The Truth About Jack (Entangled Crush)

by Gehrman, Jody

  I shove my hands into my pockets and start trekking back toward the parking lot. I consider taking off my shoes, but I don’t want to deal with the grit on my feet when it’s time to put my socks back on. A melancholy mood starts to churn inside me as I walk. Loneliness, I guess. Anger at myself for being such a pussy.

  Dakota. I say the word aloud, find myself wishing I had a last name to go with the first. A girl named after a state. A girl with a story, I can tell. She’s got one of those faces. I think of the lyrics from an old Talking Heads song: Out of all those kinds of people, you’ve got a face with a view. Rushing toward me as I stood there in the café doorway, she looked startled and a little lost, tears sparkling in her eyes. I knew right then she was different from all the St. Mary’s girls I’d known, with their desperate attempts at prettiness, their endless streams of chatter. This girl calls her own shots, I can tell.

  Even though she’s sad, she glows.

  I’m so wrapped up in my thoughts I almost miss it. It’s just a tiny glimmer in my peripheral vision. There it is—rolling up the beach in the surf, pushed by a white plume of foam. It’s a bottle. Not just any bottle, but the one she threw into the ocean.

  As the wave retreats, I trot over to it and pluck it from the sand before the backwash can drag it out to sea. I brush the sand off and hold it up to the light. The glass is dark green, but I can see there’s something inside. Paper.

  A message in a bottle.

  That’s what she was doing, tossing her message out to sea. Only she didn’t throw it far enough. Between the crazy surf and the undertow, it washed right back up. For a second I consider hurling it back out there. It seems like the ethical thing to do, the gallant thing. She obviously didn’t want it to be found ten minutes after she launched it, all of twenty feet from where she stood. Am I intercepting a letter meant for somebody else? She probably envisioned it in the hands of some sexy, grizzled survivor on a deserted island. Liam Hemsworth in wet, clingy linen rags.

  I work out a compromise with myself: I’ll open it, read it, and then I’ll put it all back like I found it and throw it so far out to sea it will definitely catch a current. No harm done. My curiosity will be satisfied, and her message will be on the fast track to Hemsworth Island, just as she intended. It’s win-win.

  I pull out the cork and hold the bottle upside down until the rolled-up paper peeks out. Gingerly, I tug until the little scroll comes free. Holding my breath, I smooth it out in my hands.

  After I’ve read it once, I read it again. Then a third time. For some stupid reason, my hands start shaking.

  I realize I was fooling myself. There’s no way I’m tossing this back. I’m hooked.

  I’ve got to meet this girl.

  I’ve just got to.

  Chapter Four

  Dakota

  “What’s wrong?” Anya leans toward me, her pale blue wolf eyes studying my face. “You seem so sad.”

  It’s Wednesday, two days after I got River’s toxic email, and I’m at work. Though I’m glad for the distraction, I can’t hide how depressed I still feel. This should be an incredibly happy time: making plans for my move to Rhode Island, telling everyone my good news. Instead, I’ve been moping around in a haze of indecision and angst. I’ve no idea what I’m going to do. RISD’s been my big plan for ages, and now it sounds awful. Unthinkable. Lonely.

  I sigh, unsure about how to answer. Anya’s my boss. She owns Anya’s Garden, the little herb and gift shop downtown where I work a few days a week. She’s Australian, with the most adorable accent in the world, and she’s beautiful—a tan, tall Amazon. I like her; she’s kind of like an older sister to me. In fact, when strangers come into the store they often think we’re related.

  Right now I find myself tempted to tell her everything. I haven’t said anything to Dad or Fran or anyone. It’s unlike me, keeping something so important to myself. Every time I start to say something, though, a little niggling voice inside my head stops me. Maybe it’s because River grew up in Luna Cove, too, and her family still lives there. I’m not ready to deal with all of that yet—the awkwardness and the “processing.” My pain feels too private for that.

  It’s late morning and the shop is empty, so we don’t have to worry about being overheard. I grab a rag and amble over to the shelves filled with little glass jars of dried herbs and powders. I dust a few lids, straighten a crooked bottle. I’m stalling, and Anya knows it.

