Flawed by Kate Avelynn Page A

t-shirt lands in my lap. I stare at it in the darkness, horrified at the possibility he took off his own shirt to make me comfortable, despite how I blew him off.
    Upon closer inspection in the dim light from his headlights, the soft fabric is red, not the gray that I noticed matched his eyes earlier. I tuck it between my cheek and the window and offer him a small smile. “Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    Pine trees, dryer sheets, and a hint of musty car smell soothes me. I burrow deeper into the t-shirt and let the weight of what’s turned into a very long day shut down everything—my eyes, my hearing, my heart—and drift off into blackness.

Nine
    Sam walks me to the door, though I ask him not to. I don’t want to do the what-might-have-been thing with him tonight, and standing on my front porch in the dark with him only makes the way the night turned out worse. In my Sam fantasies, I’d wrap my arms around his neck and thank him for the evening with a kiss. A long one. He’d kiss me back and I’d go to bed with a happy smile on my face and plenty to dream about.
    But this isn’t one of my fantasies, and I can’t even meet his eyes, let alone kiss him.
    “About tonight—” he begins.
    I shake my head. “Don’t.”
    There’s no way I’ll let him apologize for something that’s my fault. Sam doesn’t realize how lucky he is my brother didn’t see us on that log. No dating , James always says. I’m pretty sure “don’t kiss my best friend” is implied in there somewhere, especially since I’m not even allowed to talk to his friends. He’ll turn Sam into a limp pile of flesh and bones if he ever finds out.
    I’ll never be able to live with myself if that happens.
    One by one, I force my newly formed daydreams of Sam and I holding hands in the forest to shrivel and die. What was I expecting to happen? He doesn’t know anything about me. And no way does he like me enough to face off with my brother.
    But when I reach for the doorknob, Sam grabs my hand. “Wait. I’ll see you again, right?”
    He’s just being nice. Nothing more. I am invisible.
    But the heat of his hand enveloping mine and the worry in his voice still stings, no matter what I tell myself. “I don’t think so.”
    His stormy gray eyes bore into mine, imploring me to do…something. I don’t know what. I don’t think he does either, because after a long moment of staring at me, he lets go. Shoulders slumped, he turns away and heads back to his car.
    I can’t see him drive away. Won’t. I stumble through the front door into the dimly lit kitchen, fist pressed into my stomach again, and collide with the open refrigerator door.
    The door slams into my father’s side, knocking the can of beer he just opened out of his hand. It sloshes all over the ketchup and mustard bottles in the door and hits the linoleum with a dull thud-fizz . Sour yeast and hops taint the air.
    “Damn it!”
    Cursing my carelessness, I throw myself against the wall, out of his reach, and inch slowly toward the hallway like a shadow. The only light is coming from the open refrigerator and the television in the front room. Maybe he won’t see me. Maybe he’s too busy swearing at the condiments. Maybe he didn’t hear Sam’s car outside.
    In the living room, a loud bratwurst commercial dissolves into the same cheering and jeering I’ve heard all my life. The Armory announcers are all racked up over the match they’re calling. The big name is either winning by a landslide or getting his ass handed to him. Since I’ve been forced to watch this particular video hundreds of times, I know the big name is winning by a landslide.
    My father never lost in his prime.
    He slams the refrigerator door and glares at me with bloodshot eyes.
    Oh, no. I try to melt into the wall, but it’s no use.
    “Don’ jus’ stand there, clean it up!”
    I dash down the hall to the bathroom and grab my shower towel. He’s waiting for me, arms folded across his chest, still