“Yes, let’s go to the beach.” I pull off my apron and clock back out.
“Have fun!” Anya trills as we head for the door. I turn to wave and she winks.
…
Jack
When Attila sees me walking toward the car with Dakota beside me, he immediately stuffs his dog-eared copy of Crime and Punishment under the seat. He’s usually so stoic and hard to read, but now the twinkle in his eyes is unmistakable.
“This is yours?” Dakota looks confused when I stop next to the Rolls.
“Yeah. Well, you know, my family’s.” Attila scrambles around and opens the back door for her. “This is Attila. I don’t think you guys officially met the other day.”
“Oh. Hi.” She seems a little overwhelmed.
“Miss McCloud,” Attila says in a stiff, formal tone. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
She looks at me sideways, then slides onto the seat a little awkwardly. “Um, thanks. How did you know my name?”
“It is my job,” he says simply.
Dakota scoots over, and I take a seat beside her. As Attila closes the door, she widens her eyes at me.
I shrug in apology. “My mom’s really weird about cars. Her brother died in an accident when they were teenagers, so she’s terrified the same thing will happen to me.”
“So she hired a chauffeur?” she whispers.
I lower my voice to match hers. “Sort of. He used to be my tutor, but now he basically drives me around. It’s pretty embarrassing. He’s really cool though; I guess I shouldn’t complain.” In five minutes I’ve told her more personal information than I’d share with most people over a period of years. I wonder how she does that—draws secrets from me without even trying.
She bounces on the seat a little like a kid. “This is amazing! It makes my Volvo look like a pile of puke.”
“It’s not bad,” I admit.
She stops suddenly and looks at me, gears turning behind her eyes. “I’ve seen this car in town before. Do you hang out in Sebastopol a lot?”
“Now and then,” I say vaguely. “So, what beach should we go to?”
“Do you know Luna Cove?”
“Yeah.” I think of the last time I was there, when her bottle washed up on the sand and I knew I had to meet her. I hope she can’t read anything in my face. “I like it there. Is that where you want to go?”
“It’s a little far, but it’s my favorite,” she says.
I meet Attila’s eyes in the mirror. “You know how to get there, right?”
“We’re on our way.” He starts up the car, but only after giving me a fairly conspicuous wink that I hope to God Dakota didn’t catch.
“Your boss seems cool.” I lean back, going for casual, but I’m too amped to really relax. At last, I’m with Dakota McCloud, speeding toward the ocean, the rest of the afternoon stretched out before us. Suddenly everything and anything seems possible. I can feel my leg bouncing in agitation; I’m too excited to sit still. I force myself to stop fidgeting.
“Anya? Yeah, she’s great.”
“Where’s she from? Thought I heard an accent.”
“Australia. She’s lived here for ages, though. She’s kind of like a big sister to me.”
I nod. “I can see that. You even look alike.”
She laughs, a surprisingly husky sound, sexy and unexpected. “Everyone says that.”
God, her mouth is so perfect. I find myself staring at it. I make myself look away, turning my gaze out the window. I watch as the orderly streets give way to barns, vineyards, and fields. Can she tell how much I want to kiss her? Easy, Sauvage, I remind myself. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
…
Dakota
I should feel intimidated. Jack’s car is huge and glossy and gorgeous, like something out of The Great Gatsby. He has a chauffeur for God’s sake! A chauffeur with some kind of European accent, vaguely vampire-esque. As we navigate the curves of Bodega Highway, though, all I feel is happy. I think briefly of the times I came out here with Cody. He drove his old BMW way too fast, the tires squealing on the turns, and I had to urge him repeatedly to slow down. I hated doing that, nagging him to be careful, but I also didn’t relish the idea of dying in some grisly car crash. Those outings always left me clammy with sweat and sour with resentment. Attila drives the speed limit and the backseat of the Rolls is so comfy, like a great big couch. I feel utterly safe and content as the hills and the trees and eventually the ocean whizz past.
“So, how long have you played piano?” I ask.
