by Amy Finnegan
In Jake’s garage. And you?
“I’m working on foundation stuff,” I say. “Did you find any event ideas yet?”
“Any … what?” She pauses. “Oh yeah, events! I forgot again. I’ve been crazy busy.”
Seriously? I asked her three weeks ago. And at least five times since then.
“And I get so distracted every time I go online,” Rachel says. “My Twitter followers are so fickle, it’s driving me nuts. I have to post something exciting every few hours or they drop like flies. I just tweeted about the new Coyote Hills website, though, and people are really excited about that. The Bod’s cast spotlight is awesome! He loves Oreo shakes! Cute, huh? And basketball is his favorite sport. His favorite color is black—so hot. And he grew up right there in Arizona! No wonder he’s got such a great tan.”
More and more, I don’t want Rachel to meet the real Jake Elliott. She can keep The Bod, he’s all hers. But Jake …
“What do you think about my spotlight?” I haven’t seen it myself yet, because I hadn’t heard the site was up. “We wrote them ourselves. Was I too silly?”
“Hold on, I’ll read it.” Twenty seconds or so pass. She’ll be entirely honest, like always. “What’s up with your favorite foods being sushi and veal piccata? That sounds sort of—”
“Huh? I … I swear I wrote pizza and popcorn.”
“There’s nothing about pizza. No popcorn.” Rachel says she’s going to keep reading, and I’m pulling up the site too, but it doesn’t look right on my phone and I can’t find the spotlights. “Did someone hijack your profile, or what? It also says you want to learn how to play golf, but you hate golfing.”
Golf? If Mrs. Elliott wouldn’t have thought I was being murdered in her garage, I would have screamed my head off. “I’ve gotta go!” I tell Rachel and hang up before she can reply. I then call my control-freak momager who obviously tweaked a few things before she sent my “own words” to the network publicity office.
“Really, Mom?” I say the second she picks up. “Veal piccata? What’s so wrong with pizza, huh? I sound like a priss!”
I had wanted to sound normal. I am normal.
“Calm down,” she snaps. “You love veal piccata. You order it every time it’s on a menu.”
“Oh, I get it. Pizza isn’t sophisticated enough for my public persona—unlike veal piccata or golf. Which is your favorite sport, not mine. And never mind that ninety percent of the fans who will be surfing the Coyote Hills website are a lot closer to my age than yours and won’t even know what veal piccata is. You changed my answers, Mom. You changed me into you!”
The mudroom door opens, and Jake peeks into the garage. Crap. Had he heard me? He waves and squints through the dark—only the interior light of my car is on. I cover the phone, open the car door, and ask him, “Will you please bring out your laptop?”
I put the phone back to my ear when Mom is midsentence. “… didn’t change everything. I kept tennis as your favorite sport. I only put golf for the question that asked what new skill you’d like to learn from a pro, because you had written—”
“Snake charming. Yeah, I know. It was supposed to be funny.”
“Well, it wasn’t,” Mom says. “We’re trying to change your image here, from being a young girl who flits from one train-wreck relationship to the next, to being a serious actress. It’s time you start behaving like an adult.”
“Oh, all right!” I say. “If you want me to behave like most of the other girls my age, then I have a ton of crazy stuff I’ve gotta go try. See ya!”
I hang up. She calls right back, but I send her to voice mail.
Jake pokes his head into the garage again, and I wave him over. He sits in the passenger seat with his laptop. He’s close enough for me to tell that he’s changed his shirt, because I smell the scent of fresh fabric softener. It’s all I can do to resist snuggling right into him.
“Did you just want the laptop, or do you want me too?” he asks. “My next game isn’t for another hour.”
“Good. Stay,” I reply. “I think I want … well, what I need is to fire my mom. Or actually, just the manager part of my mom. But I don’t know how. Or when. Or anything.”
And the tabloids use my love life as their personal ATM.
And my best friend keeps forgetting to do the one favor I’ve asked of her in years.
It seems like Jake is the only person in the world who treats me like a real flesh-and-blood girl—not just a TV character.
