The Truth About Jack (Entangled Crush)

by Gehrman, Jody

  “You like this one, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know. The jury’s still out.”

  “So fickle. One minute you’re crying over Cody, then you’re pouting about your Spanish pen pal. Now you’re obviously smitten with some crackhead musician.”

  “Tweaker,” I correct her patiently.

  …

  Jack

  I’ve just started “Moonlight Sonata” when they walk in. Dakota’s wearing a simple blue dress that matches her eyes, and her pale blond hair looks even shinier than usual. She’s with a woman in her late twenties—too young to be her mom…possibly a much older sister, though I don’t remember her mentioning any siblings in her letters. She has long blond hair twisted randomly into tiny braids, and she wears a bright turquoise tunic over tights. When I look up from the piano and see Marcus showing them to their table, I feel panic blossoming in my chest. My fingers falter for half a second, and Dakota’s gaze rises to meet mine. I force myself to look away. My hands, thankfully, have only frozen for the briefest instant; I’m able to pick up the song again without calling attention to myself.

  Oh God, she’s here. Joaquin insisted this would work, but I only half believed him. What he didn’t cover except in the vaguest terms is what I’m supposed to do now that she’s actually shown up. Obviously I need to talk to her, but even thinking about it makes my pulse race and my guts churn. What do I say? It was clear this morning when I saw her at Café Vida that Miles had filled her head with all kinds of lies. I hate to imagine what he told her. And it’s not like I gave her any reason to doubt his description of me, no matter how unflattering. I acted like such a douche when I saw her with him that day. It’s a miracle I even worked up the nerve to invite her here.

  You can do this, I tell myself, mentally channeling Joaquin’s aggressive confidence. I think of how far I’ve come in the last month. Even hanging out with Joaquin and Attila was a huge step for me. I’ve shied away from potential friends for years now, convinced that getting close to anyone isn’t worth the risk. Will’s death hit me so hard, I couldn’t get out from under it. It wasn’t the immediate shock that brought me to my knees so much as the aftermath—trying to make sense of it, wondering if I could have done something to prevent it. Sure, people do crazy things. They make terrible choices. Sometimes the person you thought you knew so thoroughly turns out to be a mystery. But do I really want to spend my life hiding from people just because they’re unpredictable?

  I glance up again. So does Dakota. The dress she’s wearing exposes her shoulders; her skin glows in the candlelight. I risk a small smile. In answer, her cheeks turn a delicate pink and her lips curve up at the corners.

  What’s she thinking right now? What does that secret smile mean?

  I manage to keep the song going in spite of my racing brain, and then another, and another. My fingers channel all the nervous energy stored up over the past week, thinking I might never get another chance with her. They dance over the keys like possessed demons, pounding with great intensity, then stroking softly. I try to tell her with my music all the things I can never say aloud. It feels good, actually—really good. Maybe Attila was on to something when he suggested I corner her with my piano.

  Dakota’s friend orders appetizers and wine. Dakota isn’t old enough to drink, obviously, though she does take a few sips from her friend’s glass. Every now and then I catch them looking at me, whispering. She’s here to see you, I tell myself. She wants you. You’re a piano-playing god. She’s dazzled by your arpeggios.

  If only I could believe my own hype.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dakota

  “Don’t do that,” Anya says, putting down her wineglass. “You’re going to give yourself wrinkles.”

  I pull my gaze away from Jack. “Don’t do what?”

  “Furrow your brow. What are you scowling about, anyway?”

  I lean in closer, lowering my voice. “What do you think? Is he a tweaker?”

  She studies Jack so openly I want to die. I kick her under the table. “Ow! What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t stare!”

  She gapes at me like I’m the one being embarrassing. “I thought you wanted me to check him out.”

  “Hello! I didn’t say you should ogle him.”

  “He’s performing. People are supposed to stare at him.” She pops a bite of crab cake into her mouth and chews thoughtfully, watching him with a little more subtlety this time. “He doesn’t look high to me.”

  “He smells like Alejandro’s letters,” I blurt, still haunted by that odd detail.

