I walk begrudgingly to the hospital exit. What I really want is to plant myself on my bench and brood. That isn’t possible. Derry staked his own claim and is there waiting, just as he said.

His spotting me is enough to stir the spark inside me. He’s a mixture of excitement, apprehension, and relief? Where would I run to? There’s no back exit. Is he annoyed over waiting? I wasn’t dragging my feet, though I’d be lying to say it hadn’t occurred to me.

Carefully, I navigate the salted walkway. I don’t want to take a tumble in front of him. Moreover, I don’t want him to break the steady, smoldering gaze that’s somehow stunned the ignited spark into submission. It’s frozen, his honey-hued eyes two heat-seeking missiles aimed right at my tinder heart.

“Hey,” he says casually, shoving his hands into the pockets of his beat-up bomber jacket.

It doesn’t escape my attention he’s chewing on his bottom lip. Does he taste as good as he smells? I’d wager yes. I shift back and forth on my feet. “I wasn’t sure you’d still be here. Sorry it took me so long.”

“You’re worth waiting for.” Crack. Robot activated. “For the record, I’m not happy how this is playing out. In fact, I’m mourning.” His chin nods toward the parking lot. Guess that’s my cue to follow.

“Mourning what?” I clench my fists at my sides as my chest flutters. Does he know?

“The loss of all my plans to change your mind.” His dismal expression is meant to garner sympathy, but he’s being smart, flirty even.

“Seems I’m not so hard a sell as projected.” I shrug. “Be warned, shopping from the discount rack is problematic.”

He nudges me with his elbow. “I got a bargain from where I’m standing.” Crack. Robot armed.

He’ll get more than he bargained for if he doesn’t lay that hammer down, Superego tuts.

“Trust me, you can live without it.”

“Can’t.”

I scoff. “Won’t.”

“Diverse venture capital.” His expression is playful. “Like want and need.”

I’m becoming painfully aware of the variance. I want to bridge the distance. I need to maintain the barrier, but my emotions are burning through it faster than I can rebuild.

“You don’t realize how frugal a shopper I am.” He slides his arm over my shoulder, pulling me closer. “Responsible stimulation of the economy is very important to me.”

Sad fact: it’s a seller’s market, and this purchase includes delivery to my final flame-induced misfortune. I’d feel guilty for falsely advertising if I hadn’t warned him repeatedly what he was buying.

Sliding into the passenger seat of his red Suburban, I struggle not to stare at him. “So…your sister.”

“Yes…her.”

“What’s her name?”

“Kiley.”

I reach for the window lever, finding it locked. As if reacting to my disappointment, it cracks slightly. Shame you missed last call on disapproving scowls, Superego commiserates.

“She’s stoked for tonight. It’s supposed to be a big show. Pyrotechnics and all.”

Oh, the irony. My sparks are excited. They spread haphazardly, tearing slits where they skim my veins. I draw in a shuddering breath, attempting to stall the inevitable. Morning Glories and Sunshine waft past me on their journey out the open window, calming me down. Robot on standby.

“You cool?”

“I wish people would stop checking my temperature,” I complain, folding my arms across my chest.

His brow hits his hairline. “Want to talk it out?”

“Yeah, I standardly offload my tragic defects on cute boys I barely know. It’s why there’s a lineup vying for my affections.”

Superego grimaces. Settle down the word vomit.

I can’t help it. Something about him demands honesty, and my subconscious is happy to give it, despite the fact I can’t handle serious right now. Not when everything’s bound to get beyond serious here shortly. Fingers crossed.

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“I’m not cute,” he deflects.

“Of course not.”

“I’m hot,” he corrects, following up with his patented, brain-jellying smirk.

“I stand by cute. I’ve yet to see hot.”

“Baby ducks are cute.”

“What’s wrong with baby ducks?”

He pouts a bit, and I point at him, a wide grin spreading across my face. “See. Totally cute.” Robot disengaged.

We pull up to a rustic building decorated with cheap Christmas lights and a falling-down neon sign that’s supposed to read Dine Here, but the ‘n’ is burnt out.

Die here? Superego snickers. Nice.

“First timer,” I admit, stepping out of the SUV and moving over to where he’s waiting. “Any hot tips?”

“No pics or videos,” he warns. “It’s to protect privacy.”

Is it weird to be relieved my execution won’t go viral?

“We can go somewhere else if you’d prefer.” He hopes I’ll ask him to take me somewhere else. Anywhere else. Not happening.

“Your sister wouldn’t appreciate that much.”

Sighing, he presses the small of my back, guiding me inside. The lighting is atypically bright in preparation for the show. I’m surprised to see such a crowd as we weave through the narrow space. Then again, there’s only one recreational facility in the area, so it’s bound to be packed on the regular.