“Pretty much forever. My mom pointed a speaker blasting Rachmaninoff right at her pregnant belly. I was rocking ‘Twinkle Twinkle’ before I could talk.”
I try to imagine a very tiny Jack picking out the melody with a solemn frown. The image makes me smile. I can’t help but feel a kinship with him; Dad says he caught me fishing trash from the garbage and arranging it into shapes when I was three. I wonder if Jack really loves playing piano the way I love art, though. I know some people feel forced into those kinds of hobbies by their parents.
“Is it a passion or a chore?” I ask quietly.
He thinks about this. I can tell it’s not because my question threw him, but because he knows exactly what I mean and he wants to answer me truthfully. “It’s a little of both. My mom insists I rehearse three or four hours a day. It’s impossible for that to be fun every time. Some days it feels like I’m wasting my life staring at these ivory keys, you know? Like what could possibly be worth that kind of work?” His gaze drifts out the window, and I can see the tension in his jaw release as his mouth curls into a faint smile. “Sometimes, though, I lose myself in it. That’s an incredible feeling. Like I forget everything in the whole world, and the next thing I know it’s been five hours and my legs are cramping from sitting too long, but I feel cleansed and empty and totally satisfied.”
I can’t believe it. He’s just articulated the exact reason I love art so much—the missing time and the clean bright emptiness that feels as natural and necessary as breathing. “I know what you mean.”
“Do you ever get sick of making art?” he asks, turning toward me like I’m the most interesting person in the world.
“It’s a little different, I guess, because nobody ever tells me I have to do it.” I shrug. “I was homeschooled, and I live in an artist colony, so we’re not big fans of structure.”
He grimaces. “My mom seems to think if I go one day without rehearsing I’ll forget how to play ‘Chopsticks.’”
“Do you want to make it your career?”
He tilts his head back and forth. “I don’t know yet. I want to get really good, and I want to compose, but I don’t think I want to be a concert pianist. The thought of playing Carnegie Hall makes me a little sick. I don’t crave the limelight. I just want to make something beautiful before I die. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah.” It comes out barely more than a whisper. I’ve never heard anyone echo my own life goal so precisely. It’s almost eerie.
We go on talking while the world blurs past outside the windows. I tell him a little about Luna Cove, and he asks me all kinds of questions. He really seems fascinated, not just politely interested. I recall the other day when Miles asked me about my sculptures, how he looked me in the eye but didn’t really seem to listen; there was something empty in his gaze, like a mask fixed in the “tell me more” position while his brain was busy with other things. Talking to Jack is the opposite of that. He hangs on every word. You’d think my descriptions of the yurts and the tree houses, my silly stories about Fran and Dad and Tomo are deep, impenetrable mysteries vital to his survival.
All the while, I can’t escape the feeling that I already know him somehow. Like I met him someplace long ago, and this whole getting-to-know-each-other ritual is a farce. Something about his eyes—the warmth there, the openness—makes me feel like I can tell him anything. The word “soulful” comes to mind. I never really knew what that meant until I met Jack.
“You want to go for a walk?” he asks.
“Sure. Sounds good.”
He examines my flimsy T-shirt. “You’ll get cold, though.”
“I’ll be okay.” It does look kind of freezing out there in the wind.
He digs into a duffel bag at his feet and pulls out a charcoal gray sweater. He hands it to me. “Here, you can wear this.”
“You sure?”
“Of course. My gran knit that. It’s incredibly warm.”
I put it on and it comes down to my knees.
He laughs. “It’s a little big. Would you rather wear my jacket?”
“No! I love it.” And I do. It’s the softest sweater I’ve ever encountered; probably cashmere, though I’ve never owned anything made of cashmere, so I’m not sure. I pull it close to my face and sniff. It smells faintly of that bright, citrusy cologne, the same one from Alejandro’s last letter.
“Does it smell bad?” Jack’s forehead creases with worry.
“No! Come on, let’s go.” I decide not to mention the coincidence. It’s too complicated to explain, and I’m afraid it will sound weird. Anyway, what do I know? Maybe it’s just a really popular cologne.
