The Truth About Jack (Entangled Crush)

by Gehrman, Jody

  “He’s worried that raising me with no structure has made me flakey. Like Mom.”

  “Your mom’s not flakey.”

  I lower my chin and give her a dubious look.

  “Okay,” she concedes, “maybe she’s a little flighty, but you’re nothing like her.”

  “Try telling him that.” I sigh, straightening a row of moisturizers on the shelf. “Anyway, we talked about it a little over sushi. I think he kind of gets it now, that I’m exploring my options.”

  “What about your love life?” Her eyes sparkle. “Any new prospects?”

  I blush. “Maybe.”

  “Ooooh! I see that look!” She cranes her neck to get a better view of my flaming face, which I try to hide. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing big.” Trying to conceal anything from Anya is useless, though, and I know it.

  “Come on! Spill!”

  “I guess you could say I have a pen pal.” I bite my lip.

  “A pen pal?” She looks confused. “Explain.”

  I haven’t told anyone about my message in a bottle or Alejandro’s letter. Without River as my confidante, I’ve become a super private person, apparently. I really thought about telling Dad the other night, but I didn’t want him to think that going to Europe is all about chasing some guy. Obviously it’s not—Alejandro’s not even there, after all, at least not right now—but bringing up his letter might confuse the issue.

  “The day I found out about River and Cody, I went to the beach,” I say. “I don’t know why, exactly, but I decided to write a message and toss it out to sea in a bottle. Five days later I got a letter back.”

  Anya’s eyes go wide. “No!”

  “I know!” I can’t keep the glee from my voice. “It was crazy.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It was from this guy named Alejandro. Guess where he’s from?”

  “Where?” she whispers.

  “Barcelona!” I squeal. “Isn’t that so magical? And I got it like two days after I told you that’s where I’d go!”

  Anya grips the counter dramatically. “Oh my God! I just got chills.”

  “Right?”

  She nods vigorously. “The universe is trying to tell you something.”

  “And then yesterday…I went to the junkyard with this guy named Jack.”

  She squints in confusion. “On a date?”

  “No, definitely not a date. We met at Café Vida and somehow it just happened.” I sigh, trying to get my thoughts in order. I’ve kind of gotten used to thinking about Alejandro, wondering where he is, whether or not he’s thinking of me. Ever since yesterday, though, I find Jack’s in my brain, too, taking up valuable real estate that used to belong to Cody, then got replaced by Alejandro. It’s very confusing. Maybe I am just as fickle and flighty as my mom. The thought’s a little disturbing.

  Anya studies me. “What’s he like?”

  “Which one?”

  “The one you went to the junkyard with.”

  I consider. “He seems smart, and kind of shy. He’s warm, you know, with a friendly smile, but he’s reserved, too. Like maybe he doesn’t trust people very easily.”

  “Intriguing.”

  “I just don’t want him to think I’m interested.”

  Her eyebrows pull together in confusion. “Because you’re not attracted to him?”

  “Yeah. No. I mean, he’s hot. Way hot. Like off the charts, in this very brooding, mysterious, Heathcliff way.”

  “Ooh la la! Love the sound of that. So why aren’t you interested?”

  “It’s one thing to have a pen pal, you know? It’s easy. No risk. But I’m not ready for another boyfriend—not after everything with Cody. It would be a serious rebound situation, don’t you think? And that’s not fair. He seems way too nice for that.”

  She starts braiding her hair. “He doesn’t have to be your boyfriend. Just get to know him. Take your time.”

  “Yeah. You’re right.” I try to sound worldly and sure of myself, like I’d never be so naïve as to think one trip to a junkyard might turn into an actual relationship. “We’ll just be friends.”

  It’s hard to say who’s less convinced, her or me.

