The most memorable thing that’s happened to me on this trip…let me see…that would have to be finding your bottle. The second most memorable was getting your letter, the red one with the fireworks on the envelope. When I feel lonely now, I take it out and study your beloved “yurt.” You draw so beautifully. You’re an artista! Will you draw me something else? Perhaps a picture of your hands?
Now, some questions for you, my inquisitive one: What do you think about when you can’t sleep? If you could go back in time, what year would you explore? If you could choose one song as the soundtrack for the happiest moment so far in your life, what would it be?
Enclosed you will find a botanical illustration of a passionflower. I saw it and naturally thought of you.
I await your letter con impaciencia. Hurry! I will think of nothing else until then.
Eres linda…
Alejandro
“Eres linda.” I know enough Spanish to translate that one: you’re beautiful. I put my earbuds in and go back to work, grinning like mad.
…
Jack
Dear Alejandro,
In the tradition you’ve begun, I’ll start by answering your questions. What do I think about when I can’t sleep? I wish I could say I plot ways to end world hunger, but the truth is I tend to think about my art. Sometimes this works really well; it soothes me, and before I know it I’m back in dreamland. Other times I get so excited about tinkering with a project that I’m forced to throw off the covers and stumble over to my work table, which means I won’t get back to sleep for hours.
If I could go back in time, I’d visit the Italian renaissance. The art, the clothes, the music—everything about it fascinates me. I’d hang out with da Vinci while he studies cadavers. How spooky and cool would that be? Of course, the smell would probably make me gag. Maybe I’d skip the cadavers and watch him paint the Mona Lisa.
One song as the soundtrack for the happiest moment of my life? That is a DIABOLICAL question! Aaarrrg! It’s impossible to answer. First I have to choose the happiest moment, then I have to choose ONE song to go with it; they’re both equally daunting tasks. I’ve already spent way too long thinking about this and I’m still not completely satisfied, but I’ve got to give you something, so here it is. My happiest moment was when I was seven years old, riding a horse on the beach with my mom and dad in Mexico. The soundtrack is The Talking Heads’ “Naïve Melody.”
You’ve been very obliging, answering all of my peculiar questions. Thank you for that. Oh, and thanks for the illustration of the passionflower! I adore it. You see what I mean, right? Is there anything on the planet so vivid and alive? How can something that bizarre and beautiful not have a rich inner life, one full of secrets?
You haven’t written much about your travels, and I want to know everything! I’m supposed to start college this fall at the school I’ve dreamed of attending since I was little, but I’m considering putting it off for a year and traveling instead. There are several reasons for this, but meeting—well, okay, writing with—you is definitely one of them. I think an artist should experience the world before she tries to say anything really ambitious about it, don’t you?
Here’s an illustration of one of the passionflowers that grows near my yurt. As you can see, it’s sitting in the palm of my left hand, so I guess I partially satisfied your request. My sketch isn’t nearly as detailed or as beautiful as the one you sent me, but I tried.
Write back soon. I can’t wait for your next letter.
Dakota
I put down the page and stare out the window. The day is just turning the corner toward late afternoon, and from the conservatory the valley looks washed out, hazy. It’s this stretch between two thirty and four thirty that always gets me down. Lots of suicides happen in the afternoon. Most people assume depressed people would choose the middle of the night to end their lives, but they’re mostly wrong. It’s this listless stretch, the colorless, bland bridge between the optimism of morning and the calm of night that gets to people. Will ODed in the afternoon. The thought makes me feel even sadder.
I pick up the letter again. Why would Dakota’s sweet note make me so depressed? That second to last paragraph makes me cringe. My lies are affecting her life choices, and that tugs at my conscience. Alejandro Torres doesn’t exist; he’s not on any journey, yet she’s thinking of putting off college to follow in his mythical footsteps.
