The mark would pulse red for a few minutes—maybe an hour—and then disappear like it was never there. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew not to punch her. Bruises give guys like him away. But a slap is elusive, like the glimpse of garbage brought to the surface by a churned wave, only to disappear into the depths within seconds. Physical evidence erased with only the message remaining: I was here. Now try to prove it.
Regan glared at Brandon as she massaged her cheek.
“I wanna scratch your eyes out,” she hissed.
“No, you don’t,” he challenged.
“I wanna scratch your eyes out,” she repeated.
“Stop saying that.”
“I wanna scratch your eyes out!”
“Shut up, Regan!”
“I hate you! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” she screamed into the night air.
She let the words float along the breeze, make their way to the partygoers, who she knew were too drunk to care. But she said what she wanted to say, and that’s all that mattered.
“Can’t you understand that I love you?” Brandon yelled.
Regan snorted. “You’re fucking crazy!”
“I didn’t mean to hit you.”
“Yes, you did! You’d been waiting to do that!”
Brandon affected shock. “Never, Regan.”
“Oh, shut up. Just shut the fuck up! I’m leaving, and you’re not gonna put your hands on me. You’re not gonna stop me. You’re not gonna follow me. You understand?”
Brandon wouldn’t give up. She knew he wouldn’t. It was his nature to get what he wanted. Every. Single. Time.
“Regan, let me take you home. I don’t want you going back by yourself. It’s dark out here. I don’t—”
“Don’t you get it?!” she screamed. “YOU’RE the monster! You! If I have anything to be afraid of, it’s you!”
“Regan . . .”
“No. Don’t say anything. I’m going.”
She turned on her heel and fled into the night. She heard his faint voice in the distance trying to coax her return.
“I am sorry! No matter what you think! I didn’t mean it, Regan! Come back . . .”
But she didn’t go back. She knew she could never go back. There was only one place she wanted to be, only one person she wanted to see. And she was going to him.
***
She stared at him without blinking, though the blaring florescent lights of the garage made her eyes well. They were particularly shrill, juxtaposed against the black night—angry and uninviting. She thought she’d made a mistake coming here, and the panic rippled through her chest, convincing her that she didn’t belong. But then she saw the side of his mouth turn up—a half grin, tentative grin—and she knew she was welcome.
“Hi,” he ventured.
She nodded and croaked a “hi” in response.
He was a cliché standing beside his beat-up Camaro, sporting a tight white T dotted with oil stains and other filth. Sweaty, matted hair stuck to his forehead and obscured his eyes, partially camouflaging the scar hugging his left temple. He pushed a hand through his bangs, and they stuck up straight, the grease on his fingers acting like hair product.
Jeremy leaned against the car and waited.
“It’s my birthday!” Regan cried suddenly. She felt the instant flush—prickly heat tickle its way up her neck to her cheeks, pooling there in a deep crimson.
Jeremy grinned. “I know. I saw your locker today.”
Regan shrugged. “They did a decent job decorating it.”
“Yep.”
Shuffling silence.
“The balloons were a bit much,” she said.
“Saw you struggle a few times to change out your books.”
She hung her head. “I felt silly. I mean, it’s not like birthdays are a big deal . . .”
“Sure, they are,” Jeremy countered.
Regan nodded, unconvinced. She brought her hand to her face and tested her cheekbone. No soreness. She snorted. Like it never happened.
“I thought you’d be with your friends,” Jeremy said after a moment.
“I was,” Regan replied.
“Why’d you leave? Party over?”
“In a sense.”
Jeremy frowned. Something was definitely wrong. He tried to lighten the mood.
“Where’s my cake?”
“Huh?”
“I said you could come visit me here if you brought cake,” he reminded her. “You can’t tell me there wasn’t cake at your party.”
She smiled. “Ohhh. I guess it was kind of rude not to bring you some, huh?”
“Maybe.”
She blushed. “I didn’t really have time to wrap any up.”
“How come? Did you make a break for it or something?”
“Well . . .”
“Hold up. Is your party still going on?”
Regan smiled sheepishly.
“You ditched your own party?” Jeremy burst out laughing.
Regan giggled. “It was a booze party down by the lake. I’m not into those. Brandon set it up because it’s the party he wanted. You know? It’s not the party I wanted. I didn’t want a party. I wanted everyone to leave me the hell alone.”
Jeremy reached for a wrench. “I understand that.”
“Yeah, I know you do,” Regan replied.
“And you thought you’d have a better time here?” Would she honestly say yes?
“Yes.”
He froze, clutching the wrench. Really?
“Because I knew you’d understand,” she went on. “It was an awful night, and I wanted my eighteenth birthday to be everything opposite of tonight. You know? I’m just not into parties. I don’t drink. I mean, I don’t drink with those people. I mean, I don’t like drinking with those people—”
“I understand. It’s okay,” Jeremy said.
“I’m really nervous!” Regan whipped her head around and glanced at the street. No one coming. She let out a slow breath.
“About?” Jeremy asked.
She searched for a lie. “I . . . I had something weird happen to me on the way over here. That’s all. Stopped at a light and someone knocked on my car window. Scared the shit out of me.”
He didn’t believe her for a second, mostly because she averted her eyes as she spoke. His instinct told him it had everything to do with Brandon.
“I’m totally cool. Just gave me the jitters.”
“The jitters, huh?”
“Uh huh.”
He chuckled.
“What?” she demanded.
“Nothing.” He threw up his hands.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. I’ve just never heard a teenager say ‘jitters.’ It’s cu—different.” Oh God, he almost said “cute.” What a stupid word for a guy to say.
“Jitters?” Regan asked.
“Yeah.”
They fell silent.
“I feel like a dork,” she mumbled.
“Well, then you’re in the right place,” Jeremy replied.