I slide my hand next to his and hook our pinkies. Just our pinkies.
No big deal. Right?
He stares down at our hands. “Oh … kay,” he finally says. “What happened?”
I would tell Jake to go to the Coyote Hills website—because I still want to see what else my mom changed—but then he would have to let go of my hand. So I just tell him about the fight instead. In less than a minute, we’re holding hands for real, and the argument with my mom suddenly seems humorous.
“She’s been trying forever to get me to like golf,” I say, “which is so stupid, because I suck! The last time we went to her country club, I hit more trees than grass.”
“Then you definitely don’t need professional help. I mean, I’ve golfed my entire life, and I can rarely hit a tree. It’s so much easier to hit all that grass.”
I try to smack him, but with our hands still connected, I’m a little off and hit the laptop instead. “Ow!”
Jake laughs and lifts my hand, but a split second before it reaches his lips, he stops. “Oh yeah,” he says, and lowers our hands back to his knee. “I shouldn’t do that. I forget sometimes.”
“Me too.” Did I say that out loud?
Jake looks back, his eyes wide open. “Really? You want me to kiss you?”
For hours and hours. I’ve wanted him to kiss me for a few weeks now, no matter how hard I try to push the idea out of my head. We just … can’t.
“Nice gulp,” he says, catching my reaction.
My cheeks are on fire. “Thanks,” I reply. “I’ve been gulping a lot lately. Because, you know, you keep looking at me like … like you are right now.”
“Like I want to kiss you,” he says. “Yeah, I’ll admit that’s happened a few times. And it’s probably good to get it out in the open.”
I feel sort of tingly all over. I might even be hovering above the seat.
“I agree, but, um …” I suck in a bit more air. “If … well, if we do that now, for example, I’m afraid I might regret it. And then we’ll both feel stupid. So we just … better not.”
“Kiss, you mean? Which for some reason is a bad idea?”
“Lots of reasons,” I say. “Such as, I’m not ready for another boyfriend.”
“And you don’t want to date another guy you work with.”
Gosh, it’s really hot in this car. “And my best friend likes you.”
“The one who’s never met me?” Jake asks. “And thinks I’m made of paper?”
“Yep, that one. Then there’s also the little detail that everyone thinks I’m dating Brett, not you—which I’m not. Dating either of you, I mean.” Ignore the fact that I’m holding your hand and have a butterfly farm living inside me. “But especially not Brett.”
Jake looks hesitant to reply, but finally speaks again and the tension breaks. “I can’t help wondering what things might be like if you and I were the ones who were first spotted together, when we were at The Cage. Then the gossip would be all about us, and …” He laughs. “Well, I’m guessing we wouldn’t need to hide in my mom’s garage to have a conversation.”
While I think over the possibilities, I lean against Jake’s shoulder … because I’ve wanted to for so long … and what’s the harm in doing it for just a few seconds? Except that the mudroom door opens and Mrs. Elliott peers into the darkness. She clearly sees us, then hurries to close the door again. I sit straight up. “Um, wow … bad timing.”
Jake pulls me back against him. “Don’t worry about my mom.”
“You’ve told her we’re still just friends, right?”
He shakes his head. “She hates it when I lie.”
His green eyes look down, and I look up. “Jake …” is all I get out.
“Hey, I’ll go along with all this other stuff,” he says, “but we should at least be honest with each other. You’ve gotta know this is going somewhere.”
“Of course I do.” But it’s hard to trust my instincts—the feeling inside me that says our relationship wouldn’t be the same type of ever-changing roller-coaster ride I’ve been on before: happy, super happy, not so happy, fight, more fights, lots of crying, done. Because with Jake … I don’t want it to end. “But wherever we’re going, I need to get there slowly,” I tell him. “Like, snail mode.”
“I get that. And I’m still cool with it, I promise.” Jake combs his free hand through my hair, and I fight to keep my eyes open. It’s bliss. “Just remember that after we work through your long list of stuff, we’ll still need to tackle all the reasons I don’t want to date you.”