  …

  Jack

  Wednesday nights I play piano at Pinot Noir, my parents’ restaurant. It’s a five-minute walk from our house, nestled in the center of the old chateau that houses Sauvage Vineyards. The customers are mostly crusty retired types, though occasionally affluent yuppies in their twenties or thirties wander in. It’s a linen tablecloth, candlelit decadence sort of place—a bit somber and pretentious for my taste, but undeniably elegant. The huge plate-glass windows expose a panoramic view of the valley below. The Steinway baby grand my mother insisted Dad install sounds velvety-rich in the high-ceilinged dining room. My job involves adding a little texture to the background without ever interrupting the flow of conversation.

  Tonight, I know my playing sounds smoother than usual—less choppy and erratic, each note more sustained. When I play “Rhapsody in Blue” I notice several of the diners glancing over with appreciative murmurs. At least, I hope they’re appreciative murmurs. Maybe they’re just whispering about my hair. Try as I might, I couldn’t get the thick, unruly shock that grows straight out of my scalp to submit to my comb. It’s the bane of my existence.

  About nine o’clock, I take a short break. As I slip through the kitchen, Jean-Louise stops me before I reach the back door. His face shines with sweat and his chef’s hat is a little askew. He shoves a crab cake wrapped in a napkin into my hands. “You take! You love!” he instructs in his thick French accent.

  Obediently, I seize the proffered appetizer and take a bite. It’s delicious—crispy on the outside, tender and moist on the inside. “Mmm! You’re a genius!”

  “Oui,” he agrees.

  Outside, the night air feels cool and soft against my face. I tug at my collar. Dad insists I wear a tux for these gigs—I have three, which is an obscene number for someone only eighteen years old. When I first started playing here a couple years ago, I hated putting on a suit, but now I’m kind of into it. It adds a touch of James Bond to everything.

  “Beautiful night, huh?”

  I turn to see a girl about my age sauntering toward me. She has long jet-black hair and wears a clingy red dress. As she steps from the shadows I see it’s not just any girl, but Lucy Hazelwood, my ex-girlfriend.

  “Lucy. Whoa. How’s it going?”

  She breathes out a bright, flirty little laugh, and leans in for a hug. I oblige, though awkwardly.

  “I’m doing well,” she says, leaning back to assess me. “How are you?”

  “Great.” I nod. “Yeah, just great.”

  “You play beautifully.” She opens a red silk purse and fishes out a pack of American Spirits, then a lighter. I’m not surprised. She used to filch her older sister’s cigarettes every chance she got. “I mean you were always good, but now you’re incredible.”

  “I didn’t see you in there.” I gesture back at the restaurant.

  “I know.” She flashes her trademark impish grin. “I was secretly watching you from across the room.”

  “I can be pretty oblivious when I play.”

  She lights her cigarette and eyes me through the smoke. “You have any CDs for sale?”

  “No.” I smile apologetically. As much as I love and need music in my life, crave it like a drug sometimes, I don’t really like the idea of packaging it for consumption. I’m even a little superstitious about it, like natives who believe taking a picture will steal a little fragment of their soul.

  “Too bad. I’d love to take a piece of you home with me.”

  Is it my imagination, or was that a tiny bit…suggestive? I look out at the stars suspended over the dark valley, trying to get my bearings. I haven’t seen Lucy in years. Now that I think about it, that’s kind of strange. I mean, Sonoma County’s not that big, and though Saint Mary’s was in Santa Rosa, about half an hour away, it�
�s still sort of odd our paths have never crossed. After we broke up, the sight of her photos popping up on Facebook disturbed me so much, I quietly unfriended her. I haven’t seen so much as a picture of her since.

  Sneaking another sideways glance at her, I try to gauge how much she’s changed in the last few years. Her strappy red dress shows off her sculpted shoulders and long legs. In high heels she’s almost as tall as me. She’s as gorgeous as ever, maybe more so, but I find her beauty doesn’t move me like it used to. Looking at her now is like studying a painting or a sculpture; it’s easy to appreciate the artful symmetry and the elegant lines without feeling a thing.

  “So, what have you been up to?” she asks, her voice a little husky.

  “Playing a lot of piano, obviously. Moving to New York in September. What about you?”

  She sighs a plume of smoke, looking world-weary. “We moved a couple years ago.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, to Miami.” She wrinkles her nose. “My mom got a job there. Just finished my first year of college at University of Miami.”

