The Ruining (6 page)

OwEN’s FACE LIT up wHEN HE— thankfully not one of his parents—answered the door. It had nearly killed me not to visit him sooner, but I wanted to show Libby where my priorities lay (with them) and refute her suspicion (that I had a crush on Owen) even if it was true (it was). But now it was Sunday, my day off, and I could spend it however I wanted.

“You either have the world’s worst manners, or it took you a hell of a long time to recover from your fall.” His face broke into the cutest closed-lipped smile I’d ever seen on a guy. A toothpick hung out of one corner of his mouth, and he was a little sweaty, but not unattractively so. Quite the opposite. I’d caught him unawares, and yet he looked even better than the last time I’d seen him. I sighed inwardly. It wasn’t fair—I’d spent a half hour selecting the perfect outfit from my meager wardrobe, a balance between subtly alluring and effortlessly casual. And the perfect makeup: lip gloss and a swipe of mascara.

“Actually, I happen to be the epitome of mannerly,” I informed him, trying to sound both cuter and more confident than I felt. “So polished are my manners that I even brought you a gift.” I pulled a plastic container from behind my back. Zoe and I had labored over its contents all morning. Owen looked through the side of the container and, seeing only a brown mass, pried its corner open and sniffed skeptically.

“If you’re trying to poison me,” he said, “it’s not going to work. My stomach’s built like an armory.”
“I would never. Apparently I need you too much.”
“So what is it?”
“Invite me in, and I’ll tell you.” Owen stepped aside and assumed the affected half bow of a butler. I couldn’t believe how bold I was being; it was totally unlike me. But that’s the funny thing about reinventing yourself: you can be any way you want to be at any given moment. I felt hopeful but without any confidence. I guess I didn’t truly expect things with Owen to go anywhere. I still felt too much like the old me, no matter what sort of masks I put on in the meantime. It would take more than a new home, family, and school to really change that. But for a while I could be satisfied with playing pretend.
Owen led me through the foyer and into the kitchen. The house seemed to be composed of a lot of tiny rooms, rather than an open expanse of just a few large rooms, like Libby and Walker’s. And from the looks of two of the rooms we passed on the way to the kitchen—a family room and dining area, maybe?— these small rooms were far homier and less formal than anywhere at the Cohens’. My brief glimpse told me that they were chaotic but lovely, filled with objects that didn’t make any sense individually but formed some sort of discordant harmony when all lumped together. The dining area was colorful and bright, lined with windows that overlooked the bay and decorated with Japanese vases and vintage Euro-style furniture in shades of green and blue. There was a gate up in the kitchen, the childproof kind, blocking the room off from the rest of the house. Owen disassembled it, blocking my line of vision. As soon as it was down and I was free to peek around the corner, I saw her.
“Annie, meet Izzy,” Owen said. “Isabella, Annie is our neighbor. Say a polite hello.” An enormous dog about the size of a small pony barked twice in response, her tail wagging expectantly. “‘Say hello’ was one of the first commands we taught her,” Owen explained. “That and ‘Pee outside.’”
“Hi, Izzy.” I knelt down and stroked the dog’s head and belly. Her rough tongue lapped at my palm in response. “What breed is she?”
“She’s a Rhodesian Ridgeback,” he said. “My parents used to breed them when I was little. Izzy here won Best in Group at Westminster back in her day.”
“And how old is she now?”
“Pushing ten. She was two back in her glory days.” He turned to the dog, grabbing her around the muzzle so he could address her directly: “I’m only saying this for our guest’s benefit, Iz. You know I find you more glorious every single day.” I laughed, helping myself to a stool by the large granite island that graced the center of the room. On it rested a plate with a half-eaten bagel. And on the bagel rested a substance that closely resembled cat puke.
“What is that?” I asked him, not even attempting to hide the horror in my voice. “Please tell me it’s something for the dog.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Owen replied. “Izzy has far better taste than that. I’m the only one in the family who eats sardines out of the can.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“You brought me a container full of brown slop as a thankyou gift,” he reminded me, raising the sardine-covered bagel to his mouth. He bit off a huge hunk. “Mmmmmmm,” he said through his chewing, his voice slightly muffled. “Delicious.”
