The Queen of Bright and Shiny Things (18 page)

Lunch is loud, which gives me no chance to talk to Shane. Mostly, I enjoy Aunt Gabby’s pleasure in being a hostess. After everyone’s done eating, I carry the plates into the kitchen and close the galley door, so nobody can see the mess. I have no idea what to do with these people now that we’ve fed them, but Lila is good at this kind of thing. She finds a terrible SF movie in our collection, which encourages everyone to shout commentary at the screen. Soon Ryan is replacing all the dialogue with his own improv, delivered in a Russian accent. He’s supposed to sound like Borat, but given how bad he is, I’m probably the only one who knows this.

Around six, parents pull up out front. Eventually, it’s just Ryan, Lila, Shane, and me. Ry puts his hand on my arm and says in a subdued voice, “This was fun.”

“Yeah. You can have the party at your place next time.”

He gives me a hopeful look. “Would you come?”

“If it’s a bunch of us, sure.”

Just then, his mom leans on the horn and he hurries out with a general good-bye and a call of “Thanks!” for my aunt.

“No problem,” Aunt Gabby yells back.

At last, Lila decides she should head out, too, and she hugs me. Her eyes are yelling,
Text me as soon as he leaves.
“This was really fun. See you tomorrow.”

“So … that was nuts,” Shane says as the door closes.

“Yeah. But on the plus side, my aunt didn’t have a chance to interrogate you.”

“Is she likely to do that now?” he asks, looking faintly alarmed.

I shake my head. “You want to go for a walk? I could use some fresh air.”

“Sounds good.”

After heading down the hall, I tap on Aunt Gabby’s door. “Shane and I are going out. Don’t worry about cleanup. I’ll take care of it when I get back.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Probably to the Coffee Shop.” It’s not like there’s much to do here on a Sunday night.

“Be back by nine,” she says.

“Not a problem. I still have homework … and Shane probably does, too.”

He nods at this. “Plus it’s a long walk home.”

If I could think of a way for Aunt Gabby to drive him that wouldn’t end in a bunch of awkward questions, I’d ask her. “Come on. The weather won’t be warm enough for us to do this much longer.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Once we’re walking down the drive, I ask, “How was work?” With so many people around, lunch didn’t give us much chance to talk, and I’m wondering how he did at the P&K.

“It sucked about as much as I expected. I opened boxes. Priced and put cans on shelves. Twice, I mopped up stuff that other people broke.”

“But you can deal?”

Shane nods. “I’m looking forward to my first paycheck.”

There are a lot of questions I want to ask him, like if he misses his dad and whether he likes living alone, but it seems too soon to poke around in his head that way. I’m full of blazing curiosity about how he dealt with something so big by himself. My control slips, and I think of my mother. I start to shake. Somehow, I lock it down before it turns into anything worse. I imagine melting down in front of Shane and my cheeks fire up.

He seems to think the tremors mean I’m cold, though it’s in the sixties today, unseasonably warm for this late in the fall. Not that I mind. Life gets downright uncomfortable in the winter. Because he’s sweet, Shane takes off his jacket and drapes it around my shoulders. I’ve seen this move a hundred times in romantic movies and, until this moment, I always rolled my eyes. But now I’ve got his warmth wrapped around me, his smell enveloping me, and this is pretty close to the best thing ever.

“Better?” he asks.

“Yeah, but you’ll be cold now.”

“It’s worth it if I am.”

This is me, melting like butter on the sidewalk. Somehow I keep my knees from turning to total jelly. I’m not sure what we talk about the rest of the way, only that Shane is murmuring and I’m nodding at whatever he’s saying. It’s wrong to zone out, but I can’t help it. His coat feels and smells
so good.
I wonder how he’d respond if I don’t give it back.

Knowing Shane, he’d be nice about it, even though he doesn’t have anything to spare. We have that in common. I can’t relate to people who get whatever they want, just by asking. Aunt Gabby would do more if she could, but our budget doesn’t allow for it. She pays the mortgage, utilities, and buys our food; she says it helps that we don’t eat meat. Anything extra, like my clothes, comes out of my paycheck. I’m trying to save for college, now that I’ve bought a laptop, but it’s tough sometimes.

