Page 153 of One Wild Wish

I offered a timid wave. “That’s me.”

He stared. I cowered. Around us, the earth continued its slothful spin.

I was a breath from doing my fiercest runway walk away from there, but I’d come for a reason. There was no changing the prank I’d pulled. Nothing could undo the physical harm I’d caused. It was time to accept my punishment.

“I’ve been volunteering here and noticed you a while back, but was too cowardly to approach you.” I cleared my throat twice. “Thing is, I was the one who left you the cockroach box. You weren’t exactly nice to me, but there’s no excusing what I did. And I don’t expect you to accept my apology. I’m still sorry. You didn’t deserve to get hurt.”

His face glazed over like an unimpressed wax statue, but my heart was a battering ram. I couldn’t tell if his blank expression was born of repressed anger or arrogance. He’d exhibited both as a teen.

He scratched his red hair, a move that put his burned hand in full view. “Are you done?”

If he’d let me apologize ten thousand times over, I would. “I guess. I’ve just always felt sick about it. Maybe knowing it’s haunted me will make you feel marginally better.” I didn’t guilt him for what he’d done, or offer my sob story about working too many hours back then and struggling to keep my head above water while paying my family’s bills. How it had all compounded with his cruelty, culminating in my cowardly act.

There was no justifying my actions.

“Good,” he said, “because I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

It was my turn to become a statue. As awful as he’d been, he’d never shown a lick of remorse. I hadn’t hoped for it now. “You should?”

He watched his students a moment, then stared at his boots. “My father was a drunk—the nasty, abusive kind—and I took that out on you. You were an easy target, I guess. I’m ashamed about it, to this day. So, yeah…I should be the one apologizing. And thanking you. The cockroach stunt woke me up.”

“But the scars…”

He held up his hand and smirked. “They’re kind of badass, and they remind me what’s important. I don’t tolerate bullying in my classes. If I even get a whiff of it, I come down hard on the kids.”

One of the moody teenage girls called, “Mr. Bickley!”

Anton raised a finger to tell her he’d be a minute. “Anyway, I’m sorry for everything I did. That fridge stunt especially. You tried your best at work, and I was a prick.”

“You’re forgiven,” I said quickly, happy to say the words, thrilled to put this chapter of my life to bed. I wouldn’t be sending him a friend request or swapping phone numbers, but grudges were poison. “Consider us non-enemies.”

He smiled sadly. “Non-enemies sounds pretty great. See you around the build.”

He joined his students, and I stood a moment, letting the reality of our conversation sink in. Shame still weighted me, but I felt light, too. Relieved the confrontation was over.

“How’d it go?”

I swiveled at Owen’s sexy baritone, teetering like I had the first time we’d met. Muddy ground and high fashion were not a good combo. “When did you turn up?”

He slid his arm around my waist, anchoring me. “I saw you talking with Anton and waited until he left.” His voice softened. “So?”

So , I faced my nemesis and apologized. So , I was still standing. “We both said what we needed to say, and he doesn’t blame me for what I did. He actually thanked me, which is odd.”

Pensive, Owen looked in Anton’s direction. “How do you feel?”

Naming this riot of emotions was as easy as choosing one item at a Sephora sale. “Like I’ve been riding the Gravitron ride Gwen once forced Rachel and me on—exhilarated and nauseated. But I also feel badly.”

Owen was in his usual work attire—worn jeans, gray T-shirt accentuating his broad chest, thick sandy hair askew from his hardhat. Untold tenderness warmed his eyes. “I don’t follow.”

“Apparently Anton was living with an abusive father back then. If I’d tried to understand him more, maybe I could have talked to him. Helped. But I was too wrapped up in my emotions to see beyond his pranks.”

A sharp look crossed Owen’s face, his features tightening.

My lungs constricted. “Do you think I messed up? That I should have done something?”

“Babe, no.” He shook his head vehemently. “Nothing like that. Teenagers are ruled by their emotions, and he was awful to you. I’d have done worse than a box of roaches. It just made me think of something else. But I’m happy you’ve found closure.”

I had found relief. As well as an idea.