“Not that this isn’t romantic … but where’s your tip jar?” a woman asks.
Shane pulls back, sheepish. He glances around with a blank look, and I quickly grab an oversize coffee mug from the shelf, then pass it around. If I know this boy at all, he’s frozen. Before, he was caught up in the moment, but deep down, he’s pretty shy. He needs the money, so I’ll help him collect it. I don’t mind; it’s always easier to be strong for someone else.
“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.