“Ma’am, can you explain what happened here tonight?” the first officer asks. I notice the tag on his uniform reads Blakely.

“My husband…he…he was drinking. We’re…separated,” my mom says, her words coming out in a stutter as she watches the police officers push my dad’s head down as they load him into the back of one of the cars.

“Are you hurt, ma’am?” Blakely asks, and my mom quickly shakes her head no.

“The boy—” she says, looking to me and then out to Owen who is being jerked to a stand by Blakely’s partner, “he was only helping. Please, he was just protecting my daughter.”

Blakely stops his pen on his notepad and looks up at my mom when she says this, then to me, before looking back over his shoulder at Owen who is slowly being led to the other car. “That boy? The one right there?” he asks, motioning to Owen with his pen.

“Yes,” my mom says, her eyes fighting against the need to cry.

“I’m afraid we’re still going to need to talk to him,” he says, nodding his head to his partner to continue.

“Can’t you talk to him here? Or just call him or whatever? I mean…he saved me!” I sound like a pathetic little girl, and my stomach is overcome with this sinking feeling that they’re not going to listen to me, that they’re going to take Owen away, and it will be my fault.

“Miss, if you’re lying, you’re going to be in a heap of trouble. That kid right there—he’s not worth lying for, you understand?” Blakely says, but all I can see is the door closing on Owen behind him, and Owen going peacefully—willingly.

“I understand,” I say, my eyes moving back to Blakely. “I’m not lying.”

He holds my attention for a few long seconds, the sound of his pen clicking open and shut like a bomb ticking away in my ears. “Mosely, let him go,” he says, pushing the button on the radio pinned to his collar.

“You sure about that?” I hear his partner respond.

“Seems so,” Blakely says, and within seconds, his partner is stepping back out of the vehicle and opening the door for Owen. I don’t breathe until his hands are free. When the car holding my father pulls away, I move closer to him, letting my mom finish her talk with the police officers.

“Come on, you need ice,” I say, pulling at the sleeve of his shirt, urging him to follow me inside.

Owen’s quiet as we walk up my porch and through the main living room, but he pauses at my piano. I backpedal a few steps, and nod toward the kitchen, and he catches up.

“Let me see,” I say, placing my hands on both of his shoulders, gently guiding him to one of our stools. I step closer, until my body is practically between his long, outstretched legs, and I move my hands to his chin, tilting it upward so I can see how bad his bruising is in the light.

“That’s going to be really bad. God, Owen…I’m so sorry,” I say, but he quiets me fast.

“Shhhhhh,” he says, his head tilting back down and his eyes on me. His hair is super messy, the beanie he was wearing lost somewhere in the scuffle with my dad.

“I’m so embarrassed,” I say, closing my eyes and letting my head fall forward. I want to cry, but I’m so drained; I can’t even do that.

“Don’t be. Not with me. Not over this,” he says, his hand slowly sweeping a strand of my hair away from my face. His gesture sends a short wave of shivers down my neck and arms, and I hate my father for ruining this moment. I want to enjoy it, but I can’t.

I turn to the freezer and fill a small plastic bag with a few ice cubes, then wrap it in a dishtowel. “It’s the best we have. Don’t get a lot of shiners in our house,” I chuckle. My joke is stupid, but Owen smiles at it anyway.

“Thanks,” he says, taking it from me, his hand covering mine completely when he does. God how I want him to hold my hand.

I move to the stool next to him and prop my elbows up on the counter, digging my hands into my scalp and massaging my head, like this situation is something I could somehow erase, only keeping the good parts.

Our silence doesn’t last long, and Blakely comes in to sit in the third stool to take down our version of the story. Owen lets me do most of the talking, and I notice they don’t write down anything he says anyway. Seems the Harper-brother rumors have even tainted the local law enforcement’s opinion of him.

By the time the police leave, it’s time for Owen to drive me back to school, and the trip back feels shorter…or maybe it doesn’t feel long enough.