The Queen of Bright and Shiny Things(65)

“Don’t just leave it here. Some * might make it worse over the weekend.”

His touch recalls me to the person I’ve chosen to be. So instead of doing something horrible, I unlock my bike and push it home on the shredded tires. A quick check in the shed tells me that I don’t have the supplies to fix this myself. I’ll have to take it to the repair shop, and it’ll take a chunk out of my college fund.

Shane grabs the basket and starts attaching it to his bike, distracting me from thoughts of revenge. “What’re you doing?”

“I’ll handle the shopping. It’s the least I can do.”

Since I’m barely keeping my shit together, I don’t argue. I dart inside to get the grocery money from the coffee can in the cupboard, then I hand over the list and he’s off. Long after he’s gone, I sit in the shed, staring at my shredded tires. It’s just a bike, right? It’s not like Dylan hurt me. A little voice whispers, You don’t have to blow up his truck. You could hit him in a quieter, deeper way. Right now, I’m restraining the urge, but only just. It takes all my self-control to bury the desire to wreck him and pin on a smile by the time Shane gets back.

*

Late Thursday, after my aunt has retired in a food coma, Shane and I are curled up together on the couch. He’s got an arm around my shoulders and I’m leaning against his chest. I’m sleepy, but not tired, and I’m 100 percent reluctant to end what has been the most perfect Thanksgiving ever. I’ve buried my anger beneath food and the sweetness of spending time with my favorite people.

Lazily I flip through the brand-new memories: Shane helping us cook, him scarfing down our traditional feast, and then us breaking out the artificial tree. It’s kind of ridiculous but Aunt Gabby always puts up our god-awful white Christmas tree after we eat Thanksgiving dinner. Now it’s twinkling behind us, throwing interesting shadows on the walls. We could be watching a movie, but I turned on the radio instead.

“This was … a phenomenal day,” he whispers.

It’s raining now, just a gentle patter, and I bet it’s chilly outside, but snuggled up against Shane, I can’t imagine ever being cold. “I’m glad you had fun. I know our traditions are a little weird. My aunt doesn’t believe in killing trees, so we’ve had this kitschy fake one forever. It grows on you.”

“No, I liked it. All of it. But especially this part.” He pulls me a little closer, so he can kiss my temple, and the tenderness of the gesture curls my toes.

“Me too,” I admit.

“So, I was wondering … are we official?”

“Are you asking if I’m your girlfriend?” Though I’m trying to be cool, inwardly I’m screaming my head off.

“Yeah. I mean, you had that problem with Ryan, where you were always together, and people thought you were a couple but you really weren’t. And people have been asking me, and I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t want to do to you what he did, so I thought—”

“We’re official.” I put him out of his misery, though I’ve never seen Shane ramble so much. It’s tempting to let him continue. “And it was never like this with Ryan. We never kissed.”

“Good,” he whispers, surprising me. “I wish I could have all your firsts, because you’re getting all of mine.”

Instead of saying something profound, I make a weird noise because I literally have no words. I am awesome at romance. Two points. He doesn’t seem to mind, though. When he kisses me, I forget why I needed to talk or what I meant to say.

Half an hour later, I reluctantly make up the sofa for Shane and head for my room. It’s hard to leave him, but I’d die of humiliation if my aunt came out to use the bathroom and caught us rolling around. So I savor a final good-night kiss and go to bed on my own. I’m not expecting any problems—this was such a good day, but for the first time in weeks, I have the Dream. I wake with a scream strangling in my throat, sweat pooled on my back, and the sense that the scene has changed. My bio-mom was there, like always, and I’m left shivering, hands tucked inside my sleeves. With my fingertips, I count, inspecting the scars that won’t go away. When I first moved in, my aunt bought vanishing creams, but … they didn’t help. Anyway, the worst marks are those that don’t show up on my skin.

For some reason, Dylan Smith has become one of the demons in my head, too. Maybe because he got away with slashing my tires, it’s like he has power over me now. I know from experience that I can’t go back to sleep, however, so I get a book and I’m curled up on my daybed, reading, when someone knocks on the door. The clock tells me it’s 5:22, not a normal time for anyone else to be awake. My aunt won’t stir for three more hours since the shop opens at ten; and she’s not looking forward to Black Friday, the only day of the year when they’re open until eight at night.

“Come in,” I call softly.

I’m not surprised to see Shane standing there, his hair adorably tousled. Overnight, he’s grown some scruff, and in this light, it has a hint of ginger. Somehow this makes him even cuter. “You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Parrying one question with another is a standard defensive strategy, and I instantly regret it. But I’m so scared of what he’ll think of me when I crack the fragile, painted eggshell I show the world and expose the gooey mess within.