I expected he might make an excuse due to money and suggest hanging out on the square instead. That’s the low-rent option for weekend fun in this town. Those who don’t have cars or can’t afford DQ, Coffee Shop, or a show will buy a drink at the convenience store near the courthouse, and then just wander around the square until the cops run them off. Sometimes they bring music and dance on the front steps, but that’s mostly drama dorks trying to start a flash mob of four. People don’t pick on them, though, because all the beautiful people are out at the Barn getting shit-faced.

“There’s only one show on Fridays,” I tell him. “At eight.”

“Then I’ll be at your house at seven thirty.”

“Do you need the address?”

“That’d be good.” I scrawl it on a piece of paper, which he sticks in the zip pocket on his backpack. “Thanks.”

“Not a problem. Oh,” I add, remembering. “You might want to swing by the P&K after school. My aunt said they’re looking for help.”

Shane’s relief is a tangible force, warming the air between us. “I definitely will.”

When he slides a hand beneath my hair—unstraightened and I didn’t even have time for a ponytail—I think he’s going for a kiss, right in the hallway. But he just cups his palm around my nape, fingers strumming slowly like I’m a tune he’s trying to learn. Chills start on my neck, roll down my shoulders to my arms, until I have goose bumps. I’m wearing a shrug or he’d see them. Reflexively, I tug at the sleeves, making sure they’re all the way down.

“Class,” I mumble, unable to string two words together.

Shane lets go, and I manage to get to chem without stumbling over my own feet. Today, I actually beat Ryan, so I get our supplies from the back table. The beakers and things are already at our lab station, so I start setting up as best I can. The teacher watches me take the initiative, then scribbles a note in the grade book. Ryan barely reaches his stool before the final bell, looking more rumpled than usual. Since his head is one enormous cowlick, that’s saying something.

I listen while we get the instructions for our experiment, then I turn to Ryan. “You ready?”

“I got your note. About my stories.”

“Yeah.” It’s true; he can make a trip to the QwikMart sound like an epic adventure.

“I guess … you have plans tomorrow night?” He says it with such awful resignation, like he can’t imagine a worse fate than not hanging with me.

“I do. But…” The invite slips out in response to his puppy eyes. “You can come to lunch on Sunday if you want.”

“I’m there.”

“I invited a bunch of people, apparently. We’re girl heavy, so—”

“Tell me you didn’t just invite me for my Y chromosome.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this angry. Ryan doesn’t have a temper; at least, not that I’ve ever seen. Until now. His brown eyes practically throw sparks behind the black frames of his glasses.

“I’m trying, okay? I can’t handle just the two of us yet. I mean, I want us to be friends, but—”

“Last week, I was trying to tell you I’m in love with you. I broke up with my girlfriend for you. Don’t friend-zone me.”

“Your girlfriend…? The one you were lying to? Don’t even try for the moral high ground.” I can’t believe that he’s acting like the injured party.

“Ryan and Sage, less 90210, more chemistry, please,” the teacher says.

“That’s their problem,” somebody cracks. “Not enough.”

Oh God. How did my life end up this way? So much pointless drama, and Ryan’s just making it worse. Tired of it, I put my head on the lab counter and wait to be struck by lightning.

Sadly, this never happens. I’m forced to finish this class and two more, then make my way to work. By comparison, my shift at the Curly Q is a marvel of peace and quiet. We get two new customers, which is cool for Mildred. The second girl comes in half an hour before closing. She’s small with long brown hair and shaggy bangs. Her blue polo shirt has a pharmacy logo on it—along with the khaki pants, this looks like a work uniform. Just inside the door, she chews her lips nervously as I walk toward the front desk.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“I just need…” Her voice is tiny, hesitant.

Wow, she’s shy.

“My bangs trimmed. Maybe the split ends on the rest.”

That won’t take long, so I call to Grace, who did my highlights, “Do you have time?”

She nods. It’s ten bucks more than she would’ve made fiddling with her own hair.

“I have to shampoo your hair first,” I explain. “It’s the law. This way.”

I notice she’s actually shaking when she sinks into the red reclining chair. Maybe she’s never had a haircut in a salon before? Pondering why that would be, I run the water so it’s nice and warm and then go about my business of wetting, lathering, rinsing, and conditioning. Water speckles the lenses of her red glasses, the one pop of color about her. I usually throw in a little head massage if there’s time, but she has a lot of hair, and Grace needs her in the chair to get it done before eight.

“There you go,” I say, helping her sit up.

The customer follows me over to Grace’s station, where I settle her with protective cape. “Do you want a magazine? Some water?”

“Water would be nice,” she says softly.

I head back to the tiny employee lounge and fill a paper cone for her. When I get back with the drink, Grace is already at work with the comb. That accomplished, I go back to work cleaning the rest of the salon. The other stylists are all gone; Grace and I are closing up together tonight. Windex and towels in hand, I do all the mirrors by the time she finishes the trim.

“I don’t have time to blow it out,” Grace says, then shows the girl how it looks it in back.

“I like it. Thank you.” She digs into her purse and slips Grace a few bucks.

That makes me smile; some people seem opposed to tipping their stylists. I head over to the front desk to ring her out. A full haircut is twelve bucks, so I charge her eight for the partial. Her eyes look so sad as she counts out the singles that I can’t help but ask:

“Are you okay?”

“No,” she says softly. Then she squares her shoulders, like she’s about to drink some medicine. “See, I’m … I’m Cassie.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Oh. Crap.

I feel weirdly like the other woman. What am I supposed to say? “Ryan mentioned you.”

“Yeah … he talked about you all the time. I thought you were a coworker.”

“At which of his fictional jobs?” This is so awkward it hurts. To make matters worse, Ryan’s family has plenty of money; he’s never needed to work. They’re against it, focused on him getting good grades and participating fully in high school in order to get the best possible start. They’ve been looking at college brochures at the McKenna house since Ryan was fourteen.

Her pained gaze sparks with humor. “The one at the credit union.”

“So he was a bank teller in his secret life?”

I wonder why she never went to see him at work. It seems like there would’ve been some natural moment in the last year where it all fell apart. Can it be that easy to live a double life? I mean, obviously I’ve heard about men who manage to have two wives, two families, but it sounds like an awful lot of effort. But if anyone could make it work, Ryan could. He’s diabolically smart; I just never expected him to use his brain for evil.

“That’s what he told me.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but … why are you here? I’m guessing not just for a trim.”

Cassie shrugs, looking upset and angry at the same time. “I told myself I’d just come in for a haircut—that I wouldn’t even tell you who I was.”

“Why did you?” In a way, I wish she hadn’t.

“Because you’re not like I thought you’d be.”

I’m confused now. “Did he tell you something about me when he…”