by Roppe, Laura
When I’ve gathered all the dirty mugs and crumb-filled plates and loaded them into the dishwasher in the back room, I join Sheila behind the counter. “All done.”
She smiles at me and pats my head as if I were a dog. But that’s okay with me. Being Sheila’s puppy feels pretty good.
“I’m so happy to see you,” Sheila coos, and I feel like melting butter under her gaze. “You look particularly pretty today. Yellow’s a good color for you. Okay, let’s try to get this line of people taken care of as quickly as we can. Why don’t you take orders at the cash register, while I whip up the magic behind the machine? We’ll be the Dynamic Duo.”
I chuckle. “Sure thing.” I like being part of any kind of duo with Sheila. I practically skip to my position behind the cash register, all the while glancing toward the front door.
“What can I get for you?” I ask the woman at the front of the line.
She places her drink order, which I ring up and call out to Sheila to make.
“Aye, aye, cap’n,” Sheila responds, and sets about making the woman’s decaf Americano with room for cream.
For a good while, the customers come one right after another, each of them asking for something completely different than the next. I’m so concentrated on not screwing up their orders, I haven’t looked over at the front entrance for quite some time. As I’m looking down to count out an older gentleman’s change, I hear, “Hi, Shaynee.”
My heart bounces up into my throat and my stomach drops, all at once. I look up, eager to lose myself in those two pools of cobalt blue ... but, instead, I’m shocked to see two Tootsie Rolls staring back at me.
“Jared.” I can’t hide my disappointment.
Why on earth is Jared here? In a sudden panic, my eyes dart to the front door.
“Hey, Jared, honey,” Sheila sings out from behind the espresso machine. “How was the surf today?”
Jared tilts his head toward Sheila. “Pretty lame. Ankle slappers. But the waves are supposed to be bigger this weekend.”
“Well, that’s good.”
Jared turns his full attention back to me, grinning. “So, Shaynee, how’s it going?” He leans toward me over the counter, as if he’s about to tell me a juicy secret. “You look amazing.”
Why oh why is Jared-the-Werewolf fixated on me? What did I do? I mean, don’t get me wrong, it could be worse. He’s a good-lookin’ dude. And actually, now that I’m really looking at him, he’s an exceptionally good-looking dude—gleaming white teeth, just the perfect amount of muscles, and skin the color of light mocha. It’s an objective fact that Jared’s got the kind of skin you just want to lick. I’m sure every other girl who crosses his path swoons at the sight of him. But... for me, he’s a non-starter. He’s not Dean.
When I don’t speak, Jared, who, apparently, isn’t comfortable with awkward silences, adds, “I came down here to see you.” He flashes a toothy smile. Wow, his teeth really are a crazy white.
“What can I do for you, Jared?” I ask, impatience seeping into my tone.
A “bad boy” grin unfurls across his face, telegraphing whatever snarky innuendo has just skittered across his brain. I suppose he’s thinking of sentences that contain the word “lick” in them, too. Thankfully, he seems to have the good sense not to say whatever he’s thinking out loud.
I look at him with disdain, and he grins even more broadly. Clearly, he’s not picking up on my disinterest. “Do you have an order or what?” I say.
Jared is a poorly timed distraction. Having him here, right now, is just a disaster waiting to happen. What if Dean were to show up right this very second? I don’t want my reunion with Dean to devolve into another testosterone-fest. I glance at the door. No Dean. Thank God. When I see Dean again, I want it to be all about Dean and me. Not about Dean and Jared and me. I turn back to Jared and raise my eyebrows as a sign of my continued request for his order.
He finally mumbles, “Yeah, um, a blueberry bar would be all good.”
I bend over to open the glass pastry case, and place the blueberry bar on a doily-covered plate. “That’ll be three eighty-five.”
He plunges his hand into the Velcro-ed back pocket of his board shorts and retrieves a crumpled pile of dollar bills. He looks sheepishly down at the disorganized ball of money, and chuckles.
I can’t help it. He’s so cliché surfer right now with his sad little ball o’ bills, I laugh, too.