This is definitely not going as planned. I thought I could borrow a little romance, infuse myself with mystery, but all I’m doing is lying to her. A memory floats without warning to the surface of my mind, something I haven’t thought of in years. Will and I were in the eighth grade. We stood facing each other in the kitchen, the din of adult laughter echoing from the living room down the hall. My parents were having a big party, and Will’s parents were guests. There were a bunch of liquor bottles out on the counter. I poured myself a glass of apple juice and chugged it, then told Will it was Jack Daniels. Not to be outdone, he poured himself a big glass of Jack Daniels and knocked it back. Before long he was so sick he could barely stand. His parents were furious.
I never admitted to him that I’d lied. No wonder I haven’t thought of it in years; the memory makes my throat tighten with shame.
I guess that’s why I never seem to connect with anyone; I’m a liar. How can I expect to form real bonds if I never tell people the truth? That day at the junkyard I could have confessed. I could have admitted I saw her at the beach, watched her toss a bottle into the waves. Now I’ve done the unforgivable; I’ve created a fake persona to hide behind, someone she believes in and respects, someone who’s influencing her choices. This connection between us, this hope and affection binding us, it’s just smoke.
I pick up her letter again, study the passionflower sketch. It’s incredible: white petals, a shaggy fringe of bright purple around the yellow stamen. She drew that for Alejandro Torres, a person who doesn’t exist.
Feeling sick, I crumple the paper into a ball and toss it into the trash.
Chapter Fifteen
Dakota
He’s traveling, I tell myself. It’s only been about a week. He probably hasn’t even gotten your letter yet. My boots move through the forest silently, the pine needles cushioning each step. I’m hiking through the woods of Luna Cove, where ravens nest and deer cavort and bunny rabbits stare in twitchy confusion, unsure of what to make of me. There’s a creek to my right and a gorgeous swimming hole about half a mile from here. It’s May Day, an obscure pagan holiday River and I celebrated when we were little by making garlands of wildflowers for our hair and pretending to be fairies. The memory of this has been haunting me all day, so I’m trying to cheer myself up with a hike and a swim. Still, a faint whiff of melancholy has followed me here, in spite of the bright green canopy of leaves and the clean smell of pine and the spring breeze running cool fingers through my hair.
Just as I push through the clump of bamboo shielding the swimming hole, I hear laughter, and it stops me in my tracks. I can see Tomo’s head as he treads water in the deepest part of the creek. Above him, standing on a rock bleached white as bone is…Miles?
Café Vida Miles? Here?
As if sensing my eyes on him, he meets my gaze and laughs at my expression. “It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s scone girl!”
“Uh, hi.” I step toward the water, a little thrown.
Tomo spots me and smiles. “Hi, Dakota. What’s up?”
“Felt like a swim.” I gesture with my towel.
“Come on in!” Miles booms. “The water’s perfect.”
“If you enjoy freezing,” Tomo adds.
Miles executes a perfect dive. His muscular body arcs with graceful ease and slips under the surface, leaving only a series of concentric ripples chasing each other.
I didn’t even know Miles and Tomo were friends. They seem like an unlikely match. Then again, I guess they both surf, both have tattoos. Maybe that’s all it takes for guys to hit it off.
&nb
sp; I spread my towel out on a flat, sunny boulder and sit, trying not to feel self-conscious. Something keeps me from yanking my sundress off, though. Mentally, I scan my body for embarrassing defects. Luckily, I wore my newish bikini and not the stretched out old one-piece I sometimes throw on when I’m sure I won’t see anyone. I also shaved my legs, by some miracle. Not that I care what Miles or Tomo think of me. I know for sure if it were just Tomo I wouldn’t feel self-conscious at all. Somehow having Miles here makes a difference. Maybe because he’s so much prettier in swim trunks than he ever looked behind the counter. As he hauls himself from the water and up onto a rock, I can’t keep myself from staring. His six-pack abs and super defined pecs glisten in the sunlight. His arms are bigger than my thighs.
“You guys know each other, right?” Tomo wades through the shallows toward me. His shorts look like regular gym shorts; they hang off his skinny hips, precariously close to sliding right off.
“You kidding?” Miles shakes his wet hair like a dog. “Dakota and I go way back.”
I smile weakly. “Never seen you out here before.”