I pull back, my insides collapsing into a big hot mess. “Not that I’m all crushed and mortified, but what … reasons are you talking about?”
Jake shrugs. “They’re actually pretty straightforward. One, you confuse me. Two, you frustrate me. And three …” He smiles and holds my hand just a little tighter. “I sometimes wish I’d never met you.”
I laugh. “Oh. Is that all?”
“Yep, that’s it.”
My legs don’t recover from feeling like jellyfish until a full ten minutes after Jake leaves for his next ballgame. The home health nurse is gone by then, but to delay a run-in with Mrs. Elliott as long as I can—she might as well have just caught me playing with matches in her garage—I study the family photos along the hall. Most are of Jake and his sister, Amber, at various ages. Jake has always been unusually cute. His toothless grin as a kid reminds me of the mischievous smiles my seven-year-old brothers now have.
The photos leave one question still churning inside me: Where is Jake’s dad? Whenever we’ve talked about our families, Jake has always avoided discussing him. Mrs. Elliott hasn’t mentioned him either, but the most obvious topic we’ve avoided this morning is her son. And there’s no dodging it now.
Mrs. Elliott looks up from her quilt when I enter the living room; she’s probably been picking out my knots. Once we’re finished, she plans to donate the quilt to the rehabilitation center where she stayed after her stroke. “I, um …” Want to bury my head in the ground like an ostrich. “I was hoping to clarify what you just saw.”
“I’ve been instructed to keep my mouth shut about you two.” She zips her lips.
I smile and relax a bit. “Jake says I shouldn’t feel stupid, but I can’t help it. Not until I explain a few things.”
Mrs. Elliott motions for me to sit next to her wheelchair. “Then get on with it, but please don’t feel stupid. I know you’re ‘just friends’ … most of the time.”
“That’s a great way to put it,” I reply, walking around the quilt frame to collapse onto the couch. “I have a million reasons for avoiding anything more than that right now. I just don’t seem to have enough sense to stay away from Jake.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Mrs. Elliott says. “He’s always had this effect on girls. The funny thing is, you’re the first one to have the same effect on him. And my goodness, he’s a mess. It’s actually nice to see.”
Firecrackers go off inside me. I should feel guilty for making Jake “a mess,” but here I am, all giddy, and dragging his sweet mother into it. “The problem is,” I explain, “I might never get my head on straight. But I don’t want you to think I’m just playing games with him.”
“Not at all. No one knows their future. That’s what makes life so fun.” We talk a while longer as we keep stitching, and then Mrs. Elliott yawns. “I think I need a nap, if you don’t mind.”
“No problem.” I try not to imagine the disaster of a quilt she might wake up to.
“You could always go to Jake’s game,” she says.
My needle sticks into something hard. “That’s a tempting idea, but, well …” I press my thumb against a finger so it won’t bleed. “I don’t want to put him in an awkward situation.”
“Oh, I’m sure if you’re recognized, he’ll think of something,” she replies. “And you certainly have permission to use my name in any bit of fairy tale you’d like to make up.”
This is another one of those times when I should just say no, isn’t it?
“The tournament is only a few blocks down the street,” Mrs. Elliott adds, backing her wheelchair away from the quilt frame. “You could walk if you’d like to. I have a map.”
There are six courts at the massive city park. With my white floppy hat and oversize sunglasses in place, I walk along the edge of the bleachers and search for which game Jake is playing in. At last, I spot him sitting on a bench with a few other guys, and figure the tournament must be behind schedule. Lucky for me.
I scan the bleachers for a place to sit, on the opposite side of the court. There’s a single seat here and there, but I make my way to where there’s a bit more room near the top. Two guys and a girl soon ask if they can squeeze into the remaining space next to me. I place my bag on my lap and scoot over, blending in with the rest of the crowd.
“You two need to chill out,” the girl tells her friends. Her short black hair is spiky and cute, and she’s wearing an ASU T-shirt. I wonder what brand of vitamins they take here in Phoenix, because everyone is beautiful—especially one of the guys she’s with, who has light brown hair and dark eyes. Wait … something about him seems familiar. “I’m sure you’ll both get a chance to go out with her.”