He hands me the wrinkled money and, after smoothing out the bills, I deposit them into the cash register with a curt (but professional), “Thanks, and here’s your change.” Now that our transaction has been completed, I expect him to move along so I can help the next customer in line. But Jared doesn’t move. He doesn’t even touch his blueberry bar. I look down the line of customers. He’s really holding up the line.
“So, Shaynee... ” Jared begins.
Oh, c’mon. I fidget. I don’t want to be rude to the guy. And, actually, when he laughed just now about his pitiful stash of money, he was so darned likeable, I felt sort of guilty for not being friendlier towards him. But I really, really, reeeeeeeeeealllly don’t want Dean to see me talking to—
Oh my God. There he is. There’s Dean.
Dean’s standing in the corner, in my line of sight just over Jared’s shoulder, and he’s watching me. No, he’s riveted on me... with such burning intensity, I suddenly feel like breathing requires conscious effort. How long has he been standing there? What has he seen? Did he see me laughing with Jared?
I’m vaguely aware that Jared is still talking. I have no idea what he’s saying. Every one of my senses, other than sight, has dropped away. I’ve got tunnel vision, like a horse with blinders on, and all I see is Dean. The din of the busy coffeehouse has disappeared. The customers have vanished. Jared is gone.
My eyes are locked on Dean, and his eyes are locked on me. A big, beautiful, beaming smile spreads across Dean’s handsome face. My heart leaps and strains toward him, like he’s a magnet and my heart’s made of steel. There’s only one thing I’m capable of doing in this very moment—I flash him the widest, happiest, and most honest smile my face has produced in as long as I can remember.
“... I mean, you know, whenever you can... whatever you like to do... anything at all... ” Jared is saying. But I’m looking past Jared, transfixed on Dean.
“Move along, honey,” Sheila says to Jared, brimming with authority. “You’re clogging up my line.”
“Sheila, can I take a minute?” I ask. I move around the end of the counter and move toward Dean, not waiting for Sheila’s reply.
“Of course, sweetie,” Sheila responds. She waves at Dean. “Hi, honey.”
Dean salutes her.
Sheila knows Dean?
I glide right up to Dean like I’m being pulled on a string, until I’m standing right in front of him. “You came,” I blurt, color shooting into my cheeks. Remembering the situation, I quickly add, “Your jacket’s in the back room. I can get it for you—”
“I’ll get it later,” he says, his voice husky. Without any warning, he reaches toward me and takes my cheeks in both his hands. “Shaynee,” he whispers.
I close my eyes. I don’t care if everyone sees us. I want him to kiss me.
“You’re beautiful,” he says. He lays a soft and too-brief kiss on my mouth that, despite its brevity, causes fireworks to erupt throughout my entire body.
I open my eyes and smile at him. I can’t believe I ever questioned whether he’d show up. I can’t believe I ever felt an ounce of anxiety about this moment. There’s no doubt about it. I’m his. And he’s mine.
He steps back, grinning at me.
Apparently, we’re not going to do any more kissing in the middle of the coffeehouse. It’s most unfortunate (though understandable), so I do the next best thing. I wrap my arms around him and hug him tight. “I’m so glad you’re here.” I burrow my cheek into his neck.
Dean laughs. “Where else would I be?”
“Okay, lover boy,�
� Sheila says, suddenly standing next to us. She nudges Dean’s shoulder and we pull apart. I’m embarrassed I’ve behaved this way at work, in front of my boss. But Sheila pats me on the head and exclaims, “You two are so adorable together. I’m tickled pink.” Then she pats Dean on the cheek. “Honey, we’re running five minutes late. You’d better peel yourself away from Shaynee-girl and get started.” She briskly walks back to the counter.
I’m totally and completely confused. What is she talking about? What should Dean get started with? Open Mic Night? Why would Sheila tell Dean to start Open Mic Night? My eyes widen like saucers with my sudden realization. My mouth gapes open.
Dean flashes me a mega-watt smile, a you’ll-never-guess-what-I-got-you-for-Christmas smile, pecks me on the cheek with a huge laugh, and bounds up onto the stage in three giant leaps.
