Love and Relativity (2 page)

Whitney swung around to meet me with a smile when she heard Pete whistle at me from behind the bar. His voice boomed across the restaurant, prompting head turns and a whole lot of hooting and hollering. “Well I’ll be damned, kids. Our favorite lush is in the house. Come on in, darlin’, I know you missed me, now. It’s been over a week!”

“Hey, Pete.” I grinned up at him while I took my seat, tossing my book bag near my feet. “Yeah, just been busy with the new semester.”

“Soooo....how was class, chick?” Whitney asked.

“Okay,” I said, pulling the clip from my hair to let my wavy, chestnut-brown hair down. Pete was already busying himself behind the bar, working on my usual. “How was work?”

“
Eh
, same old, same old. Snotty bitches turning their noses up at me because they have money and they know I don’t.” Whitney worked as a maid at one of the most uppity resorts on Sanibel Island. Most of the time, the guests were seniors: mostly sweet, occasionally grumpy, or something in between. But the recently renovated, urban chic atmosphere attracted all sorts of locals and tourists now, including younger people with daddy’s money and yachts waiting at the dock. Whitney worked hard for her money, working another waitressing job on the side to make ends meet, and I was damn proud of her for doing all that, plus taking classes. Friday night was the one night a week we both shared off, and Pete’s was our watering hole of choice.

If our Friday nights were ever taken away from us, I was sure I’d lose my sanity.

“Did you fluff their pillows to their liking?” I batted my eyelashes and gave her my most sarcastic eye roll.

“Girl, some days, I’d like to take those pillows and tell them to stuff ‘em where the sun don’t—”

“Here ya go, darlin’.” Pete slid me my drink. “Shrimp’s comin’ right up.”

“Thanks.”

“So,” she gave me that devious look I knew so well, “I’ve decided to take a weekend trip to Orlando. You game?”

“Nah, not this time, Whit. I requested this weekend off for a reason—because I need a break from running around...and to deal with...ya know. The new class and work schedule is already wearing me out. I’m staying home. It’s going to be me, my Kindle, and the beach.”

“I need a break, too, chick. I rarely get a weekend off. But I can catch some sun, sand, and read a good book in Orlando, and so can you. And there will be guys. Lots and
lots
of guys. I’m driving. Come onnnn, Em! You shouldn’t be home alone this weekend.”

Her expression turned earnest and I raced to deflect the direction she was headed with that piece of conversation. “Somebody’s on the rebound.” I snickered, raising my eyebrows.

“I am not on the rebound, thank you very much.” Whitney had recently gone batshit crazy after breaking up with Adam, her boyfriend of two years, morphing into a serial dater. She’d go on one date with someone and be out the door before he even picked up the check. No matter what, no one would ever compare to Adam. Whitney was like me in that way. We’d both been hopeless romantics since kindergarten, believing in soul mates and the ability to be perfectly content in a committed relationship. Still, we never felt the need to have men in our lives to make us happy. Both Adam and Chris—before they were assholes—knew this about us and were pretty supportive of our independence.

I grew up seeing a partner as an equal, someone who made you a better person and encouraged your individual growth, not a lesser or a better who dictated your every move. I had my mom to thank for that. She’d been happily married to my dad for 30 years until he randomly died one day from a heart problem. They were positively my role models in the romance department, and although my hope for a healthy, genuine relationship had been mired by a new, less-than-optimistic outlook on love, deep down, I knew not all guys sucked. Only the high school sweethearts with football player abs, massive egos, and pearly white smiles—the ones who walked straight out of Abercrombie catalogues, like Chris Williams—did.
Damn him, damn him, damn him.

I repeated this mantra at least three times a day.

“Whit, you’ve been on the rebound for six months,” I said. “You’ve left a trail of broken hearts from here to Mexico, and it’s not getting any better.”

“Excuse me, miss I-don’t-date-at-all-and-I’m-22-years-old.” She gave me her own signature eye roll and popped a cherry in her mouth. “I’m just trying to keep my options open. It’s not my fault they follow me around with puppy dog eyes and then cry a river when I don’t agree to a second date.”