  “Great.” I nod, feeling awkward. “What are you studying?”

  “I don’t know. General ed for now.” She gives a bored little shrug, like she can’t be bothered with such details.

  I think of Dakota’s infectious enthusiasm for art, the passion that animated her whole body when she was telling me about that sculpture she loves. She was so into it she practically levitated with delight. It’s hard to imagine someone like Lucy getting that excited about anything. How could I ever have fallen for this terminally bored, restless girl?

  “So you’re just visiting?” I ask.

  “Yeah. My cousin’s getting married. I’m in the wedding.”

  “That sounds fun.”

  “It’s hell. I have to wear a hideous lilac dress with a butt bow.”

  I chuckle politely. This was always her thing—heaping disdain on everything and everyone. I used to find it darkly charming. Now it just seems cynical and sad.

  “You mind if I ask you a personal question?” She tips her head to the side, long dark hair spilling around her shoulders.

  “Go ahead.” I try to sound casual, though anxiety unfurls in my gut.

  “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “Not exactly.” I can’t lie to her, but I don’t want to leave it at that, either, in case she takes it as a signal to pounce. Not to flatter myself, but she’s eyeing me like a starving tigress sizing up a wounded gazelle. “There’s someone I’m interested in, but— Well, it’s not— I mean, we’re not like together.”

  She chuckles knowingly. “I’ve embarrassed you.”

  “No. Not at all.”

  She takes another drag off her cigarette. “You look really good, Jack.”

  “So do you,” I answer automatically.

  “Do you think?” She flicks her cigarette to the ground and moves closer, swishing her hair around in that way that used to drive me crazy.

  I find myself engulfed in a cloud of sickly sweet perfume and cigarette smoke. It’s all I can do not to cough as the potent combination enters my lungs. I take an involuntary step back.

  “What time do you get off work?” She doesn’t seem to notice me edging away.

  “About an hour.”

  “I’m staying at the Healdsburg Inn. You know the one? Right on the plaza?” She digs inside her tiny clutch but doesn’t find what she’s looking for. “That’s right, I left my phone inside, but give me yours. I’ll put my number into it.”

  “Don’t have mine on me, either,” I lie.

  She pulls a piece of paper from her purse, scribbles her number, and hands it to me. “Call me when you get off.”

  “Oh. Yeah. I don’t think…” I trail off, unsure of how to handle this.

  “Or not,” she says lightly, though I can see I’ve offended her. “I’ll be bored to death all weekend. I just thought we could catch up. But whatever.”

  I shove the piece of paper into my pocket and clear my throat. “I’d better go back in.”

  “Me too. My cousin wants dessert.” She rolls her eyes, as if dessert is something only idiots would order.

  “The crème brûlée is really good,” I say as we head toward the door.

  “I’ll tell her.”

  Later, when I get off work, I walk back up the road to our house and replay the conversation. The air is fresh and cool, scented with the dusty, familiar tang of the vineyards. I put my hand in my pocket and touch the paper she gave me. Why don’t I even want to call her? Any normal, red-blooded American male would, right?

  I think of Dakota and the miniature drawing she did of her yurt. I think of the little glittery starbursts she put on the envelope, the vivid blue of her eyes. I see her hands sifting through those gears and sprockets at the junkyard, searching for gems. I used to think Lucy Hazelwood was a goddess, a dark-haired fantasy come to life. Now she doesn’t do anything for me—not compared to the crazy storm of feeling that seizes me whenever I think of Dakota.

  I pull out the scrap of paper with her number on it and tear it into tiny pieces.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dakota

  Saturday I’m working on my geisha out in the garden. I’ve gathered like fifty different pairs of glasses from thrift stores. They’re every possible shape and style, from lime-green plastic cat-eye frames to tiny, delicate spectacles. I’m busy cutting them up and using epoxy to attach them to the basic chicken wire form. I plan to mix the glasses with the gears and sprockets I’ve gathered, meld it all together to form the geisha’s face. I’m plugged into my iPhone losing myself in Rogue Wave, when a face suddenly appears before me and I scream.

