“He sounds like a good guy.”

“Yeah. He helped me with all of it, picking up prescriptions, the special diet, and he relieved me sometimes, near the end. He even helped me take care of the funeral arrangements.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t blame you, Shane.”

“I keep thinking how disappointed my mom would be. But back then, I just kept thinking, There’s no reason for anything anymore. Screw it all.”

Touching his arm, I say, “I bet she’d understand. It was a lot to deal with.”

“Wow. I didn’t mean to unload so much at once.” He appears shaken.

“I don’t mind. I’m glad you can talk to me.” To be honest, I want to hug him hard and refuse to let go, but then we’d never get to the Coffee Shop.

“You’re a good listener. You make it easy.”

“Thanks.” That might be the best compliment I’ve ever received, especially coming from a guy who says he never opens up to people. Shane makes me feel like I’m special, if only to him. We keep walking. His hand wraps around mine, warm and sure.

“Here we are,” Shane says, shoving the door open.

The bell jangles as we step inside. There are, like, twenty middle-aged women in here, sitting in threes and fours. I’m guessing they wanted to get away from people after church. It’s cozy in the Coffee Shop, padded furnishings in complementary colors; I love how they’ve mixed patterns for an inviting impression. There’s a line and only a couple of chairs vacant.

I offer, “I can get our drinks if you’ll grab those—”

“Sit. What do you want?” Normally, I’d be a little irritated at the interruption, but I don’t mind if Shane takes charge. He’s probably used to that, under the circumstances. Given what he told me on the way here, he doesn’t know how to let people look after him anymore.

“Chai latte, please. Soy milk.”

“Be right back.”

I slide into the seats just before a couple of girls my age can claim them. If they were old women, I’d feel guilty and cede my ground, but these two can stand. I ignore their glares and drop my bag on Shane’s spot. I wish we’d gotten a love seat, but it’s pretty hard to talk on those anyway. You have to turn sideways and worry about whether you look weird with one leg bent up at an angle.

At this point I notice there’s a mic to the left of the barista counter and the chairs have been pushed back, giving the room a slightly off-kilter feel. A wooden stool sits in front of the microphone, but nobody seems to be setting up to play. A flyer on the bulletin board tells me what’s going on:

EVERY SUNDAY! 6pm. The Coffee Shop is proud to present a showcase of local musicians.

Only it’s six fifteen now, and I hear the women next to me complaining. “I missed my hair appointment for this, and the Curly Q is closed now.”

And they have been for over two hours. Mildred only opens the place from noon to four on Sundays; she doesn’t want to obstruct anyone’s religious practices. Which is good of her, and the kind of thing you rarely see outside the Bible Belt.

Soon Shane returns with our drinks; I can’t tell what he has, but it’s not a frap since it’s in a hot beverage cup with paper guard around it. He drops into an adorable sprawl across from me, long legs taking up the space between us. If I had more confidence, I’d prop my feet on top of his, but this thing has just gotten started between us, even if we’re already sharing a locker. Just … for the first time, I want so bad for someone to like me back. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had crushes before, guys I’d never meet or ones I knew would never look at me like that. Sometimes it’s safer to pin your dreams on somebody who’s never going to see you. While it’s sad, it’s also safe. Because there’s no chance he’ll ever break your heart for real.

Shane? Could crush me.

To cover the thumping of my heart, I sip my chai latte. He didn’t sweeten it, which is perfect. “This is great, thanks. What’s yours?”

I ask because the next time we come here—and I hope there will be a next time—I intend to get his drink. While I like that he wants to buy things for me, I can’t let him do it all the time.

To my surprise, the tips of his ears go pink. “Hot chocolate. I don’t like tea or coffee. I realize that makes me sound like I’m nine.”

“With whipped cream or without?”

“Without.”

“Cinnamon?”

He raises a brow at me. “Are you writing a paper on this?”

“Maybe.”

“Yes, cinnamon.”

I memorize his preferences, so I’ll get the right drink when it’s my turn to buy. Before I can reply, the door bangs open, ruffling the papers tacked to the walls. A guy dashes in carrying a battered guitar case; the thing has all kinds of stickers on it, some ancient and peeling off, others from bands I recognize, some of which I even like, including Paramore and All Time Low. He’s out of breath and cradling his hand against his chest.

The counter girl yells, “You’re late, Jace! This is the third time … which means you’re out of the showcase for good. I’m calling the manager.”

Customers respond poorly to this, grumbling. Jace heads to the front of the shop.

“Come on, it wasn’t my fault. I had a tire blow out, and then I slammed my hand in the car door after changing it, and I dropped my phone—”

“Whatever,” she interrupts. “These people came down to hear you play. Now what?”

“I don’t know,” Jace says miserably. “But please don’t call the boss.”

He’s pretty cute, if you like black hair and dark eyes. Jace’s probably in his early twenties and he’s failing to grow a goatee. I’m interested in the drama unfolding before us; this is almost as good as live music. It’s entertainment anyway. But the older women don’t seem to agree, bitching as Jace argues with the barista. The injury isn’t fake, though. His hand is swollen, black and blue across the knuckles. If he really had a flat, then broke his phone, he’s on course for the worst day ever.

Shane cuts me a look that I can’t interpret. So I’m just looking at him when he puts down his hot chocolate and heads over to the counter. Because I’m straining, I hear him say, “I could fill in for him, just for today. Should be better than nothing.”

He’s incredible, I want to say, but I register how much of a big deal it is that Shane’s volunteered at all. Just a few weeks ago, he was talking about how he wanted to lie low and graduate. Now, he’s willing to play music in public. If I know anything about him, I suspect he’s doing it to help the guy out more than from pure desire, but he’s not backing off as the barista looks him up and down.

“Are you any good?” the girl asks.

Shane shrugs. He’s not going to sell himself to them.

But Jace hands over his beat-up guitar case. “The picks are in there, too.” Then he faces the room, raising his voice to carry over the complaints of multiple coffee klatches. “We have a special treat today at the Coffee Shop. One show only—” Jace glances over at his replacement, and Shane fills in his name in a low voice. “We have Shane Cavendish, live and unplugged.”

The applause that follows is mostly mine, though a few girls brighten up as Shane arranges himself on the stool, long legs propped to support the guitar. Jace collapses where Shane was, right next to me, and he looks both exhausted and relieved. His hand looks like he might have broken fingers, and that can’t be good for a musician.

As Shane settles in with the pick, strumming the guitar experimentally, I whisper, “Shouldn’t you see a doctor?”

Jace shushes me since Shane’s short warm-up has concluded and he’s playing the opening chords of a song. At first I can’t place it, but then I realize it’s an arrangement of “The Reckless and the Brave”; I really like All Time Low’s version, which rocks, but this is … more. You know how sometimes an acoustic version brings out things you didn’t notice before? Yeah. That. Plus, Shane’s voice. When I heard him in the music room before, he was only playing. Only. That’s like saying Michelangelo was just a guy who liked to carve shapes in rocks.