  This throws her. “Barcelona Alejandro?”

  “Yeah. Isn’t that weird?” I butter a piece of bread. “I noticed it today.”

  Now it’s her turn to frown. “That is kind of a strange coincidence.”

  “What’s it mean?”

  “Maybe it’s kismet,” Anya suggests.

  “What’s that?”

  “You know—fate, destiny.”

  “Kismet,” I repeat, liking how the word feels in my mouth, especially with the gorgeous sound of Jack’s piano playing behind it. He’s unbelievably good. I have to admit—to myself at least—it’s sexy, watching him play. His hands move with effortless grace, caressing the keys tenderly one moment, hammering them fiercely the next. I don’t know much about classical music, but I do know beauty when I hear it.

  “He’s good,” Anya says, as if reading my mind. “And gorgeous.”

  “He is kind of cute, isn’t he?” I sneak another glance at him and bite my lip when he catches me looking.

  He finishes the set and stands up. A few diners offer scattered applause. He ducks his head in acknowledgment. Anya claps way louder than anyone else, and I want to crawl under the table.

  “He’s taking a break,” she whispers urgently. “You should talk to him!”

  My eyes widen in horror. “You think?”

  “Of course! Isn’t that why we’re here?”

  “What do I say, though?”

  She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Say anything! It doesn’t matter. He wants to talk to you, I can tell.”

  I turn to see him heading for the door. I take a deep breath and stand, setting my napkin on my chair. My heart’s fluttering like a caged bird. Why do I feel so nervous?

  “Go get him!” Anya urges, toasting me with her wine.

  I smooth the fabric of my dress and bare my teeth at her. “Do I have anything in my teeth?”

  She examines me quickly. “No. Now go!”

  I screw up my courage and follow him out the door.

  …

  Jack

  I hear her behind me and turn, already smiling. This moment feels so different from any of my other moments with her. Maybe it’s because she’s on my turf for once, or because she’s made an effort to see me. I try not to let myself think too much. Just act natural, I remind myself. Just be who you are.

  “Hi. Glad you could make it.”

  “Hey.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re really good. At the piano, I mean. You sound amazing.”

  “Oh. Thanks. It’s um…” How do I tell her what music means to me, the endless hours spent rehearsing, without sounding all full of myself? “It’s my thing, I guess. I mean I love to play. I’m not trying to brag or anything, it’s just—”

  “I get it,” she interrupts.

  I think of that day we spent wandering around the junkyard, sifting through bins of rusty gears and sprockets. I remember the way she talked about her sculptures, how her whole face lit up, incandescent with excitement, and I know she does get it. Probably more than anyone I’ve ever met.

  “Do you do meth?”

  Wait, what?

  She laughs when she sees the look on my face. “I’m sorry, that sounded weird. It’s just, I heard something…”

  Miles. That sneaky little shit. For a second, it takes all my concentration not to lose my temper.

  “You’re not into drugs?” She sound
s timid now, like she’s afraid I might go off.

  I take a deep breath and look her in the eye. “No. I don’t do drugs. Unless you count the occasional raspberry scone.”

  “That is pretty serious.” She pretends to mull it over. “But you can probably kick it, right?”

  “You’re the one who got me hooked. You tell me.”

  She looks at her shoes, her smile fading. “You and Miles must really hate each other.”

  “Look, I guess you two are friends, and I don’t want to say anything negative about someone you care about, but—”

  “We’re not really friends.”

  “More than friends?”

  “No!” She looks horrified, which I find weirdly gratifying. “I told you, we’re not seeing each other. I barely know him.”

  “How’s the whole ‘relationship apocalypse’ going?” I can hardly believe that came out of my mouth. My heart’s pounding like I just ran a marathon.

  “You remember that.” She chuckles. “Just fine, thanks.”

  I swallow, trying to dislodge the massive lump in my throat. “Maybe we could hang out again sometime. If you’re not too busy.”