I’m rooted to my spot. I can’t move. I can’t speak. I’ve been knocked senseless.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Tiffany says loudly, suddenly sprinting toward me from the front door, a loud jangle of earrings and bracelets and fringed purple boots. “My car battery died, can you believe it? And Kellan had to go find jumper cables, and ... ” Tiffany sees Dean up on stage and waves at him nonchalantly, like it’s no big deal he’s here. “Hi, Dean.” He waves back. “Am I too late? Did Motorcycle Boy already show up?” She’s panting. She must have sprinted from the parking lot.
In stunned silence I look at Dean, then Tiffany, and then Sheila.
“Hey, everyone,” Dean says into the microphone on stage, charisma oozing from his every pore. “I know you guys are gonna share some stellar music for us all tonight, as usual, and I can’t wait to hear it.” Dean looks straight at me, grinning from ear to ear. His eyes crinkle when he smiles.
“Well, did he come yet?” Tiffany repeats.
“But if you’ll indulge me tonight, I’m gonna kick off the show myself.”
The crowd cheers.
Dean turns around and unlatches a guitar case on the floor.
I want to cry. I want to scream. But instead, as if in a trance, I nod and slowly point at Dean up on stage.
“I’m gonna play a song I wrote late last night when I got home from an incredible, magical experience with the most beautiful girl in the world, and I just couldn’t fall asleep. This song is for a girl in yellow who means... a whole lot to me.”
“What?” Tiffany says to me, suddenly understanding the situation.
Dean is now seated on a stool, his black acoustic guitar at the ready. He snaps his microphone into a metal stand in front of him.
I nod again, pointing weakly at Dean. Tears fill my eyes. The world is crashing down on me.
“Motorcycle Boy is... Dean?” Tiffany blurts. She throws her head back to laugh. “Oh my God, Shay. That’s amazing. I’ve been scheming to get you two together for months.”
I’m trembling. He knows all about me. And he’s known all along. Right from the start. Everything Dean’s ever said to me begins replaying in my head. “My mom’s always taking in rescue puppies and strays,” Dean said. “She loves a project.” I look at Tiffany. She’s watching Dean and smiling, blissfully unaware of my agony. Suddenly, I know she’s told Dean every last thing about me. About my mom, of course. About my panic attacks. About the time, right after I finally came back to school, when she found me pulling at my hair and screaming and banging my head against the wall in the bathroom and she didn’t know what to do and I made her promise not to tell anyone. About how no one at school ever talks to me anymore because I’m Poor, Pitiful, Lonely Shaynee. Sure, she’s been scheming to get Dean and me together for months—of course, she has. Surely, I don’t need a boyfriend. No, what Poor Shaynee needs is a really good-lookin’ grief counselor.
I want to scream.
I want to dig my fingernails deep into my cheeks.
I want to die.
I turn to run away, but the sudden sound of Dean’s smooth voice keeps me rooted to the floor. “Minding my business every day,” he sings, “couldn’t do better, no better, all of the answers, were in my pocket ... ”
I’m reeling. “You’ve put your faith in me, Shaynee,” he said to me. “I’d never abuse that... ”
“And then my vision was blinded when I saw you, out of darkness a yellow glow, something I needed but I’d never, never know... ”
My mother is a songwriter, I said to him. In present tense. And he let me go on and on about my “normal” fantasy-family—my not-dead mother—all the while knowing the truth. Why didn’t he stop me from making a fool of myself?
“Oh my baby, ain’t it crazy?” Dean’s voice soars. “Yeah, I’ve been searching high and low, finding you feels like home ... ”
I made a fool of myself, and he let me do it. No wonder he was laughing his ass off all night long. He must have thought I was hysterical.
“Oh my baby, ain’t it crazy? Yeah, I was lost and now I’m found, I was gone now I’m home... with my girl in yellow... ”
Last night wasn’t real. We were both just pretending the entire time. I was pretending to be normal, and he was pretending not to pity me. Why? Because he’s got a superhero complex, that’s why. Because I’m his rescue puppy.