“Never been. This is quite a spread you guys got here. Veritable wonderland.”
Tomo sits on a boulder near me. He tilts his face to the sun and closes his eyes.
“You getting in?” Miles looks me over, and I can’t help but remember the way he watches me at the café, like he’s undressing me with his eyes. He’s subtler now, but the thought of stripping down to my bikini still kind of makes me self-conscious.
“Yeah.” No putting it off, I guess. Time to take the plunge. Sure, I’d imagined a private swim, a little alone time with the dragonflies, but this is okay. In fact, maybe this is better. Maybe swimming with Miles and Tomo is just what I need to get my mind off Alejandro’s nonexistent letters.
I stand, yank my sundress over my head, and dive into the water. The cold takes my breath away. It’s so overwhelming I see stars, feel my toes curl in a delicious cocktail of pain and pleasure. I kick back up to the surface, gasping and laughing.
“It’s freezing!” I cry.
Miles laughs. “Isn’t it great? Fresh from the glaciers!”
I clamber back onto the rock and stretch out on my warm towel. After the shock of the water, the sunbaked heat of the stone beneath me feels like heaven. The sunlight on my shoulders makes me sigh with satisfaction. Tomo and Miles go on diving and splashing and calling out in boyish glee. The sound, so summery and familiar, lulls me into closing my eyes. I’m lying on my stomach, head cradled on my folded arms, still and content as a sunning lizard. Before long, I’ve slipped into a hazy half-dream.
When I come to, I feel a presence beside me. I open one eye to see Miles sitting next to me on the rock. His tan skin is still damp. He gazes at me steadily with hazel eyes.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
I can’t help but wonder what he did mean to do, if not wake me. After all, who can sleep with someone staring at her from like a foot away? Pretty creepy. Still groggy, I sit up, adjusting my bikini top and patting at my still damp hair.
“It’s just that you looked like you might burn.” He nods at my shoulders.
I look down and see they’re definitely turning pink. “Oh. Yeah. Thanks.” I reach into my bag and pull out a bottle of sunscreen. I squeeze a white blob into my hands and start rubbing it onto my shoulders.
“Here.” He holds out a hand. “Let me get your back.”
Um…not sure I’m comfortable with that. Then again, I am getting pretty red, and it’s nearly impossible to apply sunscreen to the middle of your own back. I hand him the bottle and try not to show how awkward I feel. He works the cream into my skin with steady, even pressure. Then his hands move to my shoulders and he starts kneading the muscles there.
“You’re pretty tense,” he says in a low voice.
Bleh! I turn and snatch the sunscreen from his hand, scooting away. Not exactly the subtlest maneuver, but Miles doesn’t seem to pick up on nuanced hints.
He looks chastened. When he tries again, he puts on an overly earnest, interested face. “Tomo told me you did all the sculptures in the garden.”
“Yeah.” I keep my voice neutral.
“They’re great!” he gushes. “I heard you got into art school.”
I smile, feeling pleased in spite of myself. “Yeah. RISD.”
I can tell by his blank expression he has no idea what RISD is.
“Rhode Island School of Design,” I clarify. I can’t help but remember how Jack knew what I was talking about right away that day at the junkyard. I think of his hands sifting through the sprockets, the way he looked at me, those dark eyes full of secrets. That was an odd day. In a good way, though.
“So what will you study there?”
“I’ll be in the sculpture department, but I’m interested in furniture design, too.” I hug my knees. “I want to take junk and make it beautiful.”
He looks kind of blank again. “That’s awesome.”
“What about you?” I ask, leaning back on my towel. “You going to college?”
“UCLA in September.” He looks away, affecting nonchalance. “Going to be a business major, or maybe double with pre-law if I start feeling more ambitious.”
Tomo does a screaming cannonball into the creek, splashing water everywhere. Then he swims over to us and treads water, his dark hair plastered to his head.
“I’m starving!” he declares. “Burrito time for Tomo.”
Miles nods. “I could go for a little carne asada myself.”
“Dakota, you want to come?” Tomo wades back to the thin sliver of beach and grabs his towel.
