Four Years Later (One Week Girlfriend #4)(60)
Author: Monica Murphy

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.

CHAPTER 19

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.”

“Shut the f**k up,” Owen says, his voice low. He sounds so angry. His hands are curled into fists and his jaw is tight. He looks ready to beat someone with his bare hands. “Don’t talk to her. She’s not a part of this.”

“You shut the f**k up,” his mom retorts, her face scrunched and ugly, her cheeks red as she glares from me to him and back to me again. “And she’s definitely a part of this. She’s trying to steal you away from me. You’re my baby boy, Owen. I need you. You can’t leave me. A boy always needs and loves his mama.”

God, what is she saying? She hates me. And no one has ever really hated me. I’m always well liked. I work hard at being liked. By my professors, by my employers, by what few friends I have.

This woman doesn’t even know me and she hates me on sight.

“I—I should go.” I stumble backward, practically smacking into Wade, who’s standing right behind me, and then I turn. I’m running down the hall to Owen’s bedroom, where I slip inside and grab my small overnight bag and my purse off the floor, slinging them both over my shoulder so I can make my escape.

I can’t stay here. Owen told his mom he doesn’t have a girlfriend. I don’t exist. So what does that make me to him? His piece on the side? Some dumb girl he’s just … fucking until he’s finished using me and ready to move on to someone else?

The idea is so painful, I can hardly stand the thought.

Blindly I walk through the house, noticing that the front door is still hanging wide open and I have no choice but to leave the way I came. Wade isn’t in the living room. He’s nowhere to be found. I don’t see Owen or his mother, either.

Oh my God. If Fable knew Owen was still in contact with their mom, she’d probably flip out.

I step out onto the front porch to find Fable already there, glaring at her mother as though she wants to tear her throat out, and Owen is grasping hold of Fable’s shoulders to keep her from lunging.

“You need to leave,” Fable is saying, her voice so low, so dark, it sends a shiver down my spine.

I’m frozen, standing by the door, watching the three of them.

“Why does she hate me, Owen?” their mother sobs before she turns into Owen’s chest, crying all over the front of his shirt. He wraps his arm loosely around her shoulders, looking uncomfortable.

“Please. You’re so pathetic,” Fable mutters. “Quit the act and get away from him. Stop trying to ruin his life.”

They hardly notice me and I make my escape, slipping past them and down the short steps, running down the sidewalk without a backward glance. My feet slap against the concrete, my breaths coming fast and full of panic. I can’t stop hearing Owen’s denial that he has a girlfriend, the horrible things his mother said to me, about me. She doesn’t even know me. How could she hate me so much? What did I ever do to her?

And why didn’t Owen defend me?

“Chelsea!”

I hear him call my name and it only makes me run harder. Faster. Tears stream down my face but I don’t bother brushing them away. They flood my vision, make it hard for me to see, and when I trip over a raised crack in the sidewalk, I go flying forward, throwing my hands out and ready to eat concrete.

Only to be caught by Owen, hauled back into his arms with my face pressed against his chest. I can smell him—apples and the outdoors and pine, the scent of fall, of Owen. “Jesus, you’re fast, Chels. Good thing I caught you.”

“Don’t call me that.” I wrench out of his grip and take a step back, nearly tripping on the same spot again, but I gain my footing. He’s talking to me as if nothing’s happened. How can he do that? Everything’s happened. It’s … it’s over. Just like that. “Get away from me.”