“You’re disgusting,” I repeated, and this time I actually meant it. “And Zoe slaved away at that slop, I’ll have you know. It’s dirt pudding, and it’s delicious. Extra cookie crumbs, and I already picked out all the worms.”
“The worms are my favorite part!”
“The worms are no one’s favorite part. They’re a terrible idea. It’s like someone had an extra bushel of gummy worms they needed to get rid of.”
“I like the worms.”
“Take it up with Zoe,” I told him. “They’re probably at the bottom of her stomach by now.” We stared at each other for a second, an awkward silence descending over us. I leaned over to pet Izzy so I’d have something to do with my hands. Owen cleared his throat.
“So how are you liking it over there?” he finally asked.
“It’s great,” I replied. “Really great. The Cohens have been super welcoming.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Why do you sound surprised?”
“No reason, really.” Owen looked mildly uncomfortable. “I just . . . we don’t know them very well. I think my mom swung by a few times to invite them to dinner, but they seem to prefer to hang out by themselves.”
“Well, Libby did just have a baby,” I heard myself saying defensively. “And they just moved here, so I’m sure they’re still settling in.” That last part was a blatant lie—their house was fully set up and their belongings unpacked like they’d been there for years.
“It’s cool,” Owen said, raising both palms in the air in a gesture of innocence. “I didn’t realize you were so close to them. How do you know them, anyway?”
“We met online at the beginning of the summer,” I mumbled. “I answered their ad.”
“So . . . you don’t actually know them,” Owen stated. “You sort of Internet-dated them.”
“I’ve been living there for two weeks now,” I told him. “I think that’s enough time to get a sense of anyone. I guess I trust my instincts. Libby just kind of . . . gets me. I can’t explain it. And besides, you’re hardly one to talk. You’re my age and you’re still living at home.”
“I’m probably older than you. I’m twenty.”
“Case in point.”
“Touché.”
I laughed. Owen was fun to talk to; he didn’t seem to take anything too seriously. My budding crush, which had originally been based on superficial things like looks combined with scenario (being “saved” by a handsome EMT was a meet-cute too good to waste), was full-fledged now that I liked his personality, too.
“Can I have a glass of water?” I asked. “I’m feeling parched from all of this verbal sparring.”
“Yes . . . if you’ll also join me for a milkshake.” I felt myself blush—was he asking me on a date? Then Owen gestured toward the blender, already half-full of ice cream, chocolate syrup, and milk. Not a date. Right here, right now. I ducked my head down, hoping he didn’t notice my face’s rapid transition to a vivid shade of pink.
Owen brought down a glass from the cupboard above the island and filled it with water at the sink. Then he dropped two more enormous scoops of ice cream into the blender and squeezed chocolate syrup on top, sighing melodramatically as it oozed slowly from the bottle.
“You’d think they’d have developed a better way of dispensing it by now,” he remarked.
“I think it’s all about portion control. You’re not supposed to use half the bottle every time.”
“Once you try it, you won’t be complaining.”
He was right. It was awesome. Somehow he’d perfected the ratio of milk and ice cream so the end result was thick, like something from a restaurant, rather than runny, the way homemade milkshakes usually were. It was heavenly.
“Yum,” I told him. “Thanks for making it.”
“It’s my favorite thing to cook,” he said.
“Oh yeah? What else is in your culinary repertoire?”
“Sardine bagels. S’mores. Grilled cheese on the Foreman.”
“An impressive range.”
“I’ve never actually utilized the oven or stove,” he remarked in between slurps. “I find them superfluous.”
“I think your overwhelming talent has probably surpassed them,” I said. He laughed in the way only confident people do, loudly and with his head tossed back.
“So what’s your greatest fear?” he asked, when he finally caught his breath.
“Oh god,” I groaned.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I shook my head. “It’s nothing, really.” I didn’t want to say what was on my mind for fear of offending him.