We get out of the car and start down the beach. A couple of seals bob about in the surf, diving beneath the surface and popping up again, their huge liquid eyes locked on us. We watch them for a while, amused by their antics. It’s windy but not foggy; the sky’s blindingly blue. Jack’s sweater keeps me perfectly warm. I think about the last time I was here: writing that note and stuffing it into a bottle, a random act of desperation on a really awful day.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks as we start walking again.
“The last time I was here.”
Something flashes in his eyes, but I can’t decipher the look. For the first time, he seems a little guarded. “Oh yeah? Why, what happened?”
“It was April Fools’ Day. I got my acceptance to RISD and an email from my best friend all in the same morning.” I hesitate, but for some reason I really want to tell him more about this. Even if it’s too much too soon, I don’t care. I’m feeling reckless. “Remember how I told you my best friend hooked up with my boyfriend?”
“Yeah. Ouch,” he murmurs, his face full of sympathy.
“Yeah. Big time. Anyway, that’s the day I found out.” I stomp on a bulbous piece of seaweed and it explodes under my shoe with a satisfying pop. “Not only did it shatter my connection to both of them, it also screwed up my plans for college. I was mad and confused and lonely. I came out here, and for some crazy reason I wrote a note and stuffed it into a bottle.”
He doesn’t say anything. His eyes scan my face.
I push my hair out of my eyes and continue. “It’s like I needed a sign or something, you know? Like I needed the universe to tell me that I’m not alone.”
“That makes sense.” He looks away. “So what happened?”
“Someone found it. A guy named Alejandro. We wrote to each other a few times.” I pause, gathering my thoughts. “I guess it sounds weird, but somehow getting his letters made me see the world as magical again. When I got River’s email everything looked so gray and ugly. His letters gave me the colors back. Does that make sense?”
He nods. “Makes perfect sense.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Jack
When I get home that night I find Gran in the living room with Mom. She lives in Paris, but she descends on us unexpectedly at least once or twice a year and stays for weeks at a time. It unnerves Mom, who thinks she’s impulsive and messy and way too spontaneous. As I enter, Gran leaps up from the couch and engulfs me in a bear hug. Lilacs. She always smells of lilacs. In spite of the simmering tension between Mom and Gran, I look forward to her visits; I feel closer to her than I do to my own parents, if you want to know the truth.
“Oh, let me look at you!” She grips my shoulders and stares up at me, her huge hazel eyes drinking me in. Her gray hair is gathered in a messy twist, as usual, with stray wisps dangling in her eyes. She looks younger than she is and, though she’s a big woman, nobody would ever call her fat. She wears expensive Parisian silks and loves enormous hats. “You’re getting very handsome. And you’re so tall! Practically a giant.”
“I’m not a giant.” I chuckle. “It’s good to see you, Gran. You’re looking quite handsome yourself.”
Mom jumps to her feet. “Where have you been all day? Have you even rehearsed?”
“I can take a day off once in a while.”
“No, you can’t!” she snaps.
“Mom, come on. I’m eighteen. Back off.” It comes out louder than I’d intended. Sometimes she just doesn’t know when to let up.
Gran watches us like someone thoroughly enjoying a tennis match.
Mom smooths her skirt and puts on a neutral expression. There’s no missing the frost in her voice, though, when she turns toward the door and says, “I’ll let you two catch up.”
“Can we have something to eat?” Gran calls after her. “Perhaps some little sandwiches? Do you still have that marvelous chef? I’m ravenous!”
“No problem.” Mom doesn’t turn around. “I’ll have Felix make up a tray.”
“Wonderful!” Gran either doesn’t notice Mom’s annoyance or pretends not to. I suspect the latter.
Mom leaves, and Gran studies me more intently, squinting like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve. “There’s something different about you. What is it?”
“I’m about six months older than the last time you saw me.”
“Something else,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. Then her eyes light up with understanding. “Oh! Of course! You’re in love.”
