Page 18

Shane had settled into an easy routine. He and Dustin would wake up every morning before dawn, and Dustin would quietly show him the measurements for different types of bread and pastry. He liked sourdough best, but Laney favoured cinnamon rolls, so Shane made them daily. On weekdays, Laney would go to school during the day. Dustin didn’t, and Shane wasn’t sure if he was skipping or supposed to be home, but he didn’t ask. Shane had hated school and didn’t blame the kid if he didn’t want to go.

Dustin would disappear into his room during the day, emerging at lunchtime to cook, his fingertips dusted dark with charcoal. While Shane always felt like an equal partner in their lessons in baking, lunch and dinner seemed to be Dustin’s domain so Shane just sat at the counter quietly watching.

Laney would come home around 3:30 every day, cheeks pink from the cold, her bruise finally fading, and would annoy them both with constant, snarky chatter that made Shane laugh until his ribs ached.

They were always quiet at dinner, communicating in that curious, quiet way of theirs. It was getting easier every day. After they ate, they’d watch tv in the living room until Laney passed out, and Shane would carry her to bed.

Tuesday and Thursday mornings, he got up extra early and went to the bakery. There was always an envelope of cash labelled “Dustin”, but he never encountered Andy, only the curly-haired girl whose name he couldn’t remember. She was always batting her eyelashes at him and peppering him with questions but had never once asked about what had happened to Dustin, where he’d gone.

Shane didn’t like her.

They never talked about Laney’s mom, or brother. His nerves jangled slightly whenever he thought about them, and how he’d definitely have to leave when one of them eventually showed up, but he stuck around anyway, even knowing it would end.

In the afternoons, Shane kept himself busy around the house. He’d hung the French doors in the basement, fixed the door to his – well, the brother’s – room, reorganized the laundry room, scrubbed the grout in the shower, taken the empty liquor bottles from the cabinet to the liquor store in exchange for some coins, and sorted the front hall closet where he’d found a heavy wool men’s winter jacket and tall winter boots. They were old and dusty, and he suspected they had been Jerry’s, whoever he was. But they were warm.

He liked the weekends best, when Laney was home all day. She made the house seem crowded, lighting it up with her charm and making too much noise.

Shane taught them how to play poker, and Dustin cleaned them out every time. They bet chores, but Dustin only ever bet dishes. At this point, he didn’t have to do dishes for infinity.

It was a Sunday when Laney bet Dustin a haircut and – shockingly – won.

She set up a chair in the basement where the hair could be easily swept up off the linoleum, and draped what looked like an old Dracula cape over him. She furrowed her brow with concentration, snipping the kitchen scissors in the air twice, before sticking her tongue out of the corner of her mouth and reaching towards him –

Shane plucked the scissors out of her hand.

“I’ll do it,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because you’re awful at it,” he laughed, eyeing Dustin’s terrible haircut.

“I’ve never done it on someone else before, only mine,” she whined.

Shane raised an eyebrow at Dustin.

I do it myself, Dustin said.

Shane snorted and handed Laney back the scissors, gesturing for her to proceed before flopping himself down on the couch with his arms above his head.

She took her time, but by the end Shane had to admit it looked… good. She’d had to cut everything short to match the areas that Dustin had hacked off (possibly with a saw) but she’d left it slightly longer around his ears and neck, filling out his face. She’d given him some shape, too, somehow, and the cylindrical dent in his head wasn’t nearly as noticeable.

Dustin disappeared to check in the mirror and came back blushing.

“You next,” she said in her bossy voice, pointing at him with the scissors.

He ran a hand over his head. “Nah, I’m good.”

“Shut up and get over here,” she sniped.

He sighed and stretched, his shirt riding up above his jeans exposing a strip of skin at his waist. He felt Laney’s eyes latch onto him, the skin there vibrating like she’d hooked his hip bones up to spark plugs, and hastily dropped his arms. Dustin’s watchful gaze flitted back and forth between them, and Shane gave an exaggerated sigh to break the silence.

“Yes ma’am,” he said, plunking himself down in the chair.