Pete returned with my shrimp basket and I dug in, savoring the coconut flavor and exotic spices as they melted on my tongue. “
Mmmmm
.” I sighed contently and glanced over my shoulder when I heard the front door open and the familiar laughter roll into the restaurant. “Hey, I date. Just...not very often. Well, you could always opt for more temporary solutions, since you don’t seem to be interested in anything serious.” Nudging her in the ribs, I waited for her to pivot around and follow my gaze.

She eyed the group of guys who’d walked in and made a gagging sound. “Please, Em. Jackson Taylor and his dimwit assclowns? I don’t think so.”

“What?” I feigned innocence. “They’re hot and they’re with different chicks every week. I’m sure they’d be happy to oblige to your serial dating ways.”

“Ugh. Emma, sometimes I wonder if you even know me at all. Would you look at them? Strutting in here like they own the place.
Ppffftt
.”

“Brace yourselves, ladies,” Pete’s voice made us snap our heads back around. “Looks like trouble’s making its weekly rounds.”

Hearing the laughter grow louder, I glanced over my shoulder again and sighed. Yup. Once again, Jackson Taylor and his army of mischief-makers were on their way over to Whitney and me to commence their Friday-night ritual: harassing us until we agreed to dance and sing karaoke with them.

There was a generally amicable understanding between all of us: They were allowed to entertain themselves with the idea that they actually caused us to swoon and grow weak in the knees, as long as they didn’t interfere with our girl time when we told them to screw off. Most of the time, they abided by that rule. By the sounds of them tonight, though, something told me they were all about interfering.

“And how are my favorite angels tonight?” Jackson’s voice called out in a sing-song tone behind us, meeting me with that mega-watt grin of his and that wild, mussed-up dark brown hair that made him look like he’d just had hot elevator sex. “Emma, looking stunning as usual.” His blue eyes raked down my body, then back up. He leaned in, aligning his eye level with mine.

I crossed my legs and straightened my back, deadpanning him. “Ah, Jackson, you’re looking simply divine yourself, as usual.”

“That’s because the heavens opened up and out I fell, just for you.” He winked, swiping the olive from my glass to toss it in his mouth.

“Hey! I was going to eat that.”

“No you weren’t. You never eat the olive.”

“Tonight I was.”

“I call bullshit.” He chomped down playfully before unleashing that smug grin again, flicking his gaze down to my lips, making me squirm in my seat.

There was no denying it, as much as I hated to admit the fact: Jackson was one fine sight. His thick, wild brown hair was so dark it was almost black, and his strong jaw, plump lips, and piercing blue eyes turned heads wherever he went. He always seemed to have a visible shadow of stubble, as if he were deliberately late for a shave.

But what really sealed the deal was his infectious, carefree attitude. His middle name should have been ‘mischief,’ and miraculously, this somehow added to his appeal. He was a legend on the island. Throughout high school, I’d heard he’d made the newspaper numerous times for being involved in all sorts of fights and property damage, and for purposely chasing Ms. Stein’s cat up a tree. It took them two days to actually get the poor thing down, and when asked why he did such a juvenile, stupid thing, he just shrugged and said, ‘boredom makes you do stupid things.’

Well, yeah. Apparently.

Still, he somehow managed to keep every girl on the island wrapped around his little finger. Didn’t matter the age or walk of life—they all melted around him. The sweet 65-year-old Ms. Stein forgave him for the cat incident almost instantly, citing something about Jesus and his disciples’ penchant for forgiveness, and every time he broke some poor girl’s heart, she would take him back anyway the minute he flashed her a smile. That smile lit up a room. Always wide, always perfect, always accenting his plump lips. Jackson Taylor was the whole tempting, sexy, albeit frustrating package: playful, charming, and rebellious. All together, it made for one delicious dish.

I was reminded of this every time he did this I-know-you-want-me thing he was doing right now, leaning into me over the bar. Even as Ruben and Jeff, his wingmen, gravitated straight to Whitney to launch off into their joke-cracking ritual to vie for her attention, I was reminded of it when I met his crystal blue eyes, unable to focus on anything else around me except those mesmerizing pupils.

