Blue Plate Special by Michelle D. Kwasney

voice cracks—“and keep you safe from the real pricks of the world.”
    Steadying the remote, I point it at Bart Simpson’s face. When the screen goes black, I get a sudden chill. Why do I feel like I’ve shut down something bigger than a TV show? I take a deep breath. Let it out. “Okay. Park near the shrubs so the neighbors can’t rat me out. And don’t come to the front door—cut through the garage instead.”
    “Be there in fifteen minutes,” he says. “Can’t wait to see you.”
    “Me too,” I say back, but Shane’s already hung up.
    I hurry to the bathroom for a quick shower so Shane won’t find out I’ve lied. I wet my hair but don’t wash it. There’s not enough time for that.
    Eleven minutes later, I hear knocking at the kitchen door. I rush to my room and glance out the window. Sure enough, Shane’s black Yamaha is parked beside our long row of hedges. “Just a second!” I call, grabbing my robe, reminding myself that if I really had showered when I said I did, I’d be completely dressed by now.
    When I turn, I stub my toe on the corner of my computer desk and fall, face-first, cracking my forehead on my nightstand. I touch my left eyebrow, which is throbbing. Already there’s a goose egg forming.
    I hear Shane trying the kitchen door, which, of course, I locked when I came in. “Ariel?” he calls. “Where are you?”
    I throw open my closet, searching for something easy to slip on.
    Shane’s knocking morphs into pounding, and I’m nervous the neighbors will hear. “Ariel, are you okay?”
    “Be there in a minute!” I grab a black hoodie, faded Levi’s, a pair of bikini panties, and a sports bra. Then, remembering what Shane says about sports bras—that they, quote, take two wonderful breasts and transform them into a uniboob , unquote—I trade it for a satiny white one.
    After I slip on my panties and bra, the pounding stops. Still in rush mode, I whirl back around, reaching for my shirt and jeans. But when I glance into the mirror over my dresser, I gasp.
    In the glass, there’s a second reflection—Shane’s. He’s leaning against the doorframe to my room. Shane and I have unbuttoned and unzipped our clothing while we’ve made out, but the garments pretty much stayed put. Now, I feel exposed. “I told you I’d be there in a minute,” I say, grabbing my bathrobe and tying it around me. “How did you get in?”
    Shane holds up the emergency key.
    Shit. I completely forgot about the spare.
    My pulse pounds in my neck. I’m usually so calm and rational. Most Likely to be Picked for Team Captain in the Event of a Natural Disaster—that could be my moniker. But now I feel something shift in my brain, the synapses firing differently.
    I’m mad, I realize. I push past him and start through the door.
    Shane grabs my arm and whirls me around. When he lets go, his eyes lock with mine. Even though he’s not touching me, I still feel pinned in place by that gaze.
    “Don’t be upset,” he says, reaching for my chin, turning it toward him. “When you didn’t answer, I was scared something had happened to you. That you were hurt.”
    I walk to my dresser and grab my hairbrush, tugging on a tangle. Mentally, I recap what just happened, looking at it from Shane’s point of view. Finally, I decide I can’t blame him. I might have done the same thing if I was that concerned.
    Shane steps behind me and takes the brush. He glides the bristles down my scalp, clear to the end. “I worship every inch of you,” he says, gathering the tips of my hair into a clump, which he brings to his lips, kissing it. “Right down to your split ends.”
    I elbow him. “I don’t have split ends.”
    “Do too,” he teases. He rests his chin on my shoulder, studying our reflections in the mirror. When he lifts my bangs away from my forehead, the lump from my fall leaps into view. He touches the bruise. “Hey, how’d this happen?”
    “I tripped and hit it on my nightstand.”
    “Ouch.” He