  “You don’t have to tell me.” She starts a tiny braid in her long blond hair, something she often does when things are slow. Her arms are covered in bracelets. They jangle softly as she moves.

  “I got into RISD,” I say, spinning around to face her.

  Her eyes light up. “That’s wonderful! Oh, Dakota! I’m so happy for you.”

  I give a one-shoulder shrug.

  “So why are you mopey? I thought that was your big dream.”

  “It was. Until I found out River and Cody are dating.”

  Her mouth opens wide. For a second she doesn’t say anything. I’ve no idea why, but her shock is weirdly satisfying.

  She snaps into gear. “Oh my God, you’re kidding!”

  “Because that would be such a funny joke,” I snipe.

  “Seriously, that’s horrible. Your best friend and your boyfriend? That’s a major betrayal.”

  I decide I’m really glad I told Anya first. The last thing I want anyone to do is brush this off like it’s no big deal. Anya’s scandalized empathy is just what the doctor ordered.

  “Exactly!” I agree. “Betrayal with a capital B.”

  “How did you find out?” Her fingers go back to braiding, moving with superhuman speed.

  “Email. Email! Isn’t that ridiculous? She didn’t even have the nerve to call me. And Cody didn’t bother telling me at all. God knows when he planned to drop the bomb—if ever! Boys suck. Friends suck. Life sucks.” I say all this in a rush. Now that I’ve broken my silence, I can’t get the words out fast enough.

  “Oh, you poor little duckling.” She comes out from behind the counter and abandons her braid to wrap me in a hug. She smells of rosemary and lavender. “You’ll get past this, I promise.”

  “I know,” I murmur. Because I do know. It’s not like I seriously think one breakup is going to ruin the rest of my life. All the same, it hurts like a mother right now.

  When she’s done fawning over me, she snags one of the chocolate bars from the tempting display near the register, unwraps it, and sets it on the counter. Lake Champlain organic milk chocolate and sea salt. She knows it’s my favorite.

  “Sometimes life calls for quality chocolate.” She pushes it toward me.

  I break off a square and pop it into my mouth. “Mmm…I think that does help a little.”

  She props her chin on one fist, leaning against the counter. “So…are you still going to RISD?”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t sound very appealing.”

  “What will you do instead?”

  I bite my lip, thinking. “I’ve always wanted to travel.”

  Her eyes light up. “Oooh, you could have a gap year!”

  “A gap year?”

  “Yeah! Everyone in Australia does it. After school, we take some time off—travel, see the world. That’s how I ended up here.”

  “Everyone does it?”

  “Well, not everyone, but lots of people,” she amends. “You’re young! You should get out there and see what it’s all about. Where would you go?”

  “Barcelona,” I say without hesitation.

  “Really? Why?”

  I hesitate. When I was little, before Mom underwent her bizarre transformation from hippie mama to SUV-driving southerner, she used to tell me about Barcelona. She spent a whole summer there right after her first and only year at RISD. She saved her babysitting and waitressing money, went there with her best friend, and camped out in a sprawling warehouse near the sea. They danced flamenco under the full moon, had picnics in Park Guell. She kept a bunch of photos a
nd old ticket stubs in a shoebox under her bed, and if she was in the right kind of mood, if her cheeks were flushed with wine and her face had a certain softness, she’d drag it out and explain each photo in a low, whispery voice. This is me drinking sangria with Alberto. That’s the Gothic Quarter—see those spires? Barcelona became my bedtime story, my fairy tale.

  “Mom told me about it.”

  Anya and Mom were friends, though they barely talk anymore. She cranes her neck a little, trying to catch my eye. When she speaks, her voice is tentative. “That’s right. She spent a summer there, didn’t she?”

  “All the pictures look so magical.”

  “Do you speak Spanish?” I can tell she doesn’t want to upset me. Mom’s not exactly a taboo topic, but she’s not a happy one, either.

  “Yeah. Some. Mom’s fluent, and she wanted me to grow up bilingual, so she spoke it practically nonstop when I was a baby.”

  “It is a magical place.” Her eyes gleam, and she gets a faraway look.

  “You’ve been?” I’m not surprised. Seems like Anya’s been everywhere, though she’s only twenty-nine.