“You’re a nihilist?”
“Very funny.” I scowled.
“Then what?”
“I just really, really hate these kinds of questions.”
“What kind? The curious kind? The kind that show an interest in who you are?”
“YES! Exactly. The getting-to-know-you ones. The only lamer question is, ‘What kind of music do you listen to?’”
“Actually,” he said offhandedly, “it wasn’t really about getting to know you. Had you allowed me to explain myself before jumping to conclusions, you might have learned that I was asking for different reasons, reasons that directly contribute to your wellbeing.”
“Okay, what? Why did you want to know? And it’s bats, by the way.”
He raised his eyebrows, grinning a little. “We’ll get back to that in a second. But that’s a relief. I’m just really glad it’s not spiders, like the rest of the female population.”
“Why?” I asked. “And by the way, that was such a stereotype.”
“I only asked because there is a massive tarantula right outside the patio window, and I didn’t want you to freak out if you turned around and saw it.” I jumped and whirled around, making a strange, squeal-grunt noise that I hadn’t thought I was capable of producing. The spider’s hairy leg and half his body were lazily feeling around on the glass in the upper lefthand corner of the door.
“Huh,” he said. “It’ll be interesting to see what you get like around bats.” He came around from behind the counter to stand next to me. “God, it’s been so long since I’ve seen one of these. Pretty sick, right?”
“Definitely,” I told him. “And not in the way that you mean it, either.” I could feel the heat from his body touching the heat from mine, our two heats meeting somewhere in the middle and sizzling together to form electric circuitry that I hoped he could feel, too.
If he felt it, he clearly didn’t find it as fascinating as the fistsized spider in the window. “I used to have one of these,” he remarked. “Before I got Izzy. His name was Chad.” I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He appeared to be dead serious.
“Go on,” I encouraged. Owen moved closer to the window, his eyes locked on the furry arachnid. Izzy nuzzled close to me, her snout wetting my kneecap, as if to commiserate.
“Yeah,” he told me. “That was back when I was ten. It was how I wound up with Izzy, actually. I begged my parents for a dog for years, and my mom always said, ‘No dog, but you can have any pet that lives in a cage.’ I thought that was sort of insensitive of her, given that living things of any kind shouldn’t be caged, but I went ahead and picked out my consolation pet.”
“Chad,” I said.
“Chad,” he agreed.
“So Chad, being revolting, shed a favorable light on dogs?”
“Not exactly,” he said, tapping the window a few times until the spider scuttled away, hopefully not toward the Cohens’ house. “My mom put up with it for a while. Everything was totally fine. She just wouldn’t come into my bedroom. Which worked, because then I didn’t have to clean it. But then I started feeling bad for Chad, so I set him free outside. And then the next day, he came back. My mom found him on the front stoop, where he was eating a mouse.”
“Oh my god.” I shuddered. “That’s so gross.”
“I thought it was good of Chad and kind of catlike, but my mom was freaked out. So that was the end of that.”
“How could you be sure it was him and not some random other tarantula? Apparently they’re abundant in these parts,” I said, nodding toward the door. I pulled out a bar stool behind me and took a seat, sucking up the remains of my milkshake while I listened. I liked hearing Owen tell stories. He was so open and easy to talk to. Plus, he was kind of a weirdo, like me.
“Yeah, well . . .” He trailed off, looking uncomfortable.
“What?” I asked, sensing my chance to pry out an embarrassing nugget of information.
“Nothing,” he mumbled.
“Seriously,” I told him, “you can’t do that. Not after your nihilist comment.”
“Fine,” he sighed, obviously reluctant to tell me. “Chad had an identifying feature. I had spray-painted him gold.”
I choked, snorting milkshake up my nose. I coughed several times before I was able to talk again. I hadn’t been expecting that. “Jesus,” I said. “How did he live through that experience? And why did your parents allow you to have contact with any living thing ever again?”
“The spray paint was nontoxic,” he said defensively. “It was just that kind kids use on their hair at Halloween. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Right,” I said, unable to control my laughter.
