Heart Shaped Rock (17 page)

I groan. He’s got a point. On both accounts. “But, Dad, I made such a spectacle of myself on Thursday. I did everything embarrassing there is to do except maybe crap my pants.” Lennox laughs behind his comic book. “It was epic. I don’t know what to say to Sheila.”

“The truth is usually a good place to start. And ‘I’m sorry’ never hurts, either.”

Ugh, I’d rather have bamboo shoots slammed under my fingernails than talk to Sheila about my behavior on Thursday night. I’m so embarrassed about the way I acted. My dramatic performance has probably convinced her—and half of Pacific Beach—that I’m totally, utterly and completely insane. I wish I could just pretend it never happened. I don’t know how to even try to explain my meltdown to her. “How about this, Dad?” I say, taking a bite of bacon. “You go down there for me, return my apron to Sheila, and get my keys from the back room. Then we go back down there together, much later on, like, say, at three in the morning, to get my car?” I over-smile at him like I’m a used car salesman with a lemon on my hands.

Dad just stares at me with a “that’s not gonna happen” expression.

“No way, José,” Lennox chimes in, out of nowhere from behind his comic book.

Dad drops me off in the parking lot at Sheila’s, right next to my car. “You’ve got your keys?” he asks as I exit his car.

“They’re inside. That’s the whole problem.”

He nods. “Well, good luck, then,” he says. He continues to idle the car, apparently waiting to drive away until I’m safely inside.

I sigh. Well, here goes.

As it turns out, Saturday late-morning at Sheila’s is booming, just as busy as Thursday’s Open Mic Night. It’s wall-to-wall people. Sheila stands behind the counter, animatedly taking an order from the first in a long line of customers, while a young woman I haven’t met works the espresso machine. That must be Carmen, I think. I’ve seen her name on the schedule posted in the back room.

Sheila looks up and sees me standing at the door, my blue apron hanging in my hand. She smiles at me, but I can’t tell if her smile reaches her eyes. Sheila whispers something to Carmen, and Carmen nods.

My stomach flip-flops.

Sheila emerges from behind the counter and walks toward me.

I can’t read her facial expression. Is she angry? Seething? Wary? Disappointed? Gosh, she might even be scared of me.

Sheila reaches me and, without hesitation, envelops me in a hearty hug. “Ah, Shaynee-girl,” she says into my hair. “Sweet little Shaynee.”

I’m stunned. This is the last thing I expected.

“Come on, honey. Let’s sit over here.” She motions to a table in the far corner.

As we walk to the table, I glance at the little stage that turned my life upside-down just two days ago. I quickly look away, but not before I hear Dean’s distinctive voice in my head singing, “... now I’m home, with my girl in yellow... ”

Dean.

The memory of his warm, soft lips pressed against mine slams into me. I feel a pang in my chest cavity, right where a big hunk of rock now resides.

Sheila and I take seats opposite each other. I look into her eyes, and suddenly realize they’re the exact same cobalt-blue color as Dean’s. How did I not see the resemblance?

Dean.

Sheila reaches her hands across the table toward me.

I dumbly hold out the blue apron, thinking she means to ask me for it.

“No, silly girl,” Sheila says, pushing my hands away. “You can’t give it back that easily. Put it down, and give me your hands.”

I do as I’m told.

“Well,” Sheila says. It’s a statement, not a question. It’s a conclusion of some kind.

I bite the inside of my cheek. I don’t know how to begin. Am I fired? Because if not, then I quit. I can’t show my face around here again.

Apparently, Sheila doesn’t mind awkward silences, because she sits there, staring at me, letting me wallow in my uneasiness for a while. Finally, I say, “Sheila, I’m so sorry about Thursday... ”

Sheila sighs. “Shaynee, my darling, you don’t owe
me
an apology. But there
is
someone you need to say those words to.”

I pull my hands away. If she’s telling me to apologize to her son, she can just forget about it. I put my hands in my lap.

“Relax, sweet girl, relax. I don’t know what’s going on between you and Dean, and I’ll keep out of it. Having your boyfriend’s mom butting into the middle of things is the last thing you want.”

Did she just call Dean my
boyfriend?