Shane’s scuffing his feet on the leaves littering the sidewalk; sometimes they crunch and sometimes they quietly dissolve. “It’s hard to believe things can be this way. Like nothing happened.”

“I don’t know how you coped.”

“Mike helped. He was a friend, someone she met in group.” At my blank look, he explains, “She was in a support group for cancer survivors. Mike beat the odds. My mom didn’t.”

“He went into remission and it didn’t come back?”

“I think it’s been seven years. And at the end, I was just so mad. Mike has no close family. No people. No reason to stick around, you know? But my mom, she had me. So why her and not Mike?”

“Did you say that to him?” I ask softly.

“Shit, I screamed it at him, afterward. He tried so hard to help me, and I pissed all over it.” He pauses, gazing down at me, looking torn. “My mom had papers drawn up, appointing him as my legal guardian. She was trying to look out for me, even at the end. If I hadn’t been such an asshole, Mike would’ve been there for me, just like he was for her.”

“He sounds like a good guy.”

“Yeah. He helped me with all of it, picking up prescriptions, the special diet, and he relieved me sometimes, near the end. He even helped me take care of the funeral arrangements.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t blame you, Shane.”

“I keep thinking how disappointed my mom would be. But back then, I just kept thinking,
There’s no reason for anything anymore
. Screw it all.”

Touching his arm, I say, “I bet she’d understand. It was a lot to deal with.”

“Wow. I didn’t mean to unload so much at once.” He appears shaken.

“I don’t mind. I’m glad you can talk to me.” To be honest, I want to hug him hard and refuse to let go, but then we’d never get to the Coffee Shop.

“You’re a good listener. You make it easy.”

“Thanks.” That might be the best compliment I’ve ever received, especially coming from a guy who says he never opens up to people. Shane makes me feel like I’m special, if only to him. We keep walking. His hand wraps around mine, warm and sure.

“Here we are,” Shane says, shoving the door open.

The bell jangles as we step inside. There are, like, twenty middle-aged women in here, sitting in threes and fours. I’m guessing they wanted to get away from people after church. It’s cozy in the Coffee Shop, padded furnishings in complementary colors; I love how they’ve mixed patterns for an inviting impression. There’s a line and only a couple of chairs vacant.

I offer, “I can get our drinks if you’ll grab those—”

“Sit. What do you want?” Normally, I’d be a little irritated at the interruption, but I don’t mind if Shane takes charge. He’s probably used to that, under the circumstances. Given what he told me on the way here, he doesn’t
know
how to let people look after him anymore.

“Chai latte, please. Soy milk.”

“Be right back.”

I slide into the seats just before a couple of girls my age can claim them. If they were old women, I’d feel guilty and cede my ground, but these two can stand. I ignore their glares and drop my bag on Shane’s spot. I wish we’d gotten a love seat, but it’s pretty hard to talk on those anyway. You have to turn sideways and worry about whether you look weird with one leg bent up at an angle.

At this point I notice there’s a mic to the left of the barista counter and the chairs have been pushed back, giving the room a slightly off-kilter feel. A wooden stool sits in front of the microphone, but nobody seems to be setting up to play. A flyer on the bulletin board tells me what’s going on:

EVERY SUNDAY! 6pm. The Coffee Shop is proud to present a showcase of local musicians.

Only it’s six fifteen now, and I hear the women next to me complaining. “I missed my hair appointment for this, and the Curly Q is closed now.”

And they have been for over two hours.
Mildred only opens the place from noon to four on Sundays; she doesn’t want to obstruct anyone’s religious practices. Which is good of her, and the kind of thing you rarely see outside the Bible Belt.

Soon Shane returns with our drinks; I can’t tell what he has, but it’s not a frap since it’s in a hot beverage cup with paper guard around it. He drops into an adorable sprawl across from me, long legs taking up the space between us. If I had more confidence, I’d prop my feet on top of his, but this thing has just gotten started between us, even if we’re already sharing a locker. Just … for the first time, I want so bad for someone to like me back. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had crushes before, guys I’d never meet or ones I knew would never look at me like that. Sometimes it’s safer to pin your dreams on somebody who’s never going to see you. While it’s sad, it’s also safe. Because there’s no chance he’ll ever break your heart for real.

Shane? Could crush me.