I cough, trying to hide my embarrassment. “Gran!”
“You are. I can tell.”
“I did meet someone…” I admit.
She claps her hands in delight. “I knew it!”
Gran has a way of making me talk. Before our sandwiches have even arrived I’ve told her all about Dakota, the message in a bottle, the Alejandro fiasco, our day at the junkyard, and our walk on the beach this afternoon.
“The thing is,” I say, “I don’t know how to tell her. It’s kind of gone too far.”
Gran purses her lips, considering. “What would you say?”
“That’s the problem. How do you tell someone you pretended to be someone else because you were too freaked out to just approach her directly? I hate being dishonest with her, though, you know? I really like her. We’re so alike. We talked about art and music and so many things; it’s like we just understand each other without trying. She’s thinking about traveling next year, putting off college. She says an artist should go out and experience the world before she tries to say something about it. I think she’s right.”
She nods. “You can’t make art about nothing; you need to see what’s out there.”
“Exactly!” I run a hand through my hair. “She’s just so wise and quirky and real. I don’t want to screw things up.”
She pats my knee. “Who can resist you, my gentle giant?”
I try to believe I’m as irresistible as she seems to think. She’s my gran, though. She has to find me extraordinary. In spite of my happiness, I’m still plagued with doubt. Sure, I’ve managed to get closer to Dakota, but what’s next? How can I tell her the truth without driving her away?
…
Dakota
Jack and I walk on the beach every day for a week. We talk about everything: art, politics, dreams, religion. Our conversations spiral gently from one topic to another, meandering and natural—organic as the sea itself.
“So where’s your mom?” Jack asks one day. “She doesn’t live at Luna Cove, does she?”
“She took off five years ago.” I try to
sound breezy, but the bitterness in my voice betrays me.
He plucks something from the sand and hands it to me, a miniature abalone shell. The inside is a delicate pink with swirls of lavender and flecks of mint green. Tiny holes line its edge as if it’s been perforated. I run my fingers over it, enjoying the contrast between its rough exterior and petal-soft interior.
“Where did she go?” he asks.
“Tennessee.” I swallow hard, fighting the lump in my throat. It’s crazy; I didn’t think I was so sensitive about all this. It’s been a while, after all. Something about Jack’s incredibly focused gaze draws the sadness from wherever I’ve buried it.
“So your parents split up?” he prompts.
“She started seeing this realtor, and she just totally changed. Like overnight. I mean maybe not overnight,” I correct myself, remembering how she and Dad fought all the time before she left. “But it felt like it. I almost wonder if she’s bipolar or something.”
“Sounds rough.” He stops walking and turns to face me, his eyes searching my face.
“It’s weird how someone can be your mom one day and the next she’s just”—I scan the beach, trying to find the words—“someone else, you know? Someone you barely recognize.”
“Do you still see her?”
“Not really.” I start walking again, my bare feet making tracks in the sand.
“I’m not close to my dad,” he says, keeping pace with me. “I barely know him. I don’t think he wanted kids.”
I look at him, a little startled by this confession. “Doesn’t that hurt?”
“Sure. Sometimes.” He puts his hands in his pockets and stares at the horizon. “I’ve got Mom and Attila and Gran, though. I’ve got my music. It’s not like I need him.”
“But it would be nice, right?” I say, not sure if I’m talking about him or me. “To have both parents, I mean. To be a family.”
He smiles sadly. “Sure. But we don’t get to choose that stuff. We just make do with what we get.”
Later, as the sun starts to set, he turns to me, his eyes burning with determination. His face is glazed in tangerine light, the sharp angles of his cheekbones even more pronounced than usual. A photographer who lived at Luna Cove one winter told me this time of day was best for photos. She said it bathed everyone in “Italian light.” I can’t help thinking Jack looks like a prince from a fairy tale right now, with his serious expression and his hair tossing gently in the breeze. I can feel gooseflesh prickling along my arms, and not just from the cool ocean air.
The Truth About Jack (Entangled Crush) Page 15