“But I sure as heck can say a thing or two about Tiffany. When she came back here on Thursday after chasing you all the way up the street to Canada, she was an absolute mess. I don’t know what you said to her, honey, but you obviously ripped her heart right out of her chest. And then stomped on it and lit it on fire.”

I know the truth when I hear it. I nod, acknowledging my guilt. “And then I put it into a blender and ate it.”

“You were definitely thorough, I’ll give you that. I haven’t seen Tiffany that emotional since she first started working here.”

My face registers surprise. Since when has bubbly, vivacious, fun-loving, devil-may-care Tiffany ever been “that emotional” in front of Sheila before?

“Oh, yes,” Sheila says, reading my thoughts. “For the first month working here, all Tiffany could do was carry on about you, and your family, and the loss of your beautiful, talented mother, may she rest in peace.” Sheila’s eyes moisten. “I’m so sorry about your mother, honey.”

I am absolutely shocked. She’s just going to put it right out there? No dancing around it, no pretending it doesn’t exist? No looking away?

Sheila reaches out her hands to me again. When I don’t take them, she rests them on the table between us. “In the beginning, Tiffany cried almost every day, showing me pictures of herself with her Best Friend Shaynee—you two girls at the beach, at the Fair, getting mani-pedis, drawing silly mustaches on your faces.... Oh, she had pictures of you two girls at slumber parties and birthday parties—just so many pictures. And who do you think took you two girls all over town on all those adventures? Who do you think was standing in a bunch of those pictures with her arms around the two of you?”

Mom.

“Shaynee, honey, I know you haven’t realized this—and considering what you’ve been through, that’s understandable—but when you lost your mom, Tiffany suffered a big loss, too. Karen was a second mom to her. And, on top of dealing with her own grief, Tiffany also took on the job of handling
yours,
too.”

I imagine this is what adults like to call “tough love.” And, man, it’s effective. I suddenly realize I’ve never even once talked to Tiffany about Mom. Even around my very best friend, I’ve always just preferred pretending nothing was wrong. And she always followed my lead. Even when she found me in the bathroom that time, screaming and pulling my hair and basically losing my mind, I made her swear not to tell anyone and never to talk about it. I think about Tiffany sitting with me at lunch, day after day, foregoing the chance to sit with Kellan and his crowd, even though she clearly wants to. God, I’ve never even once offered to sit over there with Kellan. When was the last time I even bothered to ask Tiffany how she was feeling?

“Since day one working here, Tiffany’s never stopped going on and on about
you
, her Best Friend Shaynee. About the amazing songs you write. And your incredible singing voice. And your fancy vocabulary and amazing brain. About how funny you are. It just goes on and on. And, of course, when we looked at Tiffany’s pictures and videos of you, it was easy to see she wasn’t exaggerating—you really
are
just that special. And, of course, beautiful, too.”

I snap to sudden attention. Sheila just used the word “
we.”
She just said, “... when
we
looked at Tiffany’s pictures and videos... ” Who’s the other half of “we” in that sentence? Dean, of course. Yep, Dean already knew everything there was to know about me when he sat down next to me at the bonfire. He’d already seen my pictures and some sort of video, for Pete’s sake. When he asked about my family at Wang Palace, he already knew my mom died, and yet he let me go on and on about my fantasy-family and normal, nothing-to-report life. And, worst of all, the whole time we were together, he let me believe we were mutually discovering each other, at the exact same magical moment.

I’m so confused.

I look down at my hands in my lap, and when I do, I’m surprised to see a tear fall onto my hand.

“Shaynee,” Sheila soothes, sounding like she’s coaxing a rabid pit bull out of a cage, “there are a lot of people who love you. Tiffany loves you so much. And so do I, honey.”

I look up, and Sheila is looking at me with such motherly love—such understanding and acceptance, such warmth—I surprise myself by leaping out of my chair and throwing my arms around her neck.

“Oh,” Sheila says, her voice cracking.

I’m one of Sheila’s rescue puppies. And, in this moment, that’s exactly what I want to be. I
want
to be saved. I don’t care if she’s saving me out of pity or some mama-bear instinct to protect an orphaned cub. Whatever it is, it suddenly feels perfectly natural to let Sheila love me.

“I came to give you my apron,” I admit, and we both laugh.

“I don’t accept.”

