Seeing Shane Gray ✓

forty five | love

December 7

*.*.*.*.*.*

"Taylor, wait!"

Mom's voice makes me halt in my race to the door. I skid to a stop, grimacing and wishing she had either been asleep or out of the house. I turn around slowly to face her standing in the kitchen doorway and already dressed for work.

"Did you really think you could sneak out without breakfast?" Mom asks. "You need to eat, Tay."

"I have to get to school," I tell Mom, making one last attempt at getting out of the house.

She clearly isn't having it, though, cocking an eyebrow at me and gesturing towards the pancakes on the kitchen counter. She walks back into the kitchen and I admit, the sight and smell of fresh food do make me change my mind about hurrying out without eating. It won't hurt to spend a few minutes -- or my entire life -- eating.

"You have time," Mom adds, turning away to unplug the coffee maker.

I give in, walking over to one of the chairs around the island and dropping my bag to the floor. Sitting on the chair, I pull the platter toward me and break a piece of the pancakes.

"Your friend dropped by yesterday," Mom tells me.

"Marla?" I ask absentmindedly, counting the time until I have to take my test. It's still early and I have nearly an hour to make it. My panic, though, isn't ready to listen, causing my stomach to twist and my heart to race.

"No, the boy. Shane, I think."

I freeze, my mouth full of the blueberry sauce. Lifting my wide eyes to stare at Mom, I see her fighting a faint smile.

"When?" I barely manage to choke out.

"In the afternoon," Mom tells me. "You were asleep and he didn't want to disturb you. I told him he could come by today if he wants. I'm sure you'd like that too."

The heat that creeps up my cheeks is one thing, the enhanced pounding of my heart another. I misinterpret my excitement as anxiety about the test and gorge down another pancake before getting to my feet.

"I have to go," I say hastily, wanting to ask Mom what Shane said but afraid of what I might hear.

"He said I should tell you he's sorry."

The ground nearly slips out from underneath me and I stare at mom. She smiles openly now, looking more like herself with each passing day. The bags under her eyes and her streaks of white hair are still present but she looks better, happier and healthier.

"He's a nice boy, Taylor," she adds. "And I think he likes you."

"I know he does," I mumble, averting my gaze. "But he also knows we shouldn't be together and he's right. We're both too messed up."

I hate saying it, the weight of the words resting on my chest. Yet, I now understand how right Shane was. We can't help each other if we can't help ourselves.

I can't love Shane if I can't even love myself.

Mom nods thoughtfully. "I'm just saying. He's a nice boy."

"I know," I answer, stuffing my mouth with food. "But I can't go around dating all the nice boys out there."

My attempt to shake Mom off doesn't work and she only continues to smile, watching me closely so that I'm sure she can tell how conflicted I am about Shane and -- more importantly -- how I feel about him. I like him, that's for sure. I have liked him for longer than I care to admit. His smile, his eyes, the way he makes everything so easy ... Shane is exactly the kind of guys I like. He's sweet and kind and incredibly caring, always knowing exactly what to do and say.