“Where you going?”
“Taqueria Alejandro,” he says. “Great little place in Bodega.”
The name gives me a little jolt, but I ignore it. Alejandro hasn’t written me back, and for all I know he never will. Alejandro’s an apparition, a name on the page. I may never meet him, and if I do, there’s little hope he’ll live up to my ridiculous fantasies. And okay, so Miles isn’t exactly my cup of tea, but I dig Tomo, though we hardly ever hang out. I should try acting like normal people my age for once. They swim and joke around and get burritos and just have fun; they don’t spend all their time pining for phantoms who disappoint in the end anyway.
“Come on! They have amazing burritos,” Miles coaxes.
“Okay,” I say, trying to sound game. “Why not?”
…
Jack
I flatten the crumpled stationery on my desk, trying for the millionth time to smooth it with my hands. I can’t believe I actually threw it away. My heart hurts just thinking about it. The tiny, detailed drawing of a passionflower has a deep crease running right through its center. I run my fingers over it again, wincing at my own stupidity.
I can’t give this up. Not yet. Finding Dakota’s message in a bottle was the first really beautiful thing that’s happened to me in ages—maybe ever. And okay, so I screwed it up already. This whole Alejandro ruse was totally misguided and wrong, but I can’t let it go without a fight. I have to see if there’s any way to salvage the situation, any way to get past the deception and move on.
Outside my window, the afternoon inches toward sunset. I spring up from my desk chair and change into shorts and a T-shirt. It’s hot for only the first day of May, a rare preview of summer. I’ve been inside for hours, and my muscles are starting to twitch in protest. I lace up my running shoes and sprint downstairs, then out the front door before Mom can ask where I’m headed. There’s a fire road that snakes up and around the rim of the valley for miles—a smooth, even dirt road with plenty of shade and great views.
Jogging in that direction, I slip into a comfortable pace. Every day I try to get in at least four miles. Sometimes I have to drag myself through the first mile, but today my muscles have coiled so tightly inside me that it feels good when they start to work. My legs feel like springs finally releasing.
By the time I’ve looped back
toward the house, I’ve run five miles at a brisk clip and my T-shirt is soaked with sweat. I feel light and relaxed, floaty almost. The neon-pink leftovers of sunset burn brightly along the horizon. I slow to a walk near the little cottage where Joaquin lives with his family. The sound of an acoustic guitar takes me by surprise. I stop, listening intently. Someone’s playing in the Ramirezes’ backyard. It sounds like a blues riff, and it’s not half bad. Curious, I move closer, trying to see around the sprawling bougainvillea Mrs. Ramirez planted all around the house.
I catch sight of Joaquin sitting on the back porch, an old, battle-scarred guitar in his lap. He’s getting a lot of sound out of it, though—more than I would have thought possible. He hasn’t noticed me standing there at the edge of the yard. I’m trying to decide if I should interrupt when he spots me and falls abruptly silent.
“What are you doing here?” He glares.
I take a few steps toward him. “Sorry! I wasn’t trying to spy on you or anything.”
“Surprised me, that’s all.” His shoulders relax a little and he looks embarrassed. “I just— I’m not very good.”
“You sounded great!”
He scoffs. “Right.”
“Really, man. What was that?”
“Robert Johnson.” He grins crookedly at my confusion. “Only the greatest blues artist of all time.”
“I don’t know anything about the blues,” I admit. “I had no idea you even played.”
“Not seriously, like you, but I mess around.”
I gesture to the chair next to him on the porch. “You mind?”
“Knock yourself out.”
I sit in the dilapidated lounger next to his. The sun’s gone down but the air’s still pretty warm, and it feels good to be outside. My sweaty T-shirt has started to dry. The smell of grilled meat, peppers, onions, and cilantro drifts through the open screen door. I can hear the burble of TV, Mrs. Ramirez talking in rapid-fire Spanish, Joaquin’s little sisters laughing. It’s so different from my house, where Dad only comes home after dark and Mom drifts like a ghost through the empty rooms.
The Truth About Jack (Entangled Crush) Page 11