“Forget it. I never should have told you.”
“Izzy, you’re just lucky to be alive, aren’t you?” I said in my most obnoxious baby voice, scratching Izzy under the chin. “Aren’t you, girl?”
“All right, all right,” he said, rolling his eyes. “It’s all soooo hilarious. Now let’s talk bats.”

“I’ve got a stomach of steel.” I tried not to picture what his stomach of steel might look like . . . or feel like. . . .
“Okay, well,” I said after I’d cleared my head. “When I was nine, my mom shut a bat in the closet door. She beheaded it.”
“Jesus,” Owen said. “How did that happen?”
“She opened the door, the bat squeaked and started to fly, she freaked out, slammed the door, and the bat wasn’t fast enough. It was really sad. Not to mention gruesome.”
“I bet,” he said, nodding. “So the image of a halved bat has haunted you ever since.”
“I literally don’t see bats the same way. They’re just disconnected heads and bodies.”
“I get it,” he said. “I one hundred percent get it. I don’t even think this warrants further discussion.”
“You asked,” I reminded him.
“And now I totally wish I hadn’t,” he said. We smiled at each other, and this time he was the first to duck his head. It was one of those moments when, if we’d been dating, we would have curled up together or kissed or something. But we weren’t, so instead there was awkward space and silence between us.
“Well,” I said, clearing my throat and pushing back from the stool. “I guess it’s time for me to return to my duties.”
“Be off with ye, scullery maid,” he said drily.
“Shut up.” I turned to the door as another uncomfortable silence fell. If I didn’t leave right that minute, what had been a fun hour together was in danger of spiraling downward very quickly. But I couldn’t help dragging my feet. It was the most fun I’d had since I’d moved to Marin County. Unable to delay further, I gave Izzy a scratch behind the ears and headed for the door with Owen trailing behind me silently.
“So, this was fun,” Owen said finally as he opened the door for me.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Thanks again for the milkshake. Best milkshake ever.” I gave him a wide smile, hating myself for being so weird.
“Okay, see ya around.”
“Yep. Bye! Later Iz,” I said with a final rub to the dog’s head. I was almost halfway down the front walk and five seconds into an angry internal monologue in which I chastised myself for being such a coward when I heard Owen’s voice behind me.
“Annie!” he called out, “Wait up.” Then he was jogging toward me.
“I forgot to get your number,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I don’t want to have to come knocking every time I want to talk to you.”
“Oh, right,” I said, like I’d forgotten too. “Hold on a sec.” I had to dig my phone out of my pocket and scroll to the section under “Contacts” that listed my number. “I still don’t know it by heart,” I explained. “They just gave it to me yesterday.”
“Here, we’ll do it this way.” He took my phone from my hand and began dialing another number—his own—and a second later his phone started ringing.
“Perfect,” I said, but he wasn’t relinquishing my phone. I peered at him pointedly, but he was busy fiddling with my interface. Was “interface” the name of the phone display? Who knew. “So whatcha doing over there?” I asked casually.
“One minute,” he muttered. “Okay,” he said a second later, extending my phone toward me. “Now you have both my number and the most spectacular game ever to grace the smartphone. So now we can play each other.”
“Cool,” I said, trying to be casual, even though our interaction had effectively ended even better than I’d hoped, with the promise of continued communication! “See you soon.” I jogged back to the house, willing myself not to look back. He couldn’t know how excruciating leaving him had made me feel, or how ecstatic I was now. I ran right up to my room, sure I was sweating and flushed enough to warrant an interrogation from Libby if I didn’t clean up first. My body was fireworks. It was rapids. It was the grand prix. It was racing ahead of me and I couldn’t control it, but I didn’t want to.

I spENT THE REMAINdER of the evening playing Owen in Words with Friends, the Scrabble-like game he’d downloaded to my phone just after programming his number into my contacts. I never thought I could feel such profound ardor for a cell phone. If there was a better feeling than the one I felt then, I wasn’t sure I could live to handle it.