There's something decidedly wrong with me. I know this because it's been twenty-two hours since I made a deal with the devil and the regret has yet to sink in.

I thought it would happen yesterday, when we left the beach and took Thea out for ice cream. I thought it would happen last night, when I went back to Laila's house to watch Disney movies until we fell asleep. I thought at the very least, when I woke up the next morning and remembered what I'd done, I would be overwhelmed by waves of crushing anxiety and obsessively second-guess my decision. But it's now ten a.m, an entire day later, and nothing. Zilch. Zippo.

In fact, as Laila and I pull into the parking lot at work, I have to consciously stop myself from thinking about mine and Israel's big debut, and what I'll wear, and what Laila will say, and what Will will say, and then what I'll say—

"Hello? Sam?" Laila snaps her fingers in front of my face. "Are we getting out of the car today?"

I realize, belatedly, that she has both parked and turned off the vehicle. Whoops.

"Actually, I was hoping to move in." I run my hands over the dashboard of her Jeep. "I could make a lovely home here."

Her only response is to shut the car door, leaving me alone with about thirty seconds to gather my thoughts. I take a deep breath and sternly instruct myself: I will not think about this.

I will not think about this.

I will not think about this.

Chanting my mantra in my head, I leave the safety of the car and follow Laila, jogging to catch up with her. The parking lot is completely empty except for Blake's minivan, which means Amy's gone home for the day.

"Bet you we'll get five customers today," I say to Laila, unwrapping a piece of gum. She mutters something under her breath that I don't think I need to hear to understand the sentiment.

Sunday is the slowest day of the week at the thrift shop, and the only day where a six hour shift can go by without a single person coming in. Laila likes it that way because she's not overly fond of people. I prefer having customers, but I had to give up something during negotiations if I wanted to get the shift when Kindergarteners for Kindness dropped off their weekly donations. Choosing our schedules helped me gain a deeper understanding of the Camp David accords.

Still, the thrift shop's not the worst way to spend an afternoon. Amy, the owner, basically lets us do anything we want. She's always had a soft spot for Laila. The blatant favoritism doesn't usually bother me as long as I get to pick the music.

When we get to the front counter the only person there is Blake, who's signing out. She works mornings, which means helping Amy sort through donations for two hours before opening the store. That's my definition of the short straw.

"It's all yours, ladies." Blake mimes tossing keys to me, but actually hands them off to Laila. "Enjoy."

I point at her as she stuffs her pretty red hair into her Rudy's Pizza cap. "Hey, if that creepo orders delivery again, tell Danny someone else has to do it."

"Will do." Blake gives us a two-fingered salute, slings her satchel over her shoulder, and leaves.

While Laila signs in for us, I slide over the counter and set up the playlist I put together last night. I was in a vintage mood, so today's selection is all '50s and '70s, with a bit of indie that fits the vibe. Laila "Blossom Dearie and Electric Light Orchestra don't belong on the same playlist" Benson did not get any input.

"Hey, do you want to scavenger hunt?" I pop up from behind the counter, but Laila's already gone.

Well, hopefully she's sorting vinyls. That usually puts her in a better mood.

She's been prickly ever since this morning, when we found her mom in the kitchen making an online dating profile. Honestly, I don't know why Laila was so surprised. Her parents split up six years ago, and her dad's already working on half sibling number two. But Laila acted like she was just finding out that her parents were getting divorced.

"Mom, why are you on PairMe?" She turned Mrs. Benson's laptop and made a face at the screen. "And why did you choose that for your profile picture?"

"Excuse me, there's something called privacy." Mrs. Benson pulled the computer back towards herself, sounding entirely unbothered by Laila's reaction. "And what's wrong with my picture?"

I glanced over her shoulder. "Wow, ugly Christmas sweater party. That's... brave."

"Mom, those websites are a total scam." Laila put two pop tarts in the toaster and set the timer. "People lie like crazy on their profiles."

"I'm not really looking at their profiles, dear, I'm looking for compatible marks." Mrs. Benson looked up at me. "Do you think the picture is that bad?"

