. Her voice is light and carefree today, and even without looking, I know she's smiling.

I gaze at her over the back of the sofa as she carries over a giant pile of papers-a present from Professor Meador-and joins me on the couch.

"Jesus, Owen!" exclaims Craig as he stares slack-jawed at the enormous stack of homework. "You have to grade all of that?"

"The t.i.tle 'Teaching a.s.sistant,' is just a fancy term for cheap labor," I answer as I eye the tower of paper. This is a lot of work even for me, though, and I have no idea how I'm going to finish it all.

"Can you even do this?" asks Maria, thumbing through the papers. "Aren't you right-handed?"

"I can probably do it with my left. Let me try."

It's a struggle even to grip the pen correctly, and what comes out on the paper is illegible even to me.

"Oh wow... no, that's pretty awful," I admit, shaking my head. There's no way I can do this. I don't recognize a single word on the page, and I'm the guy who wrote them.

"Well, how about this: I have cla.s.s all afternoon, but what if I come back tonight and help do the writing?" offers Maria with a caring smile.