  I yank out my earbuds, clutching at my chest. “Jesus! You scared me!”

  “We keep startling each other.” Emily wears a red sundress, cowboy boots, and a big smile. She holds up a creamy blue envelope as a peace offering. “Your dad said you might want this.”

  My heart starts doing a crazy tango. Is that what I think it is? I mailed my letter almost two weeks ago. The emails have dried up as well. I’d almost given up hope. But here it is—an envelope in that thick, expensive paper. I put down my epoxy and wipe my sweaty hands on my overalls. Eyeing the letter, I have to discipline myself not to lunge and snatch it from her hands.

  “Here you go.” Her brown eyes twinkle. “Mind if I ask who’s in Geyserville?”

  “Just a friend.” I’m dying to tear it open, but I want to wait until I’m alone.

  “Uh-huh.” She doesn’t sound convinced.

  I carefully place the letter in my back pocket. Emily lingers. She obviously wants to have a conversation; she’s been trying to bond with me ever since I met her, even though I haven’t been very friendly. Alejandro’s letter is burning a hole in my pocket, begging to be read, but I decide this is a good chance to interrogate her a little, see if there are any warning signs. Dad may not be the greatest judge of character, so I better do a little snooping, see if she’s worthy of him.

  “So, Dad says you teach acting classes?”

  “Yeah. Acting, directing, a little dance here and there.”

  “That sounds interesting.” I try to sound sincere, though this is just a lead-in to my real question. “Have you ever been married?”

  She shakes her head. “Nope. No marriage, no kids. What you see is what you get.”

  Yeah, right. An actor incapable of artifice? I hardly think that’s likely. We had an actor living at Luna Cove one summer; he turned out to be a pathological liar. “How did you and Dad meet?”

  She smiles. “Our mutual friend Jared introduced us.”

  Bleh! Jared, the Gandalf-y therapist. “How nice.”

  She runs a hand through her hair and nods at my half-formed geisha head. “I like your work. You’re really talented.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You always use recycled material?” She fingers a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

  “Pretty much. I like taking things nobody w
ants anymore and making them beautiful.”

  She nods solemnly. “That’s great. I love that.”

  “Of course it’s also way cheaper,” I add.

  “Sure! Nothing wrong with making art affordable.”

  She’s so agreeable; it kind of freaks me out. I know that’s ridiculous, though. Would I prefer she disagree with everything I say? She seems so eager to make me her friend, and we both know why. She really likes my dad, I can tell. That alone should make me want to get along with her. But just because she likes him doesn’t mean she won’t hurt him, intentionally or not.

  “Dakota,” she says, breaking the awkward silence, “I hope you’re okay with me hanging out here.”

  Hanging out here is obviously a euphemism for sleeping with your dad.

  “Yeah, of course,” I reply, all innocence.

  “I know your dad hasn’t really dated much since your mom left.”

  “No. He hasn’t.” I’m not sure where to look. It’s terrible. Somehow I feel like the tables have been turned, and now it’s her interrogating me.

  “You don’t feel weird about it, though?” she asks quietly.

  “No! Not at all.” It’s kind of a lie, but a white one.

  “Good.”

  We both know that conversation went nowhere. We grin at each other like everything’s peachy.

  She claps her hands together. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

  “Thanks for bringing my letter.”

  “Oh, yeah. No problem.” She gives an awkward little wave and heads back to the barn.

  The second she’s turned the corner, I yank the letter from my pocket and rip it open greedily.

  Dear Dakota,

  You asked about the three things I love best about Barcelona; I’m not sure I can answer. It is more the overall feel of the place, the aerisfera, which must be experienced and cannot be described. There’s the scent of churros y chocolate as you pass your favorite bakery, the whisper of sea mist on your skin as you stroll along la playa, the tangerine color the sky turns when the sun sets. There are many more things to love about my native city, but I will leave it there for now.

  What sort of weather would I be? I’d be tempestuoso—stormy. I’m not sure it is what I would choose, but it is what I am.