I want to get out of the way, so when I see what might be a driveway, or maybe a cross street, I flick my blinker on and hope I'm right. The blinker ca-chink-ca-chink-ca-chinks a rapid rhythm that matches my pulse-like we're both on meth.

"Huh?" Mason asks.

It doesn't look like much, maybe an old ranch road, and I slow as much as I dare-eliciting an earsplitting blast from the truck. I pull over onto the gravel and the truck roars past, its horn still bellowing. The cars I saw earlier pass by us, their taillights red blurs.

We sit there until the sound fades, leaving us alone with the manic ca-chink-ca-chink of the blinker. I turn it off, hoping to signal to my pulse that it's okay to return to normal.

"That the blinker?" Mason asks.

"On crack," I reply with a laugh that diffuses the tension in my muscles.

Mason turns on the radio. A whisper of static, then nothing. This bothers him. I don't know why.

I look in the rearview mirror. It's clear and I want to pull back out on the road.

But Mason barks, "Put the flashers on."

I push the button as he gets out of the car. The emergency lights come on with a vengeance, machine gun rat-a-tat-tatting into the now empty night.

"Pop the hood!" Mason shouts.

Reading his lips, I do as he says.

The headlights hit Mason's white T-shirt and give him an angel-like glow and highlight the shapes of his muscles underneath. He fiddles with the latch and the hood rises, blocking my view.

So I climb out and join him. I peer under the hood too, at the jumble of hoses, moving parts, and wires. I can't tell one thing from the next, and it isn't the disco lighting-I don't know crap about cars.

"Electrical," Mason says. "Maybe the battery."

And, as if the car hears him, the headlights dim noticeably, flicker like candles, and go out. The engine sputters and dies. A cold prickle works its way up my arms as the darkness edges in around us. But Mason is all business. He takes his cell phone out and peers at the battery in the square of light.

I wince when he leans over and rubs at the battery with the hem of his new T-shirt, leaving ink-black smudges.

"See if it starts," he says.

I climb back inside, put the key in place, and turn. Two clicks, faint as the ticking of a clock, answer me. I let go. Try again.

Tick.

"No go?" Mason asks.

I open the door.

". . . or a new starter motor." He's in the middle of a sentence. "Maybe an alternator."

I feel it coming, a wall-of-cold-water feeling. Dread. None of these things can be found on the side of a highway in the-middle-of-nowhere Idaho in the middle of the night.

"Damn it," I say, the anger in my voice surprising me.

"You got triple A?" Mason asks quietly.

"No. Why would I?" I ask. I know the answer. But I lash out at him just the same. "I never go anywhere!"

"Flares?" he asks doubtfully.

"No!" I shout. My voice echoes as if to repeat just how alone we are. How screwed.

"Geez, Jamie," Mason says. "Chill."

That does it. Lights the fuse, hot in my gut. Pushes out the last of the cold dread and ignites the anger inside me. "This was your idea. Your goddamn stupid idea! McCall. What's so goddamn special about it? What's wrong with Lucky Peak? Lake Lowell? They're a whole lot closer!"

"I just-" Mason begins. He takes off his glasses, rubs the heel of his hand into one eye socket. At the same time, his cell phone lights up, illuminating a black smudge on his cheek. "I wanted-"

"What?" I shout. "To break the rules? To screw the hell up?"

"I thought . . . ," his voice trails off.

"You thought what, Einstein? That this would be fun? That getting stuck on some two-lane highway to nowhere would be fun?" I'm being an asshole and I know it.

"Never mind!" He stomps around to the passenger side, reaches in for something, and slams the door.

"Argh!" I shout at the trees. I feel the anger leaving my body with the guttural sound, so I growl out more frustration. At Mason. At my stupid-ass car. At the world.

And when I'm done, I feel like crying. But I gulp it back. There's no way. No way I'm going to let Mason see me do that. He's leaning on the remnants of a split-rail fence, his shoulders hunched and his back to me.

I collapse in the driver's seat. Weary now, and cold. And wishing for a bed.

After a while, the passenger-side door opens and Mason pokes his head inside. "There's nothing we can do until morning. I called Londa, told her to tell Mom what happened."

"You told your sister?" The last thing I need is to get in trouble right before graduation. "Your mom will call my mom!" As I say it, I know it's the right thing to do. I should call her.

Mason doesn't hear me. He reaches over, takes the keys from the ignition. Soon he's opening the trunk and rifling through our backpacks. When he returns, he has on a long-sleeve shirt. He tosses one to me. "Come on, let's go."

I'm still angry. Angry that I let him get me into this mess. I leave the shirt where it fell on the stick shift.

He waits.

A car passes and then fades into the vastness of the valley.

Finally Mason shuts the door without a word. I hear his sneakers on the gravel as he leaves, walking on the shoulder back toward town. To my stepfather's condo, I bet. That's where he wanted to stay all along. That's why we're here.

TWENTY-EIGHT.

McCall. McCall. McCall. That's all I've heard since before prom. I repeat the words as I walk along the dark shoulder of the highway, the word half curse and half prayer. Curse that I'm here at all, and prayer that I make it into town without getting run over by a trucker or eaten by a bear.

I thought I'd catch up with Mason, but no. I've walked a good three miles along the empty shoulder-jogging even, hoping to catch him. I'm in town and I haven't seen him. A neon sign blinks CLOSED. The gas station, plastered in signs for Coke and beer, glows like a lighthouse. And, sitting on the curb, eating something wrapped in paper, is Mason.