Laughter hijacks our tears, and suddenly, we’re both laughing and crying at the same time. When we part, she takes my hand. “You’re still going to work here.” Again, it’s a statement, not a question.

I nod. “But until I have a chance to ... please, just not when Dean’s here. For a little while. I just need to figure out... ”

Sheila looks crestfallen. “Shaynee, you don’t understand. He’s in your corner. He’s been in your shoes his whole life and he more than anybody understands—”

“What happened to not butting into the middle of our relationship?” I ask.

Sheila looks surprised. “Looks like Best Friend Shaynee just turned into Sassy Shaynee.”

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean to be rude.” And it’s the truth. I really didn’t. It just came out wrong.

“Honey, it’s all good. You’re right. You and Dean will have to figure things out on your own, even though it kills me not to tell you exactly what I think.” She looks at me expectantly, clearly hoping I’ll ask her what she thinks.

I shake my head. I won’t take the bait. I have to figure this out for myself. I still haven’t sorted out my feelings. I mean, wait, no, that’s not true. I know exactly what my
feelings
are, but it doesn’t matter, does it? Because I
know
in my egg-carton brain that Dean wasn’t completely honest with me. Yes, he’s gorgeous, and funny, and smart, and talented—and did I say gorgeous?—and he makes me feel as light as a feather with even the slightest touch. Yes, his eyes, his lips... Oh my God. And his kiss. My toes curl just thinking about it.
“Your freckles are killing me right now,”
he said, and I shudder remembering the look in his eyes when he said it.

But so what to any of it? It wasn’t real. Was he simply having a little fun with me? Or is he a hopeless Good Samaritan, addicted to luring scrawny alley cats with the promise of some warm milk and a soft bed? Yeah, I might be willing, even happy, to be Sheila’s rescue puppy, but I won’t be Dean’s. I refuse to fall in love with someone who wants me only because I’m in need. I refuse to be a damsel in distress. As much as it pains me to realize it, Dean’s attracted to the Disney-princess version of Shaynee Sullivan. The dude’s got a hero complex, and I refuse to need saving. Well, not anymore, anyway; the time has come for me to save myself.

“Can I maybe just work on Wednesdays for a little while?” I ask.

Sheila looks deflated. “The thing is I really need help on Thursdays. Why don’t you ask Tiffany to swap her Tuesdays with your Thursdays? Tuesdays are usually fairly slow, so Dean doesn’t have to come in for a while as you sort things out.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to Tiffany about it. And I’ll apologize to her, too,” I say. “I’ve spent the last two days tabulating all the ways I’m an evil, soul-sucking, rotten friend, and I plan to share my list with her as soon as possible.”

Sheila laughs. “Good plan. Oh, hey,” she adds, suddenly realizing something, “can you work tomorrow? The boys are playing a show at a street fair in North Park, and I’d love to go if I can get the place covered.” She glances over at Carmen. The line has gotten ridiculously long with only one
barista
behind the counter. “Carmen likes to spend Sunday mornings with her family, so it’d work out for everyone.”

“Yeah,” I say. “That sounds great.” I look over at Carmen practically doing cartwheels and backbends behind the counter all by herself. “Do you want me to jump back there and help Carmen for a little while today?”

Sheila looks across the room at Carmen and laughs. “I think that’s a great idea.”

Chapter 17

As it turns out, Sunday mornings at Sheila’s are even busier than Saturdays, but the clientele seems to consist of lots more young families and older couples out for a morning stroll, rather than our usual hippies, surfers, hipsters, and teenagers. By the time I arrive at eight, Sheila’s long since opened up the place, and, much to my relief and pleasure, we work the first few hours of my shift together.

We fall into a comfortable rhythm behind the counter. Sheila takes the orders and I make the magic. I’m elated to discover I no longer require any instruction or training, no matter what the order. Even when Sheila hollers for me to whip up a not-on-the-menu special for her “favorite customer Tim,” or her “best customer Annie,” I know exactly what to do without being told. When the tables require bussing or the restroom requires a refill on paper products, I sense it without needing to be reminded. When the stainless steel cream container is running low, I swoop in to exchange it with a full one, only seconds before a customer pours out the very last drop. I feel like I was born to do this.

“That’s the prettiest one yet,” Sheila says to me as I hand her a drink, referring to the heart-shaped espresso-swirl I’ve made in the milk froth.