Love Show (15 page)

“Shit,” I muttered.

“Oh my God,” David said in an
entirely different tone when he realized I was on crutches. “What happened to
your leg? Did your parachute not open or something?”

“I would be dead if my parachute
didn’t open,” I said.

“She tripped,” Jack said awkwardly.

Jack looked at Ben, then at David,
then back to Ben. “David, right? I don’t think we’ve officially met.” He
stepped towards him and shook his hand. He nodded at Ben. “What’s up,
Mitchell?”

So they knew each other. Great. I
snuck a look at David. He was going to kill me.

"Hey, Jack," Ben said,
standing up. "How's it going? We were doing a chemistry project. You guys
went skydiving? That's awesome. I'd love to try that some time. You know, when
I don't have to meet with my assigned partner for a mandatory project." He
grinned nervously. At least he had the dignity to flush as he tried to disown
David, tried to act like the only reason he'd ever spend time with him was
because he'd been assigned.

Jack's eyes flashed with what I was
starting to recognize as his trademark look of silent fury. I was pretty sure
he had put two and two together. He knew Ben was the kid who attacked David.
"Yeah?" he said shortly. "Good luck with that." He turned
back to me. "Come on. You need to lie down."

"What's wrong with your
leg?" David asked.

"I sprained my knee."

“Let me. Do you need ice?” David
asked. “I know—hold on. I
know
we have ice. How did you
sprain
your knee, girl?” He scrambled into the kitchen.

Ben cringed when David called me
girl. David caught it, too, biting his lip, embarrassed. And I glared at Ben
angrily.

“I make her week at the knees,”
Jack joked.

“Um, well, I should go,” Ben said.
“Look, I think you can take the rest of the project from here, right, Danny?”

David’s eyes flashed. Not with
anger. With staggeringly insane heartbreaking hurt. Like he’d been slapped
across the face. Ben was pretending not to know him. Ben was pretending that he
didn’t remember his name.

“His name is David,” Jack said as I
tensed.

Ben flushed again and Jack turned
his head to look uncritically at David.

“Oh, oh, sorry, we—we just met for
the first time. We’re lab partners,” Ben offered lamely.

"Don't apologize to me,"
Jack said.

"Right."

He turned to go.

"You should apologize to
David," Jack said.

Ben stopped and looked at Jack and
then at David. "Right, sorry."

"Don't worry about it,"
David said, barely above a whisper.

Ben was halfway out the door
already though. He pulled the door shut so hard that the doorframe rattled.

“Here’s ice,” David murmured. His
voice wavered. “W-would you excuse me?” He walked to his room quickly.

"David, wait," I called
after him. "David, come on."

"Just let him. You need to lie
down," Jack said. "Then we can get David."

“I’m not as neat as you, so don’t
have a panic attack,” I warned him when we reached my bedroom.

 I crawled into my bed. I heard
David’s bathroom door close softly.

“So, Ben Mitchell’s gay?” Jack
asked, crawling next to me on the bed.

“Don’t tell anyone,” I mumbled.

“That’s just—wow.”

“Don’t…”

“I’m not going to. It’s just
ironic,” Jack said. “He uses the word ‘faggot’ more than any straight guy I know.”

“Don’t tell me this shit,” I said.
“I can barely hear David say his name without wanting to hunt him down and
David feels like I'm attacking him when I point out what a shit boyfriend he
is."

“He’s the one who beat David up,
yeah?”

I nodded.

Jack ran a hand through my hair.
“Well, it’s certainly not your fault.”

“I know that.”

He sighed.

“Hey, get David for me,” I asked.

He nodded but didn't move. “Yo,
David,” he shouted. “David, come in here.”

“I meant get up and ask nicely.”

“The walls are thin,” Jack
responded.

I pushed him. "You
are
lazy."

Jack didn't move. "He might
want to be alone."

"Please."

Jack sighed, got to his feet and
knocked on David's bedroom door. "Hey, man,  whenever you get a second,
Hadley wants to talk you."

"Yeah," David called back
shakily. "Just a minute."

Jack returned to my bedroom and lay
down next to me. "Get under the covers."

"No."

"It's cold in here."

He yanked at the sheets.

"Do
not
do that."

He gave me a perplexed look.

"I don't like making my
bed."

"So don't make it," he
said.

"But I hate when it looks
messy."

He yanked at the covers, pulled
them under and then over me. "Too late."

"Asshole."

David appeared, slightly red-eyed,
a few minutes later. “Hey,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

“Loopy as fuck,” I said. “Get in here.”

David glanced warily at Jack and
sat on the edge of my bed.

"Hey, can I say
something?" Jack asked.

David looked at him twice as
warily. "Ah, yeah."

“Was that your boyfriend?” Jack
asked.

David shot me a look of betrayal.

“I didn’t
say
anything,” I
insisted.

“He’s closeted. You can’t tell
anyone," David said.

"So, he's your
boyfriend," Jack said.

"Yes," David said.

“He's being a douche bag,"
Jack stated flatly.  “And then next time he hits you, hit him back.”

“
Hadley
,” David said,
horrified.

“I—I had to talk about it with
someone.”

“Then talk about it with me.”

I looked at him pleadingly. “You
said to let it be. And so I did, but I
had
to tell someone.”

David crossed his arms and shook
his head. “Just butt out, okay? It seems like you have enough drama in your own
personal life, as it is.”

Jack raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah, well…”

“No, I’m fine. Ben and I are fine.
I know what the deal is—”

“He’s going to pretend to forget
your name in front of
Jack
? Someone he barely even knows? He’d rather
have Jack think he doesn’t know you than have Jack possibly suspect that he
might be friends with someone who is gay? Seriously?”

