The Queen of Bright and Shiny Things(51)

“You’re really good,” the barista tells him. “If you want, I’ll talk to Barbara about giving you a permanent spot in the showcase.”

“Not mine, I hope,” Jace mumbles.

But the complaint has no teeth. The guy hasn’t even asked for his guitar back.

Shane hands the instrument over. “Thanks, man.”

“No prob. You’re really good, dude.” Jace gives the compliment easily, which makes me like him. “We should get together and play sometime. What’s your number?”

“Just leave a message for me here, okay?”

Shane doesn’t have a phone, cell or otherwise. I know that about him, but Jace doesn’t, and seems to think Shane’s blowing him off. “Right. Whatever.”

“I have to get home,” I cut in.

“Right. Catch you later.” Shane waves at the crowd in general and they give him another round of applause.

Quickly, I clean all the bills out of the mug we borrowed, set it on the shelf, and then lead the way out of the Coffee Shop. I hand him the money as we reach the sidewalk. He counts his haul carefully, smoothing out the crumpled ones and fives. Then he stares at me, astonished. “There’s eighty-seven bucks here.”

“Put it away,” I advise.

He gets out his wallet like he’s dreaming. Though I’m not trying to be nosy, I can see there’s nothing in it.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to stop by the P&K before I head home. That’s the opposite direction from your house.”

I can see he’s torn. He needs groceries, but he wants to walk me home, too. There’s no easy way to do both.

“Go shopping,” I tell him. “But be careful. It’ll be really late before you—” Then it occurs to me. I know someone who has a car. “Hang on.” Shane’s frowning as I dial. “Conrad? What’re you doing?”

“Watching TV with my mom,” Conrad says.

“Listen, can you give Shane a ride home? It would help a lot.”

He’s so chill that he doesn’t ask questions, and he won’t wonder about where Shane lives. A lot of people live in trailers because they own land, but they can’t afford to build just yet.

“Yeah, it’s cool. Where?”

“Pick him up at the P&K in half an hour. Thanks, man. We owe you.” It gives me a warm feeling to use the word we in that context.

But Shane’s frowning at me when I disconnect. He crosses his arms, making it clear he’s pissed. “I could’ve walked. It’s fine.”

So I try to explain. “This is what friends do, help each other.”

“Conrad’s not my friend. I barely know the guy.”

“I’ve known him for a while. He has a good heart.” It didn’t even occur to me that Shane would get prickly over this. Who wants to walk five miles home in the dark while carrying grocery bags? I thought I made things better.

Apparently not.

“I told you before, I don’t like it when you do shit like this. I can manage my own life, Sage. You may feel sorry for me, but I’m dealing. I got by long before I met you.” A number of responses battle in my head, but before I can offer any of them, he spins and heads off, muttering over one shoulder, “I gotta go. Apparently I only have half an hour to get to the store and do my shopping.”

My stomach feels sick. I considered only how much I worry about Shane, never once imagining how I might be making him feel. I’d hate it if anyone felt sorry for me. But I don’t pity him; that’s not it all, I just want to help. I’ve gotten good at fixing things over the past three years. It’s an easy part of myself to offer, but he doesn’t want that from me.

After today, he might not want anything at all.

For a few seconds, I stand there, staring upward. It’s a clear night, a blue velvet gown of a sky dressed in diamond stars, but I feel like such an idiot that I can’t appreciate any of it. I do my best to shake it off, then I trudge home. For a day that started out awesome, this one went to hell pretty fast. I’m happy Aunt Gabby is on the phone with Joe when I get back. That way, I can disappear into my room. I love her but she’s all about talking about my emotions, and sometimes I can’t manage it. My feelings are awful and messy and it seems best, today, to ball them up and pretend they don’t exist, even though I can feel them chewing at me from the inside.

I don’t cry myself to sleep.

In fact, I don’t sleep. Much.

The next morning, I look like hell. There isn’t enough concealer to cover the crappy night I had. Over breakfast, Gabby takes one look at me and asks, “Did you have bad dreams? Your mom?”

“No,” I manage to say. “Just a rough night.”

I used to struggle with insomnia, so she’s not surprised. She just nods and kisses my cheek. “Let me know if I can do anything.”


By that I hope she means some herbal tea, not more counseling or actual meds. While sleeping pills knock me out, they also leave me feeling thick and disconnected. I hate taking them, so I was glad when my aunt let me stop. When I first came to stay with her, she hovered. She fussed. She acted like I was delicate machinery about to break down. And this is exactly how I make Shane feel, like I see him as a project or a problem to solve instead of a person—and that’s so far from the truth. Right now I feel miserable and helpless, a delightful combination on Monday morning. Though I haven’t known Shane as long as Ryan, this is ten times worse than our faux breakup.