Mrs. Benson is gorgeous like Laila, the same big eyes and delicate features, but she dresses like a total mom. That picture was the perfect example: hideous baggy sweater, loose khakis, and a haircut that added ten years.

"How about instead of answering that, you show me a couple different options?" I tried to sound as positive as possible. I didn't want to discourage her right out of the gate.

Laila, however, had no such restraint. The whole breakfast, she talked about how easy it was to edit photos to make your soulmark look different, how compatability was a pseudoscience and had never actually been proven, how companies could sell your personal information or use pictures of your soulmark to steal your identity. By the end of it, Mrs. Benson looked thoroughly annoyed and refused to let Laila see her profile.

I, of course, being the good best friend that I am, spent the majority of the car ride trying to get Laila to talk about it and ignoring her insistence that she "was fine" and there "was nothing to talk about". Eventually she did that thing where she just stops talking altogether, which normally doesn't bother me, as I'm perfectly capable of carrying on a twenty minute conversation with only myself. But have you ever tried to administer car therapy to a rock? At a certain point you just feel ridiculous.

So, I'll let her have her space and her organizational therapy. For my part, I make a beeline for the clothing section. I could spend hours looking for cute clothes to tuck away in some corner of the store, hiding them until my paycheck and I can whisk them away to my closet. In the event that I get bored of that, I'll just move on to putting together outfits for the mannequins. They're a size two, so everything looks good on them.

I'm hunting through the shoe section, looking for the perfect heels to complement the maxi dress I've picked out, when I make the discovery of a lifetime. Tucked onto the end of the bottom rack is a pair of honest-to-God roller skates. They're soft, pastel blue, barely used—they practically have my name written on them.

Dumping the dress on a random rack, I rush over to the music section with my prize clutched to my chest. Laila is sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by records that I unceremoniously shove to the side.

"Laila Laila Laila Laila." I drop to my knees and brandish the skates as if they were made of pure gold. "Have you ever seen anything more beautiful in your entire life?"

Laila scrambles after the records I moved. "Sam! You're ruining my whole system."

"Oh whoops. Sorry." I shift back to give her room. "But Laila. The skates."

She issues a long-suffering sigh and glances over at me for half a second. "Very cool."

I huff. "You have no appreciation for the aesthetically pleasing. I'm going to go put them on."

"You? On wheels?" She pulls a bin off one of the shelves. "That sounds like a good idea."

"My ears don't hear haters!" I sing, twirling away from her. She can be pissy all she wants, I'm not letting her bring me down.

Perching on the arm of a hundred-year-old green sofa, I kick my shoes off gleefully. The skates are a little big on me, but I'm so elated I barely even notice. I lace them up tightly and prettily, making sure everything is properly adjusted. The song playing through the speakers ends, and the intro to "Kino" by Nena starts up. In my head, when I set my feet on the ground, I glide away with the grace of a Russian ballerina.

In reality, I try to stand, trip over the toe brake, and land on my knees, on the floor. Ouch.

Wincing, I grip the sofa arm and pull myself upright again. I'm not bad at rollerblading, and I just assumed the skills would transfer over. Guess not. This time I move more cautiously, giving myself room to adjust to the different weight distribution and the awkward front brakes. After two laps around the shoe rack, I start feeling more comfortable.

I may not understand a word of what Nena's saying, but "Kino" makes me feel like a character in a John Hughes movie. I wriggle my hips a little and stray outside my safety zone. Hey, I'm not half bad at this.

The store bell rings, alerting us to a new customer. I have no need to battle with Laila over who goes to greet them. It's assumed.

Humming gibberish that only slightly approximates the German lyrics, I skate away from the shoes and make a beeline for the front door. Whoever it is, I just hope they're not here to buy furniture. I nearly killed myself last weekend trying to help this poor woman fit a recliner into her car, and that was without the—

I round the corner and immediately lose my train of thought.

It's Israel. The customer is Israel.

What is he doing here? This wasn't the plan. I told him we would meet after. Why is he here? WHY IS HE HERE?

I'm so busy panicking that I forget I'm on wheels. By the time I recover any brain function, it's too late to brake. The last thing I see is Israel's very confused expression before I crash into him.