She seemed to study the back of his head for a while. Finally, softly, her fingers slid through his hair, gently pulling it away from his scalp. She repeated the motion at his temples, at the back of his head, and then at the top again. He smothered an involuntary groan, sure he must have been beet red with how hot his face felt, but he closed his eyes and tried not to focus on the feel of her nails on his scalp. When her fingers grazed the back of his neck he got goosebumps, but he kept his eyes screwed tightly shut and tried to ignore them.

It just feels nice to be taken care of, he reasoned. It would feel like this with anyone. Cody could be doing it and it would still feel good.

… And the award for biggest liar of the year goes to…

Then she was all business, nothing but the soft sound of snipping and her occasional sighs. When she moved around to the front, he didn’t open his eyes but tried to relax his face a bit. Shane’s muscles were rigid from tension, her fruity-gum-breath in his face, his hands clenched on the arms of the chair under the Dracula cape… Even his toes were curled and stiff.

It took way, way too long. And not nearly long enough.

“There,” she said finally, stepping back. Shane opened his eyes, and she was watching him with an intense expression. She put her hands on her hips. “Go,” she said, gesturing to the hallway, “check my handiwork.”

There was a tiny bathroom in the basement, barely big enough for the toilet and sink and mildewy brass-trimmed standup shower in the corner.

Shane blinked at himself, his eyebrows shooting up into his hairline. He looked… nice. Really nice. She hadn’t cut it as short as Dustin’s – in fact it wouldn’t have been obvious that he’d just had a haircut if he hadn’t spent the past forty minutes fighting off muscle cramps. But his slightly overgrown shag was nicely shaped, shorter at the sides than it had been, still longish on top, messy but… with a purpose.

He suppressed the shiver running up his spine. It had been oddly intimate, Laney’s hands in his hair and on his brow and neck… He felt like she’d taken off more than just a few inches of hair. He felt naked.

“What do you think,” she breathed, suddenly behind him, crowding him in the too-small bathroom so he was forced to press forward against the sink.

“Have you considered hair dressing as a vocation?”

“Not really,” she said, hip checking him out of the way and leaning into the mirror. She turned her head left, then right, then in a quick and certain flurry of activity, she trimmed the waves around her face, the rapid snips precise and sure. He watched with fascination as her little pixie cut was reshaped, softening her angular features, rounding her sharp cheekbones.

“Here,” she said, looking at him in the mirror and holding the scissors up over her shoulder. “I can never get the back straight.”

“Oh, hell no!” He backed away and raised his hands. “I’m not bearing the brunt of your wrath if I fuck up your hair.”

She shrugged, staring him down until he reluctantly reached over and took the scissors in his hand.

He hesitantly reached out for the little section at the back of her neck that she couldn’t see properly and jumped when his fingers touched her neck, his stomach doing a slow somersault at the contact.

She shoved herself into his space all the time. Too much of the time. But he made it a point to never really respond, or touch her first, except at night when he carried her to bed. He was constantly reminding himself of her age. Don’t make it weird.

His cheeks heated and his fingers flexed involuntarily, two knuckles accidentally blazing a short trail down the centre of her neck over her spine.

Don’t. Make. It. Weird.

He could feel his pulse in his hands, and he glanced up at the mirror again; her face was flushed, lips slightly parted, eyes glued to him. Without thinking, he repeated the motion, stroking the back of her neck once more.

She squeezed her eyes shut and let out a tight, low breath, before he loudly cleared his throat and made the final few snips. Then he placed the scissors down in the sink and backed out of the bathroom, leaning against the paneling on the opposite side of the hall. He crossed his arms over his chest and smirked.

“I’ll take all the credit for that haircut, you know.”

When her eyes opened again they were smoldering, and his smile faltered.

She seemed to catch herself, because she shook her head and then brushed off the loose hair around her shoulders.

“I should have used the cape,” she grumbled, bits of blonde hair stuck to the fabric of her Nirvana hoodie. She stomped down the hall and into her room.

Trying very hard to remember what it felt like to have limbs that work, Shane trailed after her, intending to help sweep up the hair. He didn’t intend to catch a glimpse of her bare back, visible in the gap of the door, which wasn’t entirely closed.

Nope. Not at all. Didn’t mean to one bit.