“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.
“Well, I saw your light, and it’s pretty early. We were up late.”
It’s true; I’m running on five hours of sleep. “You can come in if you want.”
Shane steps into my room, but leaves the door open, so we don’t get accused of dirty deeds, if my aunt wakes up unexpectedly. His blue gaze flicks around, taking in the pictures I’ve cut from magazines and framed, the tangle of beads and Christmas lights that I’ve draped around my mirror. This room is cheerful, but I wonder what he thinks of it the second time. The throw pillows are piled on the floor beside the bed, so he steps over them in coming closer.
Shane perches on the edge of the bed, studying me with a faint frown. “You know me better than I do you. And I feel like an asshole for just realizing it.”
My chest hurts. I rub it, trying to reduce the tight sensation. Too sharply, I remember the group home and the way one of the workers had to restrain me. See, they’re trained on how to hold an out-of-control kid. I can still feel Mr. Rennick’s arms around me, hard and impersonal, to keep me from hurting anyone, myself included. I remember the crunch that came before, when I hit the girl I caught going through my things, crimson spattering from her nose. I remember the burn of the knuckles I scraped on her teeth and the raw feel of my throat from constant screaming. Rage has a scent, bitter and metallic.