  “Mmm. Years ago, when I was your age. I loved it. The Magic Fountain of Montjuïc, La Boqueria, the Gothic quarter. So romantic.”

  “Did you fall in love there?” I pop another square of chocolate into my mouth.

  She flashes a wicked smile. “Over and over.”

  I go back to straightening the jars and dusting the shelves, feeling pensive. A gap year. Maybe she’s right. Maybe that’s exactly what I need.

  …

  Jack

  I resist the lure of Sebastopol for almost thirty-two hours. After that I really can’t help myself. I have Attila park on the main drag, near the café where I first saw her. If Miles knows her name, she’s probably a regular. The thought of that skeezeball leering at her over the baked goods makes me want to puke. She seems so restless and melancholy. I can’t remember feeling this irrational connection with anyone before, the conviction that this person, and this person alone, will understand the thorny mess of brambles I carry around inside me.

  I tell myself this is crazy, since, technically, she’s a total stranger. How can I feel so connected to a girl I haven’t even met? Here I am, wanting to shield her from guys like Miles, but I’m the one acting creepy, not him. I’m the one lurking in a big parked car hoping to catch a glimpse of her. It’s not like I have a plan, either—at least, not a good one. I’ve some vague idea about giving her letter back, letting her know it didn’t make it out to sea, maybe trying to get a conversation going. Even I can see this plan’s got holes in it the size of Texas.

  I lean forward so my chin’s resting on the front seat. Attila’s wearing his aviator sunglasses. He’s reading Moby Dick. He’s so engrossed that when he finally catches sight of me, he gives a little start.

  “You need something?” His voice is gruff.

  “Yeah. I do.” I hesitate, unsure of how to proceed.

  In some ways, Attila and I know each other pretty well. I can list all his favorite novels, plays, and movies, tell you which historical figures he hates and which ones he admires. We never get personal, though. We can talk about current events, entertainment, and literature all day long, but we’re not exactly what you’d call “close.”

  I decide to go the hypothetical route. “Let’s say you run into a girl one day.”

  He purses his lips. “Run into her?”

  “It’s an expression. You know, you spot a girl from a distance and you like what you see. She interests you.”

  “Oh. Yes.” He nods in understanding. “Go on.”

  “But you have a letter of hers she doesn’t know you have.”

  “Who is the letter to?” He sets his novel on the seat beside him.

  “Well, no one specific. I mean, it’s sort of to anybody who finds it. But she wrote it.” I can tell by his blank look that he doesn’t follow. Who can blame him? I can barely follow. I decide to plow ahead. “Anyway, don’t worry about that. How would you go about striking up a conversation with this girl? Like, if you don’t want to seem cheesy but you really want to meet her.”

  “An attractive letter-writing young lady…how to meet her…” He takes off his sunglasses, polishes them on the hem of his shirt. “You are hot for her?”

  The American slang twisted by his thick accent makes me laugh. “It’s not like that.”

  “Then what is it like?”

  “I want to meet her, that’s all. She seems interesting.”

  “Does she like music?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never even talked to her.”

  “If I could play piano like you, I would make sure a girl saw me doing that first. Then she would come to me.” He fixes me with his gray eyes, the thick eyebrows pulling together. “Girls like to think they pick you; if you pick them, you’re always at a disadvantage.”

  “Well, I can’t exactly carry around a piano and just, you know, start up a tune.”

  “Yes. I see. So you should talk to her instead.” He picks up his novel again, signaling the end of our conversation.

  “What do I say?”

  “I don’t know, but you better hurry.” He nods out the window with a smirk.

  I follow his gaze and see Dakota stepping out of a shop onto the sidewalk. In spite of myself, I do a double take. “How did you know?” I demand.

  “I am not an idiot,” he says simply.

  Chapter Five

  Dakota

  I notice the huge dark green Rolls Royce with the tinted windows parked a little way down the street. It’s kind of hard to miss. I’m pretty sure I walked by it a couple days ago, too. You don’t see those in Sebastopol every day. Probably some rich retired dot-com dude with a classic car fetish. I’m too busy mulling over Anya’s suggestion to give it much thought.