  She looks up sharply. I pray it’s dark enough out here to disguise the fact that my face is on fire. For a moment, neither of us says anything; we just study each other as the cool, jasmine-scented breeze gently swishes her hair around. Her eyes have so many layers, you could get lost in them. Even in the dim moonlight, I can see oceans upon oceans in them; I find myself swimming in their depths.

  “I’d like that,” she says at last.

  For a second, I seriously consider telling her everything. Start with that day at the beach, just lay it all out for her. She could slap me or kiss me then, whichever she prefers. I can’t, though. Really. I like this girl too much. And okay, so I barely know her, but I do know she thinks of her art when she can’t sleep, and she’s looking for her tribe, and she loves the word “insouciance” and her happiest moment was spent riding a horse with her parents in Mexico.

  She squints at me like I’m a puzzle she can’t quite solve. “So this place is your family’s?” She gestures toward the restaurant.

  “Yeah, my dad’s a winemaker. He owns the winery and the restaurant.” Please, God, don’t let me sound pompous. “Who’s the lady you came here with?”

  “Oh, Anya. I work at an herb shop in Sebastopol. Anya’s my boss.” She hesitates, then adds, “You should come by sometime.”

  “Yeah.” I can’t help but smile. “I’d like that.”

  “It’s just a couple doors down from Café Vida.”

  “When do you work next?”

  She closes her eyes a moment, thinking. “Tuesday, I think. Yeah, Tuesday, unless someone calls in sick.”

  “Cool.” Again we fall into silence, searching each other’s faces. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so happy in my whole life.

  “Well,” she says finally, looking down with a shy little smile, “I should let you get back to work.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” To be honest, I’d forgotten all about work. I’d forgotten all about everything except her lush, Technicolor eyes.

  She takes a step closer. She’s so much shorter than me that her face tilts toward mine like a flower angling toward the sun. I want to kiss her so badly. Is that what she wants? She licks her lips, her gaze not moving from mine. I notice, not for the first time, how pink her lips are, perfectly shaped, dewy.

  Experimentally, I cup the back of her neck with one hand—just slip my fingers under her hair, feeling the impossible heated softness of her skin. I pull her closer, watching her face for signs. She closes her eyes, delicate eyelids fluttering. Her body arches ever so slightly, a ballerina preparing for a great leap.

  Before I can second-guess myself, I bend down and kiss her. The instant our lips touch, bursts of light explode behind my closed lids. I think of the fireworks she drew on the bright red envelope she sent me, gorgeous miniature supernovas dusted with glitter. Her lips part and her small hands reach out to grip my waist. It’s so unlike any kiss I’ve ever known. Kissing Lucy felt aggressive, like being devoured; kissing Dakota is like melding, like I’m dissolving into her and she’s dissolving into me.

  When the kiss ends, I pull back, studying her from inches away. She opens her eyes and looks at me directly, her expression a little stunned, but in a good way. My heart feels like one of her glittery firecrackers exploding inside me.

  “Maybe I’ll stop by Tuesday,” I venture quietly.

  “I’d like that.” She says it simply, without pretense. They’re the three most beautiful words I’ve ever heard.

  Chapter Twenty

  Dakota

  Tuesday morning I spend a ridiculous amount of time getting ready for work. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help myself. As I’m taking off the fourth outfit I’ve tried on in five minutes, my laptop chimes. I’ve got mail. It’s probably spam. I wander over and touch the mouse, barely glancing at the screen. When I see who it’s from, I do a double take.

  TO: cloudygirl@gmail.com

  FROM: pocketmonster@rocketmail.com

  SUBJECT: Really Sorry

  Hey. I know I should have contacted you weeks ago. I have no real excuse except my own stupidity. River told me she wrote to you already. Look, I’m sure you probably hate me, and I would too, but I still want you to know how much I regret making such a mess of things. I don’t know why I let River kiss me. That’s all that happened, I swear; we made out for like five minutes. She started it and I ended it. We were both pretty drunk. I guess that probably sounds like I’m blaming her, but I’m not. I was the one in a relationship, and I never should have let it happen. Coming here to Rhode Island, living in the dorms, drowning in this sea of insanely talented people—I guess I felt a little starved for comfort or something.

