Keep waiting, I type and immediately erase. You can keep asking me on dates. We'll never be a couple. Erasing again and puffing out air aloud, I finally write, Don’t be late.
Oh, Blaire, you stupid little girl, Heart reprimands.
Why am I going on a second date with this guy? His ego is the last thing I need right now. Then again, I must admit he was nothing but sweet to me.
My fingers move on the screen again. Hey, thanks for being a gentleman. I hit the send button before I can change my mind,
Don’t get used to it. Next time I won’t be.
***
Shane and I are basking in the sun on our favorite red bench, drinking coffee.
He steals another sideways glance at me, messing with his phone and avoiding looking at me directly. He wears an “I Hate Being Bipolar. It’s Awesome!” tee. I know I look like a hungover mess because my hair is wild and my eyes are bloodshot, but he doesn’t ask what I was up to last night, and I don’t bring the subject up either.
“Who are you texting?” I eye him suspiciously, taking a long sip from my double-shot espesso.
“No one.”
“Hi, Bullshit, I’m Blaire. Nice to meet you.” I smirk at him.
He looks embarrassed, pulling his hoodie all the way down his nose so I can’t see his face.
“Shane Panty-Creamer Kinney! Tell me who you’re texting right freaking now.” My smirk widens. Maybe he’s got a new dip. Maybe it’s serious. Maybe I’m out of the doghouse.
He looks around. “I’m not texting anyone, I’m looking into reporting a crime. Someone slashed my tires and keyed my Mustang. And they did a hella good job.”
“Shit.” I jump up from the bench to face him. “You should definitely file a report. Show me what they did.”
“Slashed tires, remember,” he declares gravely. “I had to take the bus.” His voice hints at something more serious, like I have stage 4 cancer or World War III is coming.
“You still lived to tell the tale.” I pat his arm. “Instead of throwing a pity party, you can just go to the police.”
"I think it's the MMA guy."
"Which one?"
"Wilder," he says, touching his cheeks absent-mindedly, as if he's contemplating this. "I think I saw his Hummer after my car alarm went off."
I'm tempted to say this could be any Hummer, but Ty's car is pretty unique, with the skulls, flames and all the other atrocities.
"Why would Ty do that to you?"
Shane shakes his head. "No clue. I know he had some beef with my roomie Josh, but that was a long time ago. Maybe he thought my Mustang was his."
I put my hands on his shoulders and look into his eyes. “Hey, buddy, trust me, it’s probably some punk kids. Where you live in Oakland, you should be thankful it’s just your tires they butchered. I’ll give you a ride back home today.”
This rewards me with a tight smile. It's not much, but I'll take it. I hate seeing Shane so down. It's unlike him.
"Oh, and good news. Izzy said she'd be thrilled to help you out." I bend the truth just a tad, babbling on. "She asked exactly what you need and promised she'll get you everything you ask for."
"Really?" He eyes me suspiciously, his nose wrinkling to disguise his gut-punched reaction.
I go out of my way to look enthusiastic, but I'm not exactly known for my convincing poker face. "Yeah. Whatever you need! Let me know and she'll pass it through me."
Shane offers me a knowing smile and we make our way back into the university building. "Of course you will. By the way, you never answered my text message."
What text message? Oh, shit.
I hurriedly tug my phone out of my pocket and scroll to my incoming messages. For some weird reason, the text under Shane’s name looks like I've already opened it. It says, Don't make me hurt you, B. You'll regret the day.
I remember the last text I sent him. It was a futile threat saying I'd stage an intervention for him and Izzy, forcing them back in the same room to work out their issues.
Comprehension strikes me like a bolt of lightning. Did Ty see the text while I was snoring my way to Drunksville? He may have even interpreted this as some kind of a threat. But why slash Shane's tires? The only thing Ty seems interested in is his job.
And now me.
Why me?
A teeny, tiny part of me now wants to find out.
***
I make a stop at the apartment to freshen up or, to put bluntly, attempt a makeover that transforms me from something that looks like it didn’t crawled out of a sewer in a sci-fi film. Calling a truce in this war between Brain and Hormones, I've decided not to jump to any conclusions regarding Shane's vandalized car until I have the chance to run it by Ty.
I change my clothes and spray on enough perfume to stun a herd of buffalos. After which, I try three different lipsticks and apply my signature thick eyeliner. I shove a pack of mint gum into my jeans’ pocket and head out. First stop: visiting Nana Marty. Final destination: date redemption with Ty Wilder.
For the interview, of course. Just for the interview.
Nana Marty lives in a high-end senior home in Oakland. It looks like a glitzy hotel inside and out. Martha Rosenbloom isn’t just badass, she’s purely lethal. She arrived in this country not long after World War II, straight to Ellis Island and told the officer her name was Miriam. He changed it to Martha and gave her candy: That’s why she always told Izzy and me to “always take candy from strangers. It’s yummy and sweet. Just make sure your parents are around when you do.”