To cover the thumping of my heart, I sip my chai latte. He didn’t sweeten it, which is perfect. “This is great, thanks. What’s yours?”

I ask because the next time we come here—and I hope there
will
be a next time—I intend to get his drink. While I like that he wants to buy things for me, I can’t let him do it all the time.

To my surprise, the tips of his ears go pink. “Hot chocolate. I don’t like tea
or
coffee. I realize that makes me sound like I’m nine.”

“With whipped cream or without?”

“Without.”

“Cinnamon?”

He raises a brow at me. “Are you writing a paper on this?”

“Maybe.”

“Yes, cinnamon.”

I memorize his preferences, so I’ll get the right drink when it’s my turn to buy. Before I can reply, the door bangs open, ruffling the papers tacked to the walls. A guy dashes in carrying a battered guitar case; the thing has all kinds of stickers on it, some ancient and peeling off, others from bands I recognize, some of which I even like, including Paramore and All Time Low. He’s out of breath and cradling his hand against his chest.

The counter girl yells, “You’re late, Jace! This is the third time … which means you’re out of the showcase for good. I’m calling the manager.”

Customers respond poorly to this, grumbling. Jace heads to the front of the shop.

“Come on, it wasn’t my fault. I had a tire blow out, and then I slammed my hand in the car door after changing it, and I dropped my phone—”

“Whatever,” she interrupts. “These people came down to hear you play. Now what?”

“I don’t know,” Jace says miserably. “But please don’t call the boss.”

He’s pretty cute, if you like black hair and dark eyes. Jace’s probably in his early twenties and he’s failing to grow a goatee. I’m interested in the drama unfolding before us; this is almost as good as live music. It’s entertainment anyway. But the older women don’t seem to agree, bitching as Jace argues with the barista. The injury isn’t fake, though. His hand is swollen, black and blue across the knuckles. If he really had a flat, then broke his phone, he’s on course for the worst day ever.

Shane cuts me a look that I can’t interpret. So I’m just looking at him when he puts down his hot chocolate and heads over to the counter. Because I’m straining, I hear him say, “I could fill in for him, just for today. Should be better than nothing.”

He’s incredible,
I want to say, but I register how much of a big deal it is that Shane’s volunteered at all. Just a few weeks ago, he was talking about how he wanted to lie low and graduate. Now, he’s willing to play music in public. If I know anything about him, I suspect he’s doing it to help the guy out more than from pure desire, but he’s not backing off as the barista looks him up and down.

“Are you any good?” the girl asks.

Shane shrugs. He’s not going to sell himself to them.

But Jace hands over his beat-up guitar case. “The picks are in there, too.” Then he faces the room, raising his voice to carry over the complaints of multiple coffee klatches. “We have a special treat today at the Coffee Shop. One show only—” Jace glances over at his replacement, and Shane fills in his name in a low voice. “We have Shane Cavendish, live and unplugged.”

The applause that follows is mostly mine, though a few girls brighten up as Shane arranges himself on the stool, long legs propped to support the guitar. Jace collapses where Shane was, right next to me, and he looks both exhausted and relieved. His hand looks like he might have broken fingers, and that can’t be good for a musician.

As Shane settles in with the pick, strumming the guitar experimentally, I whisper, “Shouldn’t you see a doctor?”

Jace shushes me since Shane’s short warm-up has concluded and he’s playing the opening chords of a song. At first I can’t place it, but then I realize it’s an arrangement of “The Reckless and the Brave”; I really like All Time Low’s version, which rocks, but this is … more. You know how sometimes an acoustic version brings out things you didn’t notice before? Yeah. That. Plus, Shane’s
voice.
When I heard him in the music room before, he was only playing.
Only.
That’s like saying Michelangelo was just a guy who liked to carve shapes in rocks.

I’m not alone in going breathless, however. All the talking stops immediately, just as soon as Shane sings the first lines. He’s got rich tone with just a hint of a growl, and it underscores the aching strains he evokes in a melody I’d previously considered pugnacious, defiant even. But somehow, the way he plays the song, along with the slower melody, he elicits a touch of pathos. The girls behind me let out a collective sigh when he sings the line,
“I don’t think I want to be saved,”
because he sounds like he’s drowning, and I’m pretty sure everyone in the room wants to rescue him.