  Anyway, I don’t want to spout excuses. I knew this email would be pathetic, which is why it’s taken me so long to sit down and actually write it. All I really want to say is that I never meant to hurt you and the thing with River wasn’t as intense as you probably imagine and I just miss you so much. If you can find it in your heart to write me back, even if it’s just to tell me what a pathetic excuse for a human being I am, I’d appreciate it.

  Cody

  I read it three times. Then I slam my computer shut and throw on the first clothes I can get my hands on: a plain orange T-shirt and faded jeans. My emotions keep flip-flopping from relieved to angry to indignant. How dare River imply they’re in a relationship when all they did was make out! How dare they make out! How dare he write to me just when I’m starting to forget about him. Thank God he wrote to me so at least I know he cared about me. My mind is like a roulette wheel, spinning through the full spectrum of emotions, each one contradicting the others. By the time I get to work, I feel dizzy with confusion.

  When Anya sees me, she clucks her tongue. “I told you not to do that.”

  “Not to do what?” I throw on an apron and clock in.

  “Furrow your brow like that. You’re going to end up all wrinkly.”

  I shrug. “So? Maybe then I won’t have to deal with boys and their stupidity.”

  “Oh no!” She looks dismayed. “Don’t tell me the gorgeous pianist already messed up?”

  “No, it’s Cody. Stupid, stupid Cody! He emailed me.”

  “And?”

  I straighten the jewelry display halfheartedly. “Apparently he and River only kissed. Not that you’d get that impression from what she told me.”

  Anya considers this. “Still. Not a good sign.”

  “I know! I’m mad at both of them. In a way I wish he’d never even contacted me. Then again, I’m glad at least now I know the truth. If it even is the truth! Who knows?”

  “Does he want to get back together?”

  “I don’t know.” I can feel my brow furrowing again, and I try to relax my face. “Anyway, I’m not interested. I just wish they would have told me the truth from the beginning. River let me assume the
worst.”

  Anya begins a new braid. “Well, she probably wants to date him.”

  “Yeah. I guess. What a sneaky, mean way to go about it, though.”

  The door jangles and we both turn. It’s Jack. He’s got on a crisp white button-down shirt, dark jeans, and a leather jacket. He looks so good my breath catches in my throat.

  “Hey, Jack.” My grumpiness instantly dissolves, looking at him.

  He smiles. “How’s it going?”

  “Okay. Guess you found the shop.” I notice Anya looking from him to me expectantly, and I hurry to introduce them. “Jack, this is my boss, Anya.”

  She reaches out her hand and they shake. She beams her approval at him. “I heard you play the other night at Pinot Noir. You’re really talented.”

  “Oh, thanks.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and looks bashful. “So this is your shop? Are you an herbalist?”

  “Sort of. I dabble, anyway.” Her eyes suddenly light up with an idea, and she turns to me. “It’s been really slow. You two can go hang out if you want.”

  “Really?” Anya teaches a soap-making class on Tuesdays in the back room, so she likes me to mind the register. Her offer catches me off guard. “What about your class?”

  “Oh, don’t worry. Nobody signed up this week. If anyone shows I’ll call Jo. She’s off today.”

  I glance at Jack. After my mini-tirade against the stupidity of boys I feel a little hypocritical flaring up like a match at the sight of him. Still, his olive skin looks so gorgeous against the brilliant white of his shirt, and his Heathcliff eyes are as haunting as ever. The memory of our kiss bursts to life inside my mind—his strong hand cupping the back of my neck, pulling me close, the warmth of his body against mine. It’s practically the only thing I’ve thought about since, no matter how much I try not to obsess. I can tell by the look on his face he wants to hang out. Still, I figure I better ask.

  “Are you free?” My voice sounds all shy and uncertain.

  “Yeah! We can go to the beach. I mean, unless you have to be somewhere?”

  “No,” I say.

  He tilts his head, searching my face. “No, you don’t want to go to the beach or no, you don’t have to be anywhere?”