  A gap year. I roll the phrase around in my mind. Me in Barcelona, exploring flea markets and old churches with spindly spires, taking pictures of wonky mosaics and sun-dappled fountains. Think of what it could do for my art! If I defer my acceptance and travel, I could start at RISD a year from now full of inspiration and fresh ideas, not a bad attitude and a broken heart. That should be enough time to get over this stupid mess with Cody and River, right? I could apply other places too, just in case. I’ve always been intrigued by the Chicago Art Institute. Maybe I could even apply to a few schools in Europe. Why not?

  As I walk into Café Vida, I feel more optimistic than I have since I got River’s email two days ago. Travel. Adventure. Maybe that’s the answer. The perfect antidote to a best-friend-boyfriend-double-whammy-betrayal (BFBFDWB).

  “Hey, Dakota.” Miles’s eyes sweep down the length of my body, then back up to settle on my face. I wonder if he thinks I don’t notice his elevator stare. And as usual, Miles’s attention occupies that strange gray area where sleaze meets flattery. “How’s it going?”

  “Okay.” I offer a noncommittal shrug. The blackest phase of my BFBFDWB may have passed, but I’m not ready to sing show tunes or perform a tap dance just yet. I know from experience that these things come in waves. At this very moment I feel tentatively hopeful, but give me an hour and I’ll probably be thrust back in some angsty region of hell.

  The door swings open and a guy walks in. He looks vaguely familiar, though I can’t quite figure out why. His dark eyes meet mine for a second. I can feel a hot blush blooming on my cheeks for no reason.

  I turn my attention back to Miles. “I’ll take a raspberry scone and a chai.”

  “Sure thing.” He disappears into the kitchen to get me my usual piping-hot treat.

  I can feel the guy standing beside me now. He’s in line to order, staring at the glass case lined with scones, muffins, and cookies. I steal a glance at him. He’s cute. Definitely cute. Tall, with thick, dark hair that grows in various directions—just a little chaotic without being contrived or crazy. He wears a blue and white striped shirt that hangs nicely over his lightly muscled torso. First sign of recove
ring from a broken heart: noticing new boys. I tell myself this is a good thing, a definite indication that I’m leaving the land of the morose.

  I look away, then sneak another peek. Again, our eyes catch.

  “Here you go!” Miles appears again with my scone and chai. His voice sounds unnaturally loud. I can feel myself blushing, which is stupid, but the more I tell myself to get it together, the hotter and pinker my cheeks get.

  “Thanks.” I pull my wallet from my bag and start counting out bills.

  “This one’s on the house.”

  “No,” I protest, blushing harder than ever. It’s not Miles turning my face the color of a stewed tomato, though—it’s the stranger standing next to me who’s got me all fumbly. I’ve no idea why. I try to shove some money at Miles, but he won’t take it.

  “Seriously, don’t worry about it.” He gives me a meaningful look, like this is our little secret. Is it my imagination, or does his glance flitter to the guy in line before swinging back to me? “I get a lunch break soon. I’ll come say hi.”

  Okay, whatever. This whole scene at the counter is freaking me out. With a mumbled thanks, I shove my dollar bills haphazardly back into my bag, grab my order, and hurry to a table in the corner. Is Miles actually making a move? After all the times I’ve come here, today’s the day he decides to pounce? Do I have a tattoo on my forehead that reads recently dumped?

  I really can’t deal with a flirty Miles right now. I mean, he’s not ugly or anything, but I’m not ready to fling open my dating doors. Maybe if he caught me in a different mood. What’s the deal with his sudden offer of free scones, or worse yet, announcing that he’ll swing by on his break? I’ve tolerated his flirtiness because he never pushed it, but if he’s going to start asking me out, I probably won’t even want to come here anymore.

  God, that sucks! I love these scones.

  Anya said I should be back at the shop by one; it’s only half past noon, so I’ve got time. I decide to forget about the Miles thing. It was no big deal, after all. It’s not like he hit on me. I consciously angle my chair so I can’t see him, pull out my laptop, and stuff in my earbuds. That should give him a Do not disturb message, right? I choose a playlist I named “Old School,” a mixture of Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters, and Howlin’ Wolf. I can use a shot of the blues.