Not in a scribbling-his-name-on-my-notebooks, dreaming-about-wedding-dresses kind of way. Not even close. All Jack thoughts are strictly business-themed. The business of breaking and entering. No light and fluffy, just thick heavy boulder-thoughts piled up on my chest and crushing me. I pace up and down the hall, chewing on my nails, gnawing on any hard callus that my teeth can find until I can taste blood. “Where is this guy taking you?” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Not sure exactly.” I told her I was going on a date. Technically it’s not a lie because I am going out with a boy. We’re just breaking into a storage unit as opposed to heading to the movies. The thought of it makes my stomach moan like a grizzly. I press down hard on my abdomen to make it stop. Which just makes it worse. I catch sight of my reflection in the hall mirror. I stop and scrutinize myself from head to toe. I’m not even five-foot-two.