A girl is on stage playing with wires hooked up to a large machine. That must be Kiley. A beast steps out from behind one of the large speakers. Subconsciously needing security, I reach my hand to where Derry’s still pressing my back. He squeezes reassuringly. “That’s my brother, Barry. He’s harmless.”

He hops onto the stage to help them finish the prep work, raking Kiley for messing with the system he designed. Her response is an impish grin, followed by a kiss on the cheek, instead of an argument. Their sibling interaction is much less strained than Declan and Tally’s. Grizzly-boy has his arms folded across his chest, standing at attention for the duration. Not at all menacing. Yikes.

Don’t put a toe out of line, Superego cautions.

While Derry’s having a side conversation with his brother, Kiley takes the opportunity to hop off the stage, nearly tackling me in the process. The hug should be awkward and unwanted, but it’s far too comfortable to shake her off. She smells of Coreopsis and Bottle Rockets. Odd.

“Did he kidnap you?” she asks suspiciously.

There’s a hint of amusement in her gray eyes. They look almost silver under the stage lights and are the only grayscale thing about her. Her hair is four colors at minimum, offset by black undercoating. She has a blue fishnet shirt underneath a spandex tank top with several lines of variant sparkles. Her pants, if you can call them that, are made of liquid latex and have the same sapphire color as the mesh. Her knee-high, lace-up boots have no noticeable heel aside from the even thickness of sole elevating her height. She’s the prettiest punk princess I’ve ever laid eyes on.

“I’m sure it’ll be everything I expect,” I say cryptically after she finally stops swinging me back and forth.

“More, Sheyla.” She takes my cheeks in her dainty little hands, pinching them. “It’ll be so much more.”

An arm snakes my waist. I swing around to face Derry, along with the beast posing as his brother. Of course, it only takes me two seconds to see Derry didn’t lie. There’s nothing animus in Barry’s tight brown curls, brown-sugar eyes, and matching dimples. He’s a giant cherub up close. No discernible smell, but that’s probably because my nose is full of Morning Glories and Sunshine.

“This is my broth—”

Derry’s cut off by the deep baritone of his brother. “You can call me B.C.”

“Like Big Cheese?” I squeak out, instantly slapping my hand over my mouth.

“More like Beef Cake.” He lets out a boisterous guffaw, slapping Derry hard enough on the back to shoot him forward. “I like this one. She’s a real firecracker.” I’m never calling him that, just so we’re clear.

“Barry’s our secret weapon,” Kiley announces.

Derry gives her a strange look that she dutifully ignores.

“Don’t worry. I’m good with secrets. Besides, who’d look at him and think bodyguard? Teddy bear, maybe.”

Barry laughs and slaps Derry on the back again. No forward jolt this time. He braced for impact. Smart. Derry responds with a one-finger salute.

Kiley pulls me toward the stage, positioning me on the floor in the center of the erected platform. “Right there. Don’t move a muscle. It gets rowdy here. I want you where I can see you since those two tend to wander off. I’m Kiley, by the way.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Who said anything about me babysitting you?” She looks confused. “You’ll keep the masses off me.”

Wait. What? No, I most certainly don’t need a babysitter, but I’m curious to hear how she thinks I’ll be able to stop a stage rush, if there even is the potential for such a thing in the old, barely-standing Rec Room filled to max capacity by fifty people. “How do you suggest I pull that off, exactly?”

She giggles like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “You’ll inspire me to come up with something. Trust me. Better yet, trust yourself.”

I lamely nod at her suggestion. The punk-pixie is difficult not to listen to.

When my pocket vibrates, I consider leaving the message unread. By my watch, I have thirty minutes until I’m unofficially late and a half-hour beyond that before my tardiness warrants a Tally-tantrum.

Stop making me wait!—Tally

Yep, shouldn’t have looked. Not twenty seconds later, there’s another buzz.

Take UR time—Declan

Set that sucker to silent, Superego wisely suggests.

Will they ever get along? At least accosting Declan is a sufficient distraction. Dim side: time is sparse. I hope Kiley starts the show soon, or my plan might backfire. If there’s a Sumair in the vicinity, they won’t make their move until everyone’s attention is focused elsewhere.

I look around nervously, rubbing slow circles with my fingertips. I try to sense anger, hunger, desire, or any other emotion pointing me in the direction of the nearest Sumair. It’s impossible to isolate any single feeling in the large crowd.

People start chanting. The lights in the room grow dim, replaced by a kaleidoscope of colors reflecting perfectly off the star of the show. As Kiley brings the microphone to her lips, I realize maybe I won’t recognize them, but surely they’ll recognize me. May as well enjoy the show. It’s likely to be my first and last one.