“So my dad was just your object lesson,” Shane said. “Is that it?”
Michael reached out and put his hand on Shane’s knee. He’d split the skin over his knuckles, and there was plaster dust all over his skin.
It wasn’t bleeding.
“We’re going to get him, Shane. We will.”
“Who’s we?” Shane asked wearily, and let his head fall back against the wall as he shut his eyes. “Just leave me alone, man. I’m tired. I just can’t . . . I’m tired.”
Eve put her hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Come on,” she said. “Leave him alone. He needs time.”
Shane laughed dryly. It was a rattle in his throat, like the sound the grackles were making outside. “Yeah. Time. That’s what I need.” He didn’t sound like himself. Not at all.
Michael didn’t want to go, but Eve insisted, tugging on his hand until he stood up and followed her out into the living room.
Leaving Shane sitting alone on the floor.
“Hey,” Claire said, and sat down beside him, arms wrapped around her knees. “You going to sit here all night?”
“Maybe.”
“I just thought—”
“What? I’d snap out of it and go play some video games? Eat a taco? It’s not that easy, Claire. He’s my—” Shane’s voice broke, then got stronger. “He was my dad. There was one thing in the world he was afraid of, and I just watched it happen to him. I can’t even think about this right now.”
“I know,” she said, and leaned her head on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
They sat there together for a long time. Eve and Michael looked in on them from time to time. After a while, they quit looking, and Claire saw them head upstairs.
The house grew quiet.
“It’s cold,” Shane finally said. She was getting a little drowsy, despite the discomfort; his voice shocked her back upright again.
“Yeah, kinda. Well, it’s the floor.” Although it wasn’t really the floor’s fault, Claire supposed.
He considered that in silence for a few long seconds. “I guess it’s pretty stupid to sit here all night.”
“Maybe not. If it makes you feel better . . .”
He stretched out his legs with a sudden thump and sighed. “I don’t see how getting cold and losing feeling in my body is going to help. Also, I need a bed that isn’t a bunk, and hasn’t been the previous property of some dude named Bubba with a farting problem.”
That was—almost—the old Shane. Claire sat up straight and looked up at him. After a second, he met her eyes. He didn’t look happy, but he looked . . . better.
He was trying to be better.
“I forgot to say hello,” he said. “Back in Bishop’s office, when I saw you.”
“Given the circumstances, I think we can let that slide.” She swallowed, because he wasn’t looking away. “It’s been a while. Since . . . you know. Bishop put you behind bars.”
“I did notice,” he said, deadpan. “Are you asking if I have any wild men-behind-bars stories to tell you?”
“What?” She felt a blush start to burn along her jaw-line, then spill over her cheeks. “No! Of course not! I just . . . I don’t know if—”
“Stop stammering.”
“You make me stammer. You always have, when you look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m dessert.”
He licked her on the nose. She squealed and pulled back, swiping at the moisture, but then he was holding her, and his lips were warm and soft and damp, pressing on hers with genuine urgency. He didn’t taste like dessert, not at all; he tasted like she imagined really good wine would taste, dark and strong and going straight to her head. Her muscles warmed and purred where he touched her, and it felt like, just for a moment, there was nothing in the world.
Nothing but this.
He broke off the kiss and pressed his hot cheek against her burning one; she felt his breath fluttering the hair above her ear. She felt him draw in a breath to say something, but she got there first.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t tell me all the reasons why this isn’t a good time, or a good idea. Don’t tell me we ought to be thinking about your dad or my parents or what Bishop is doing right now. I want to be here with you. Just . . . here.”
Shane said, “Well, I don’t want to be here.”
The world went out of focus, and her heart shattered. She’d known it was coming; she’d known that he’d changed his mind, that all that time apart had given him time to think about what he wouldn’t like about her. . . . Why would somebody like Shane love her, anyway? He’d dated other girls. Better girls. Prettier and smarter and hotter. It had just been a matter of time before he noticed that she was a skinny geek.
But it hurt; oh God, it hurt so badly, like she’d been stabbed with a dagger made of ice.
She couldn’t help the tears that flooded her eyes, and she couldn’t hold back the sob. Shane went tense, and pushed her back to arm’s length. “What?” he asked. “What did I say?”
She wanted to tell him it was all right, but it wasn’t, it just wasn’t, and it never would be. She felt like half of her was dying, and he looked at her in confusion and acted like he didn’t understand what he’d done to her.
Claire scrambled away from him and bolted. It was usually Shane who ran away, but this time, she couldn’t stay. She couldn’t stand to be here, humiliated and stupid and hurting, and try to be nice to him, even though he needed it. Maybe even deserved it.
“Claire!” Shane tried to get up, but his feet wouldn’t stay under him. “Dammit, wait—my legs went to sleep; wait! Claire—”
She didn’t wait, but somehow, he managed to follow her, lunging after her with feet that must have been like running on concrete blocks. He tripped into her and they fell onto the couch. Claire smacked at him and tried to struggle free. “Let go!” she said around her sobs. “Just let go!”
“Not until you tell me what just happened. Claire, look at me. I don’t understand why you’re upset!”
He really didn’t know. He was all but begging her to tell him. All right, then, fine. “Fine,” she said aloud, in a voice that trembled more than she wanted. “I get it. You don’t want to be with me right now. Maybe not ever. I understand, it’s been a long time, and . . . your dad . . . I just . . . I can’t . . . Oh, just let me go!”
“What in the hell are you talking about?” And then he got it. She saw him run it through his head, and his eyes widened. “Oh my God. Claire, you thought I meant I didn’t want—No. God, no. When I said, ‘I don’t want to be here,’ I meant I didn’t want to be there. You know, sitting on the cold floor with my ass turning into an ice-berg. I wanted you. I just wanted you somewhere else.” He shook his head. “I meant it as a joke. I was going to say, ‘I want to be on the couch.’ Okay, it was stupid, I know. Sorry. I never meant you to think—Wait. Why would you think I’m not into you, anyway?”
Because I’m a girl, Claire thought. She was barely able to contain the relief welling up inside her. Because we’re all stupid and insecure and think that we’re never, ever good enough. She didn’t say that, though. Some things it was better for boys not to know. “I just . . . It’s been a tough day.” She was still crying, and she couldn’t seem to stop. “I’m sorry, Shane. I’m sorry your dad—”
“Hey.” He touched her cheek. “It’s bad, but I can deal. I’m more worried about you.”
He always was. “Why?”
He wiped away the tears that trickled down her cheeks. “Because I’m not the one doing the crying, for one thing.”
She nodded, shuddered, and started to gulp back the sobs. He waited, holding her, until she was finally quiet—relaxed in a way she hadn’t been before.
Weirdly happy just to be here, with him, no matter what had happened or would happen. This moment, she thought. This moment is perfect.