My heart sighs with relief. I walk over. Sit down.

He hands me a gas-station burrito, half eaten. A peace offering. I peel back the black-smudged paper and take a bite. It's still warm, spicy.

"Said the auto-parts store is open on Saturdays," Mason says, gesturing at the clerk inside. "I've got my debit card."

"Yeah," I say, and hand him the burrito. "Thanks."

It's way after midnight when we turn the hidden spare key in the lock of the condo door. I flip on the lights, see Mason clearly. A smudge of grease is on his cheek, his hands darkened to a grimy gray. Not to mention his T-shirt, with a series of Rorschach-esque blots along the lower half.

"You want to snag the shower?" I ask him.

He laughs a little through his nose in agreement.

"Not that you don't rock the greasy mechanic look," I say, knowing that's what he hates most about working in his dad's garage-the grime that never really washes off. I show him the way through the master bedroom to the bathroom.

Immediately he starts pulling off his long-sleeve shirt. As I close the door, I see him tug his T-shirt off, the muscles in his shoulders rippling and, in the mirror, his flat stomach and defined pecs sweaty with perfection.

I sigh. I kick off my shoes, take off my damp, slightly sandy clothes, and lie down on the bed in my boxers. I rest my head on my arms. Pew. I need to take a shower too. Not now, obviously. But in a few. After I call my mom and tell her that I got myself into a complete and utter mess.

But I don't call my mom, because soon my eyelids refuse to open, and my arms and legs won't budge. The white noise of the shower in the next room lulls my brain to sleep.

I jolt awake from a dream so real my lips feel bruised from all the kissing-we were at school. All kissing our significant others in the hall by our lockers: Eden and Challis, Brodie and Kellen. Whoa, I so didn't see that one coming. Me and . . . this is when I woke up.

But I press my eyes closed-will myself to fall back asleep because I want to know who it is. Really want to know. I roll on my side. Who is he? I reach to adjust my pillow, and my fingers brush warm skin. I jerk my hand away.

My eyes open in surprise, as if my dream and reality just collided.

Mason.

Mason in bed with me? I wonder. Then I remember where we are. In Frank's condo. Frank's one-bedroom condo. AKA Frank's one-bed condo.

My eyes adjust to the darkness, and the neighbor's porch light coming in around the edges of the blinds reveal Mason's form next to me. He's lying on his side facing me, his hair a dark puddle on the pillowcase. His right hand is resting in the space between us, his fingers curled toward his palm.

I slide my hand back over and touch his wrist.

He doesn't stir.

I move my fingers up so they rest on his palm and it looks as if we are holding hands. My sleepy brain begins to concoct a fantasy: We're walking on the Greenbelt on a crisp, cool morning, our fingers woven together, our hands palm to palm.

I force myself awake and shake off the idea.

I shouldn't be doing this.

It's so wrong in so many ways.

I begin to move my hand, but his fingers close around mine.

"Don't," he says quietly.

Surprised, I catapult backward and out of bed.

"You're awake?" I ask, catching myself against the wall.

"No," he mumbles into his pillow as he rolls over.

"Okay," I say, and hope that he's talking in his sleep-hoping he won't remember this in the morning. I inch closer again and pluck my pillow from the bed. I fold my arms around it and hug it to my chest as I walk into the living room. My heart can't handle sleeping with Mason.

The second time I wake up, it's to the beeping of the microwave, practically in my ear. Because I'm now on the couch, only half covered by throw blanket.

"Hey," Mason says, putting a steaming cup of something on a coaster. "I made you tea. There's nothing else in the cupboards."

I sit up and let the blanket puddle in my lap. I'm not surprised. This was Frank's bachelor pad before he married my mom. He was on the ski patrol and spent the weekends here in the winter. Summers he'd spend in Boise, working as a contractor. That's why there was only one bedroom. Which was why we didn't come up here much-a family of five in a place built for one, maybe two. We didn't fit.

I take the mug of tea and let it warm my hands. It feels good. "Sorry I got angry at you last night," I say, remembering, but not mentioning, the handholding.

"Sorry I made you come up here," Mason says. He wraps his fingers around his own mug. He stares into it instead of looking at me. "I had this vision-it'd be so perfect, so fun. Something I'd always remember. Just you and me. You know?"

The why to why we're here. The words wallop me in the gut, forcing a lump of guilt into my throat. Why did I have to be such an asshole? Why don't I change the oil in my car?

This meant so much to him, and I ruined it.

"I had fun," I say. "Jet Skiing was great."

"Yeah?" Mason asks, his eyes tracing a path up my bare torso to my face.

"Yeah," I agree.

He rewards me with half of a smile, and says, "Nice boxers."

I look down because I forgot what underwear I put on twenty-four hours ago. They're blue with yellow smiley faces on them, the fabric crisp and the colors garish because I don't wear them very often. My face warms. I hurry to put down my mug and say, "I should probably get dressed."

Mason's lips fold in like he's holding back a grin.

Blanket and all, I dash to the bedroom. But being alone and away from him doesn't cool my heated face. Instead I see the bed. He has straightened the sheets and blanket. There's a pillow on the side where he slept. I tug on my jeans and tell myself to calm down. Nothing happened in that bed.

But something did happen. I was being stupid and holding Mason's hand, and he said, "Don't."

Don't do that?

Or don't let go?