“But just think, Mark, I’ll get to kiss her first,” says the brown-haired guy.
He gets slugged by his buddy, a white-blond, stocky guy. “I don’t want your leftovers!”
“Why not? You’ve liked them before.”
I watch all this out the side of my sunglasses while I drink from a water bottle.
“Ack! You guys are sick!” the girl says. “Emma Taylor’s kissed way hotter guys than either of you, anyway.”
I swallow wrong and cough like both lungs have exploded.
The girl whips her head around. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Gasp. “Really.” Gasp. I take another drink. “Thanks.”
The Cage. Jake’s friends! That’s where I’ve seen these guys before.
Crap. Double crap. I have to get out of here. One more cough and I’m breathing again, but my bag has fallen off my lap and everything that used to be inside is now scattered among four pairs of feet.
I grab my wallet first—it has my driver’s license under a clear cover on the outside—then stuff my Coyote Hills script back into my bag. My cell starts ringing, and I look around for it. But then I hear the girl say in stunned, slow words, “How do you know Jake Elliott?”
Only then do I notice that she’s holding my ringing phone, and Devin and Mark are also staring at the caller ID on the front of it. And since my phone says in bright, bold letters that Jake Elliott is the one who’s calling me, it’s impossible to talk my way around this. I release my breath and take the phone. “Oh, is that him? We, uh … work together.”
My phone stops ringing.
They all look at each other, and then everyone’s focus shifts back to me. “No way!” the girl says. “I didn’t recognize you!”
I tug my hat a little lower. “That’s kind of the idea.”
“Ouch,” Mark says, running a hand over his buzz haircut. “Did you happen to hear what we just said? Because … yeah, that might’ve sounded sorta bad.”
“Just a little,” I tell him, unable to suppress a smile. “So which one of you guys gets to kiss me first? I got a bit lost around the leftovers part.”
Devin half raises his hand. “Uh, hi there, I’m Devin. I was supposed to go on a date with you next month, but now I’m just
hoping you don’t have a hit man on speed dial.”
I laugh. “Nah, I only make that call after a guy passes me off to his buddy.”
“Sorry, that was just stupid guy talk,” Devin replies, moving the girl out of the way so he can stand by me. “Which Sophie here is totally used to.”
“But still disgusted by,” Sophie informs me. “Don’t worry, though. Devin’s really okay. I mean, he’s not as cool as Jake, which I’m sure Jake has told you. And definitely not as athletic as Mark. But Devin gets the best grades, so if you’re into geeks …”
Jake is calling me again. Devin stops scowling at Sophie and looks down at my phone. “Oh man, can I answer it?” he asks. This situation really can’t get any crazier, so I hand over my phone. Devin changes his voice to sound like a girl—me, apparently. “Hey, Jakey! OMG, you’ll never guess who I just met. Devin is, like, so hot! And his muscles are way bigger than yours. I’m giving him a back rub right now.”
Silence, then I can hear Jake laugh. “What? How did you get Emma’s phone?”
“Dude, she followed me here. Total stalker.”
I grab my phone. “They sat right next to me,” I tell Jake, hoping to somehow save this very telling situation. “Which is funny, since the reason I came to the game was because you said you’d introduce me to Devin if I could make it.” Devin grins and reaches around Sophie to hit Mark. “You know, because we’re doubling the weekend of the premiere,” I tell Devin, but close enough to the phone that Jake can hear too, and go along with the charade I’m trying to pull off. “And I was in Phoenix anyway, interviewing Jake’s mom for a foundation I’m working on.”
“Ri-i-ight,” Jake says. “Oh, gotta go. My game’s starting. Don’t believe anything they tell you—unless it makes me look good, of course.”
Once I’m off the phone, Devin is yanked out of the way by Mark, and Sophie scoots past both of them to stand next to me. “Devin gets to spend a whole day with you,” she says, “so Mark and I want to at least get to know you for thirty minutes.”
