Blue Plate Special by Michelle D. Kwasney Page A

smoothes my bangs back. “I hope no one thinks I did that to you.”
    Confused, I watch his face in the glass. “Shane, why would they?”
    He laughs and I jump, which makes him laugh even harder. “Hah! Right! Why would they?”
    He loops his arms around my waist, undoing the tie on my robe. The bow on my bra appears, a rectangle of stomach, a sliver of panties. Self-conscious, I reach to close it.
    Shane moves my hand aside. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers. Then he leans in, kissing my neck. I watch him in the mirror as his dark hair falls across his face, as his lips creep slowly toward my ear, then tenderly nibble the lobe. His tongue inches inside, exploring the innermost folds. Shane’s kisses ignite something that’s never been on fire before. And if we were making out somewhere else—in a movie or at a concert—I’d be fine with what’s going on. But this is not happening somewhere else.
    Shane moves closer, pressing his full weight against me. His hand reaches through the opening in my robe. His fingers ease beneath my bra.
    I glance at my clock. “Shane,” I whisper, “I should get dressed. It’s six thirty. You have to go to work. And my mother will be home soon.”
    “I’m not afraid of the Momster,” he breathes, moving against me. The bones that stick out on either side of my hips grind against the edge of my dresser. When a sudden sharp pain rages there, I say, “Ow!”
    Shane takes my hand. Turns me around. Lowers me onto my bed.
    “I want you.” His lips graze my neck again. But now the good feeling’s gone.
    “Please, Shane. I think we should stop. I don’t think I—”
    Shane’s mouth covers mine, silencing me. He reaches to unzip his jeans.
    My pulse races. I pray for Mom to show up. I don’t care that I’ll have to confess it was my fault Shane came over. Or how it looks that I have my bathrobe on. I just want to hear the familiar sound of her car pulling into the garage.
    My heart wallops my throat so hard, I’m scared my neck might explode. “I’m not ready! ” I blurt out. Except I can’t tell if the words make a sound, or if I only think them.
    But they must. Make a sound, that is. Because Shane rises up from my bed. Avoiding my eyes, he zips his pants. Adjusts his T-shirt. Takes a step back. Then he starts down the hall, past Mom’s room, the bathroom, the guest room.
    Suddenly I feel guilty. I’m not sure why, but I do. Big time. “Shane”—tying my robe closed, I follow him—“don’t go. You said we could talk. Remember?”
    I step between him and the kitchen door.
    There’s a raw, unfamiliar pain in Shane’s eyes I’ve never seen before. He looks so vulnerable. Could he really be the same confident person who took on the Veep? All traces of that person are erased now.
    I reach to touch his face, but he pushes my hand away. That’s when I realize he’s crying. “Shane,” I whisper, “what’s wrong?”
    Hard, wrenching sobs shake his body. It’s almost too private to watch. He gulps air, like someone trying to stay afloat. “I—I care—way too—much about—you.”
    Our eyes meet. Then lock. Something deep in our centers connects. I couldn’t look away if I wanted to. We’re joined. Perhaps permanently.
    Shane doesn’t look away, either. “Y—you’re my whole fucking universe,” he chokes out. “You’re all I think about, Ariel, the only person I want to b—be with. Ever.”
    Oh. My. God. Ever. As in forever. He cares that much about me.
    When Shane blinks, our gaze is interrupted, and I feel like my lifeline’s been cut. I clasp his waist, holding tight, so I won’t drown without him.
    Shane doesn’t reach back, though. He removes my arms, placing them at my sides like he’s posing a mannequin. Then he reaches for the doorknob.
    “ Wait! ” I shout, surprising myself.
    Shane turns. “Wait for what, Ariel?” He flips up the blank screen again. Studies me with the same cool look you’d use to examine a specimen in chem