He leaned in closer and placed two hands on each side of me, resting them on the bar, his black Egyptian ankh tattoo peeking out from below his shirt sleeve when it rode up against his tan, firm arm. I backed up slightly, savoring a whiff of his typical sunscreen and cologne scent.

“Oh, Jackson,” Whitney chimed in, swatting Jeff and Ruben away, “go drool over the other regulars tonight, will you? Or haven’t you figured out by now that she’s immune to your charm?”

“Ha.” His eyes lowered to my lips once more before returning to meet my poker-face gaze. “She’s not immune. Just hasn’t figured out how great of a catch I am yet.” Pushing off the bar, he gave me my personal space back, and a small part of me—one I instantly resented—was bummed by the fact. Jackson had made his intentions clear—he’d wanted me—for three years now, since I started coming in to Pete’s. But I’d also made mine clear. Not only did I have no desire to be just another notch on his bedpost, I also had history with him now. Anything more than our sort-of friendship would only complicate things. “I see how it is. You girls just aren’t in the dancing mood tonight. Damn shame, because I’ve been working on my lawnmower move, and you’re totally going to miss out on witnessing that level of brilliance.”

“What a tragedy.” I shrugged with a faux pout, turning to Whitney.

“We can see it perfectly fine from across the room,” she said sweetly.

“Fine. But I have a Grammy-worthy performance for you ladies about an hour from now, and I refuse to let you miss that one.” Jackson’s favorite karaoke song to sing was “Santeria” by Sublime. I had to hand it to the man, he nailed it every time, tipsy and all.

I grinned and shook my head, swiveling around in my stool to pick at my shrimp. “Oh, we look forward to it, Celine Dion.”

“Michelle and Kayla are on their way, man,” Jeff’s deep voice butted in. He started texting at Jackson’s side, giving Ruben and Whitney free range to chat. No matter what Whitney said, I knew she had this weird thing with Ruben. He was tall, built, and Latino—very much her type—and as obnoxious as he was around his friends, his persistence was starting to grow on her. When the two of them talked, they tended to disappear underneath this bubble and the whole world just dropped away around them.

It was kind of like with me and Jackson, although any prolonged time I spent with him made me want to strangle him, and vice versa. Saying we were polar opposites was putting it mildly. His persistence was irritating, but over the past few years, a strange sort of comfort evolved from it, so every now and then, I cut the guy a break.

Hence the agreements to engage in mortifying karaoke performances with him.

“Tell them to bring their friend Kelly,” Jackson said to Jeff, his voice low while he peered down at the text message.

“Yeah, she was hot, man. Didn’t she say she’s coming tomorrow?”

“I sure as hell hope so.”

Taking a healthy bite of my shrimp, I waved to Pete for another drink and tried to tune out of their conversation. I so didn’t want to hear about their shenanigans with Michelle and Kayla tonight. They were nice girls, but completely naive to the guys’ antics, and it was painful to watch.

Jackson cleared his throat and tugged a lock of my hair, wrapping it around his finger to get my attention. “So...‘Santeria’? After I play one game?” His arctic eyes snapped to mine and he dragged his feet closer, the tips of his shoes hitting my stool’s legs. Sun-kissed skin peeked through the holes of his worn-out, relaxed t-shirt, causing my eyes to wander down to his chest. He seemed to notice my ogling, a pleased grin playing across his lips. He always noticed.

“If you insist.”

“I insist.” Turning on his heel for the pool table, he started belting out “My Heart Will Go On,” and Jeff followed him, chiming in with the rest of the bar in booing his performance. Ruben joined them a second later, finally prying himself away from Whitney.

Picking up where we left off before Troubles ‘R Us made their appearance, Whitney and I rambled on about our day. Pete eventually shooed us away from the bar after one too many drinks, and before we knew it, the karaoke mic was calling. Jackson was waiting with that expectant smile of his, toying with the mic stand.