I wish I could say the time races like white-water rapids, but it’s more like honey in cold weather. But the clock hands can’t actually run backward, so eventually, it’s Wednesday afternoon. Shane and I head out to the bike rack, but I draw up short.
The tires on my bike have been slashed. I get the message loud and clear. If Dylan can’t ruin me socially, he can hurt me in other ways. There are no security cameras, so it would be my word against his, and he occupies a higher social echelon. Plus, Principal Warick’s banging his mom, so he has reason to keep Dylan happy. That means he’s practically untouchable.
“Well, that was a dick move right before Thanksgiving. It’ll be days before you can get that fixed.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly.
I’m sure that was the point—to make me feel helpless and crippled. And it upsets me because it works. I would love to let Shadow Sage answer this challenge. I could escalate so fast, it would make Dylan’s head spin. I imagine slipping a cotton cord into his gas tank, then lighting it up. The flame would burn inward, like a fuse, until it caught the fuel inside. That would make a really satisfying explosion. I’m enjoying the thought when Shane’s hand wraps around mine.
“Don’t just leave it here. Some asshole 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.