How soon is now?
The project ends on a Thursday.
By Friday afternoon, Jackie’s already losing her mind.
No more Gatsby sessions. No more Shauna tapping her pencil and looking too pretty in thrift store sweaters. No more accidentally-on-purpose hand brushes when they reached for the same highlighter.
She misses it.
She misses Shauna.
So she takes the house scissors and slices a clean, deliberate line down the back tire of her dad’s sedan.
It’s stupid. It’s reckless.
It’s perfect.
⸻
“Didn’t realize you moonlighted as a vandal,” Shauna says, crouched by the wheel, examining the damage.
She showed up ten minutes after Jackie called, wearing a flannel button-up over a ribbed tank top and low-slung jeans that had seen better days. Her hair’s tied up with a shoelace, and she has a black bandana shoved in her back pocket like she’s pretending to be someone who doesn’t care how hot she looks.
Jackie shrugs. “I think it got slashed in the school lot.”
Shauna raises an eyebrow. “Mhm. Taylor park in the teachers’ lot now?”
Jackie ignores that. “Can you fix it or not?”
Shauna stands, wipes her hands on her jeans. “Sure. For a price.”
Jackie crosses her arms. “Name it.”
“A six-pack. Cold. Nothing that tastes like toilet water.”
Jackie exhales. “Done.”
⸻
Shauna works like she’s done this a hundred times. Probably has.
Now Jackie’s pretending she’s not watching every shift of Shauna’s shoulder blades.
She’s bent over the jack, wrench in hand, the flannel sleeves shoved up to her elbows, and Jackie—
Jackie’s going through it.
Shauna’s arms are unfair. All lean muscle, tan skin smudged with oil and dirt, with tendons that shift and tighten every time she twists the wrench. There’s a patch of grease on her collarbone. A streak across her jaw. Sweat beads under her hairline and trails down the side of her neck like it knows Jackie’s watching.
Every once in a while, Shauna blows hair out of her face, or squints against the sun, and Jackie swears she feels it in her teeth.
“You good over there?” Shauna mutters, not looking up.
Jackie jumps. “What?”
“You’re pacing.”
“I’m just—” Jackie stops. Her mouth is dry. “Bored.”
Shauna grunts, braces a knee against the tire, and pulls harder on the wrench. The veins in her forearms flex. Jackie has to look away or commit a crime.
“You didn’t have to stay out here,” Shauna adds, glancing over her shoulder.
Jackie blinks. “You want me to leave?”
Shauna shrugs. “I didn’t say that.”
She goes back to working. Jackie keeps her eyes on the sky for a full fifteen seconds before glancing down again.
Big mistake.
Shauna’s got one hand braced on the hood now, the other reaching for the spare. Her shirt’s riding up just enough to show a strip of skin above her waistband—grease-slicked, sun-warmed, infuriatingly casual.
Jackie forgets how to breathe.
Then Shauna freezes.
“Okay, what the hell,” she mutters.
Jackie stiffens. “What?”
Shauna drags the ruined tire closer, runs a hand along the gash. “Jackie.”
“What?”
“This isn’t a nail. This is a cut. Like… a clean slice. Like someone took scissors to it.”
Jackie stares at her.
Shauna stares back.
Jackie shrugs. “Weird.”
Shauna narrows her eyes. “You didn’t.”
Jackie says nothing.
Shauna wipes her hands on her jeans, stands. “Unbelievable.”
“I wanted to hang out,” Jackie snaps, suddenly defensive. “Sue me.”
Shauna doesn’t look angry. She looks amused.
She squints at her. “You could’ve just called.”
Jackie crosses her arms. “You would’ve said no.”
Shauna tosses the wrench into the toolbox. “I did say yes.”
Jackie opens her mouth, then closes it.
Shauna smirks. “I still want my beer, by the way.”
⸻
They walk two blocks to the liquor store. Jackie flirts with a guy outside who looks like he peaked in JV baseball. Her laugh is high and fake and practiced. She gets the beer.
Shauna doesn’t comment.
They sit on the curb behind the store, legs stretched in front of them, cold bottles between their fingers.
Shauna cracks hers open, leans back against the wall. Her flannel is unbuttoned now, sleeves rolled up to her biceps, and Jackie is basically in cardiac arrest.
Her skin glows in the amber streetlight. Her arms are streaked with grime and heat and effort. She lifts the bottle to her lips and takes a long, slow sip like it’s nothing.
Jackie hasn’t opened hers. She’s just holding it, watching condensation drip down the side like she might drink it by osmosis.
“You really slashed a tire just to get me out of the house?” Shauna says, finally.
Jackie shrugs. “I was feeling… nostalgic.”
Shauna snorts. “You’re unbelievable.”
Jackie mutters, “You like it.”
Shauna doesn’t say anything.
She just takes another sip, and lets her head fall back against the wall, exhaling.
Jackie watches the curve of her neck, the line of her jaw, the muscles in her forearms shifting as she swirls the bottle.
And doesn’t say a goddamn word.