Dean’s voice swirls around me. “Thirsty for someone to make me feel, you’re my salvation and this is real, you quenched my darkness and now I see, oh, what is gonna be... ”
Tears flood into my eyes, distorting my vision.
“No turning back now, head over heels, no second-guessing what I feel, nothing is wrong now, it’s all right, it’s all right, baby... Oh my baby, ain’t it crazy? Yeah, I’ve been searching high and low, finding you feels like home, oh just like home... with my girl in yellow... ”
Tears of acid spill down my cheeks. They burn, slicing tracks into my skin as they make their way across my flesh.
The crowd is applauding and cheering.
I snap back to the here and now.
Dean has finished his song and half the room has turned around to glimpse the obvious target of his intense stare. Oh, how easy I’ve made it for them to identify me in my stupid yellow shirt. I look up at Dean, tears distorting my vision. The little heart-bud I’ve only just regrown is turning black and dying and shriveling up into a tiny, wrinkled raisin as I stand here. The pain is so great, I fear my legs will give way, and I’ll crumple onto the ground into a heap.
Acute concern registers on Dean’s face as he realizes my tears are not tears of joy. He suddenly looks panicked. He hastily sets down his guitar and rushes off the stage toward me.
“Shay,” Tiffany says, sounding alarmed.
I swivel my face to look at her.
She looks horrified. She’s reaching toward me.
I jerk away, growling.
Everything and everyone moves in slow motion. The walls are closing in around me. With a loud sob, I push Tiffany back, just as Dean reaches his arms out for me.
“No!” I yell, swatting at him.
He looks shocked. And wounded. And confused.
Now Sheila’s moving out from behind the counter, advancing toward me.
I can’t stand here another second.
Just as a torrent of tears explodes from the deepest depths inside of me, I sprint out the front door, as fast as my legs will carry me.
Chapter 13
A gigantic bolt of adrenaline surges through my veins as I sprint out the front door of Sheila’s. My legs are pumping like I’m running an Olympic hundred-yard dash. Sweat has instantly trickled down my back and beaded across my forehead. My body has separated from my mind. My mind is hurtling across the sky like a Frisbee. I’m moving, racing, panting, reeling, but coherent thought isn’t powering any of it. I can’t conjure complete sentences. Two words flit across my brain, and nothing else:
Run.
Liar.
Run.
Liar.
Run, run, run.
Liar, liar, liar.
I’m a wild animal busting loose from the zoo.
Sh
aynee run.
Shaynee smash.
I won’t hesitate to devour a gazelle in my path. I’ll swat my sharp claws across the neck of any zookeeper who dares cross me. I bare my fangs and roar as I crash through the iron gates of the zoo and smash onto the city streets—or, okay, if you want to get all technically accurate about it, I careen in flip-flops up the sidewalk along Mission Boulevard. Shaynee run. Shaynee smash. Run, run, run. Liar, liar, liar.
“Shaynee,” I hear Dean’s voice behind me, not too far back.
“Shay,” Tiff calls to me, but she’s clearly much farther back than Dean.
“Wait,” I hear Dean’s voice again, but this time he sounds much closer. He’s gaining on me.
My lungs burn. My throat’s on fire. Am I screaming? Are my arms flailing? Passers-by are jumping out of the way to clear a path for me. What do they see that makes them leap aside without being asked? I can’t see their faces clearly; I can’t see anything clearly. Even the cracks in the sidewalk undulate and warp through my tears as I run and run and run.
“Shaynee, stop,” Dean screams again, and this time he’s galloping shoulder to shoulder with me. He reaches out and grabs my shoulder. “Stop,” he shouts. Now he’s got one hand on my shoulder, and we’re running side-by-side. I jerk away, but he continues to grasp my shoulder. He moves in front of me, slowly blocking me, forcing me to slow my strides. All the while, he’s saying, “Stop, Shaynee.”
I try to swat him away, but he’s too strong. I have to slow down, or else I’ll trip.