Send Me a Sign(3)

But Gyver didn’t look for signs the way I did, and he’d laugh if I suggested this.

He wasn’t laughing now. He fixed his frown on the road, and I studied the CD I twirled on my finger. I wished, not for the first time, that his car had an iPod hookup so I could see the contents of his playlists.

It didn’t matter; the first song that played would be a sign—and I needed something to point the way. Should I tell him? Could I tell him? I hadn’t said the words out loud yet.

I slipped the disk into the CD player and pressed shuffle to add another layer of chance: track six.

A few notes floated out of the speakers and I leaned forward on the seat to catch them. The song began thin, a light piano repeating, fleshed out with the quietest tapping on a cymbal and a background layer of electric guitar.

Before the lyrics began, however, in the pause while I held my breath waiting for the first words, Gyver reached over and switched the stereo off.

“Let’s talk,” he said.

I twisted my fingers in my necklace, clutching the clover-shaped pendant.

Gyver glanced at me and sighed. “It’s just a song, Mi. It doesn’t mean anything. I don’t want you looking for hidden meanings and all that crap.”

He knew me too well. Hopefully well enough to know I couldn’t let this go. “But what is it?”

“It’s a bad CD selection.” He pressed Eject, turned on the overhead light, held up the disk, then read the title while I squinted at his smudged lefty letters. “Anthems for Anger. You’re already weirdly quiet and you’re going to get all superstitious. What’s up? Talk to me.”

“I need to hear it.” A tidal wave of panic battered against the blockades I’d reinforced all day. Something, anything, was liable to tear them down and leave me useless. “I picked it—I’ve got to hear it.”

“Mia, it’s just a stupid song.” Gyver’s voice was rough with frustration. He used his elbow to hit the window-down button and bent his wrist back to throw.

“Don’t!” I snatched at his arm and we veered onto the dirt shoulder. My elbow slammed against my door as we jerked to a stop. A few feet from us was a blur of pine trees, and beyond that, water. The builders hadn’t yet bulldozed nature on this side of East Lake, but unless there was a sudden drop in the number of couples moving from New York or Philly to raise their kids in our sleepy, postcard-perfect town, these trees had a limited life expectancy.

Life expectancy.

“Dammit, Mia! Do you want to kill us? What’s wrong with you tonight?”

I was glad it was dark in the car—too dark to see the emotion I knew would be carved into his forehead, making his brown eyes blaze. Gyver was a master at intimidating stares, and his frown would be all it took for me to crack and spill everything. My fingers started to tremble. I untangled them from my necklace, sat on my hands, and waited him out—let him curse under his breath and squeeze the wheel with a one-handed death grip.

“Fine. You’re not going to listen to anything I say until you’ve heard it, are you? It’s ‘Break Myself’ by Something Corporate.”

“I don’t know it—I may need to hear it more than once.” I rubbed my elbow. It was already bruising, a reminder of what I wasn’t telling him.

“Be my guest.” Gyver thrust the CD in, punched the Advance button, then twisted the volume to an uncomfortable level.

It was a male singer and he started quietly, but I knew I was in trouble before he’d finished the first verse. I was sniffing before the chorus. It was starting to be too real.

I’m willing to bleed for days … my reds and grays so you don’t hurt so much



And crying before the refrain.

I’m willing to break myself. I’m not afraid.



I was afraid. Terrified.

“Do you need to hear it again?” Gyver growled as the final notes echoed through the SUV. I shook my head and he turned off the stereo. My ragged breathing was the only sound in the Jeep. “It’s just a song. They aren’t even a band anymore. What’s going on with you?”

“It’s been a long day,” I whispered, then changed the subject before he could ask why. “Is the party going to be busted?”

“Yeah. I didn’t think you’d want underage drinking on your perfect record right before college apps. You’re lucky you’re so bewitchingly gorgeous and I couldn’t resist rescuing you.” He poked my knee and smiled at me.

I rolled my eyes. “I wasn’t drinking. I just needed a night out.” A last night.

“You had a cup.”

“Of water.”

“And I’m sure The Jock’s playing quarters with apple juice.”

“Ryan! The girls! They’re going to worry about me. Do you think they got caught? I’ve got to call.” With everything else clamoring in my brain, I’d forgotten them.

“Why?” Gyver scoffed.

“’Cause he’s—”

“He’s what? Your date when it’s convenient for him? Your hook-up buddy? How exactly would you define it?”

“It’s casual,” I mumbled. “I’m not sleeping with him.”

“He’s an ass. You can do better.”

“It’s no big deal. And you should talk—either you have some impossible standard no East Lake girl can meet, or you get off on disappointing the ones who ask you out.”