Just Listen

I looked at Owen, who was watching me, his hands now in his pockets. "Yeah," I told her. "Just give me one second."

As I started down the steps, I could hear my father asking where I was going, and my mother responding she had no idea. I was sure they were all watching me, but I didn't look back as I crossed the square, walking up to Owen, who had the strangest look on his face, one I'd never seen before. He was shifting in place, clearly uncomfortable.

"Hey," he said quickly, as soon as I was in earshot.

"Hi."

He took in a breath, about to speak, then stopped, ru

The weird thing was that I wasn't. While initially, I'd been surprised, then worried when he hadn't shown up, the entire experience had been so overwhelming—although cathartic— that I'd kind of forgotten about it once I got up on the stand. I opened my mouth to tell him this, but he was already talking again.

"The basic fact is that I should have been here. I have no excuse. There is no excuse." He looked down at the ground, scuffing his foot across the pavement. "I mean, there is a reason. But it's not an excuse."

"Owen," I said. "It's—"

"Something happened." He sighed, shaking his head. His face was flushed, and he was still fidgeting. "Something stupid. I made a mistake, and—"

Then, and only then, did I put it altogether. His absence. This shuffling embarrassment. And Will Cash's black eye. Oh my God, I thought.

"Owen," I said, my voice low. "No way."

"It was an error in judgment," he said quickly. "And something I regret."

"Something," I repeated.

"Yes."

A businessman talking loudly on a cell phone passed us, talking about mergers. "Placeholder," I told him.

He winced. "I thought you might say that."

"Come on," I said. "You knew I would say that."

"Fine, fine." He pulled a hand through his hair. "I was having an in-depth discussion with my mother. One that I could not easily extract myself from."

"A discussion," I repeated. "About what?"

Again, he flinched. This was killing him. And yet I could not help myself. After being on the other side of the truth for so long, I realized I kind of liked asking the questions.

"Well," he said, then coughed. "Basically, I'm supposed to be under punishment right now. For the foreseeable future, in fact. So I had to negotiate a furlough. It took longer than I expected."

"You're grounded," I said, clarifying.

"Yes."

"For what?"

He winced, then shook his head, looking over at the fountain. Who knew the truth could be so hard for Owen Armstrong, the most honest boy in the world. But if I asked, he would tell. That I knew for sure.

"Owen," I said as he squirmed, noticeably, his shoulder wriggling, "what did you do?"

He just looked at me for a minute. Then he sighed. "I punched Will Cash in the face."

"What were you thinking?"

"Well, clearly I wasn't." He flushed a deeper red. "I didn't intend to do it."

"You punched him by accident."

"No." He shot me a look. "Okay, you really want to know?"

"Am I not asking?"

"Look," Owen said, "the truth is, after you left yesterday, I was really pissed off. I mean, I'm human, right?"

"You are," I agreed.

"I really only wanted to get a good look at him. That was all. And I knew he sometimes plays with that shitty Perkins

Day band that was in a showcase last night at Bendo, so I figured he might be there. And he was. Which, really, when you think about it, is despicable. What kind of a person goes to a club—to see a shitty band, no less—the night before he's due in court? It's—"

"Owen," I said.

"I'm serious! Do you know how much they suck? Seriously, even for a cover band they're pathetic. I mean, if you're going to just come out and admit you can't write your own songs, at least be able to play other people's well…"

I just looked at him.

"Right," he said. He ran a hand through his hair again. "So anyway, he was there, I got a look at him, end of story."

"Clearly," I said sternly, "that is not the end of the story."

Owen continued, reluctantly. "I watched their set. Which, as I said, sucked. I went out for some air, and he was outside smoking a cigarette. And he starts talking to me. Like we know each other. Like he's not the freaking scum of the earth, a total fucking asshole."

"Owen," I said softly.

"I could feel myself getting more and more pissed off." He winced. "I knew I should breathe, and walk away, and everything else, but I didn't. And then, when he finished his cigarette, he clapped me on the shoulder and turned to go back inside. And I just—"

I took a step closer to him.

"—snapped," he finished. "I lost it."

"It's okay," I said.

"I knew even when I was doing it I'd regret it," he said.

"That it wasn't worth it. But by then it was already happening. I'm really pissed off at myself, if you want to know the truth."

"I know."

"It was just one punch," he grumbled, then added quickly, "which doesn't make it okay. And I'm so freaking lucky the bouncer just broke us up and told us both to get out of there, and didn't call the cops. If he had…" He trailed off. "It's just so stupid."

"But you told your mom anyway," I said.

"When I got home, she could tell I was pissed. So she asked me what happened, and I had to tell her—"

"Because you're honest," I said, taking another step.

"Well, yeah," he said, looking down at me. "She was livid, to say the least. Laid down this hardcore punishment, totally deserved, but then today, when I tried to leave to come here, things got kind of sticky."

"It's okay," I said again.

"It's not, though." Behind him, the fountain was splashing, sunlight glinting off the water. "Because I'm not like that. Anymore. I just… freaked out."

I reached up, brushing his hair out of his face. "Huh," I said. "Really."

"What?"

"I don't know." I shrugged. "It's just to me, that's not freaking out."

"It's not," he said. Then he just looked at me for a second. "Oh," he said finally. "Right."

"I mean, to me," I said, moving closer, "freaking out is different. More of a ru

"Ah," he said. "Well, I guess it's just a matter of semantics."

"I guess so."

People were still moving all around us, on their way here and there, filling up their lunch hour however they could before the rest of the day began. I knew that somewhere behind me, my family was waiting, but still I reached my hand down to brush his.

"You know," Owen said, as his fingers found mine, "it sure seems like you have all the answers."

"Nah," I told him. "I'm just doing the best I can, under the circumstances."

"How's that going?" he asked.

There was no short answer to this; like so much else, it was a long story. But what really makes any story real is knowing someone will hear it. And understand.