“Hadley, I don’t give a fuck. Don’t
you get that? I love him,” David said.

“Well, I’m really sorry, because the
way things are going, it’s not going to end well.”

Jack glanced at me. “Maybe you two
should have this fight when you’re both not so emotional.”

“Oh,
shut
up,” David and I
both yelled at him at the exact same time and in the exact same tone of voice.

Jack looked at David and then at
me. I saw him fighting a smile.

"Right. Sorry," he
exhaled.

I threw my head back. “David, I
love you. I just think your boyfriend’s an asshole. Okay?”

I closed my eyes and waited to hear
his voice. “Fine,” he said it tersely. “Just, you know, try to stay out of it.”

I took in a deep breath and nodded.
“Yeah. Okay, I will.”

“You’re my best friend,” he said
softly. “Feel better.” He closed the door softly behind him.

Jack was quiet next to me.

“How you feeling?” he asked,
kissing my temple lightly.

“Ugh.”

“Here. Why don’t you take your
painkillers and try to fall asleep?” he asked. “Do you want the TV on?”

“Yeah.”

He flipped through the channels.

“What do you want?”

“The news.”

He looked at me. “You fall asleep
to the news?”

“I like to think I can hear it when
I’m sleeping.”

“You are a psycho,” he said. He
left the room and came back with a glass of water. He helped me sit up and take
the pills. And then he set the crutches next to my bed, where they’d be easily
to reach.

He lay down next to me on the bed
and we watched the headlines.

“This is what you fall asleep to?”
he smiled. “You ever heard of lullabies? Or
Planet Earth?
”

“Yes. But this is what I like,” I
said, curling into the covers.

“Violent demonstrations in Egypt?”

“Yes.”

The tension in my knee had been so
great, that I didn’t truly begin to notice it until it had begun to dissipate.

“Disturbing,” Jack teased.

I felt Jack’s hand in my hair, and
I felt his lips brush the top of my head. “Alright, just call me if you need
anything, kid,” he said.

“Hey?” I reached for his wrist. In
the darkened room, the word that broke our rules was easy to say: “Stay.”

He hesitated. "Are you
sure?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I want you to
stay."

He kicked off his shoes and settled
beside me and I drifted to sleep easily.

I woke up groggily and in pain again. I swore as I sat up.
And then I swore again when I saw Jack curled next to me. We were both fully
clothed. We had been cuddling.

“Shit
,” I muttered. I
reached for the crutches and the orange bottle of Percocet and choked another
pill down.    

Jack stirred.  He blinked open his
eyes and sat up suddenly.  He looked at me and then at the TV screen. “Hey, CNN
is really like a lullaby,” he murmured, as the morning headlines rolled across
the screen.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, just a little sore,” I said,
leaning forward in the bed for my phone. My knee was a problem, but it felt
like a small problem compared to Jack sleeping over.

I scrolled through my texts—nothing
important or interesting. And then I checked my email.

Andrew’s new memo to staff writers
on fact-checking.

Justin’s article, which he was
having trouble sourcing.

An email from Dale Broussards
confirming my interview on Thursday. It was hard not to be happy about that. I
grinned broadly.

"What?" Jack asked.

"Nothing," I said.

"You're smiling like an
idiot."

"It’s nothing," I said.
"Just the job I'm interviewing for. I’m excited.”

Jack held out his hand for my
phone. "Let me see."

I handed my phone over. He scanned
the email quickly and handed the phone back to me with a noncommittal nod of
his head. "Neat."

I guess I should've known he
wouldn't be too excited about jobs, given his aversion to them.

I yawned. "David's
cooking," I said, hearing the sound of him in the kitchen.

"I was going to say it smells
amazing. When can I move in?”

I gave him a look and got to my
feet shakily.

"Easy, tiger," he said,
springing out of bed. "Where you going?"

"To brush my teeth."

"Let me help you."

"Brush my teeth?"

“I bet you don’t have an extra
toothbrush.”

“You can use mine,” I offered.

He made a face.

“Your mouth has had worse.”

He chuckled at me as I limped to
the bathroom. I looked in the mirror as I brushed my teeth, slumped against my
crutches. I couldn’t believe I had sprained my knee. I had an interview for a
job in Syria, reporting on massive upheaval and unrest. What was I going to
tell the
New York Times
when they asked how I sprained my knee? Some boy
made me weak in the knees? That I couldn’t handle a kiss?

If I had ever felt less cut out for
serious journalism, I couldn’t remember it. I spat and washed out my mouth. And
Jack and I had moved to sharing toothbrushes.
Fabulous,
I thought
sarcastically.

I crutched out to the kitchen where
David was working seriously on blueberry pancakes.

“Hey,” he said with a smile as I
sat down. “Just in time.” He handed me a plate with two pancakes.

“Ah, you’re the best. Seriously,
the best,” I said. I smiled and took a bite. Jack came up behind me and kissed
my neck, surprising me. I ducked away from the kiss, laughing.

“So, I have another interview with
the
Times
,” I told David.

"Seriously? That's so
amazing." David handed Jack a plate.

I nodded. "Just have to come
up with a good story for the crutches. I mean, I probably won’t get it, but—”

“Oh, please,” David said. “You’ll
get it.”

I looked over at Jack, who was
working on a large mouthful of blueberry pancakes. “Okay, now I get why you
don’t want to have sleepovers,” Jack said once he swallowed. “I don’t have a
David and you don’t want to share his breakfast.”

David grinned. “You don’t need to
share. There are enough carbohydrates for an army here.”

“I am an army,” Jack replied. He
gave me a sharky look and I took a bite of pancakes, rolling my eyes.

“Hadley, what do you contribute to
this operation?” Jack asked.

“She makes the coffee. When she’s
not wounded,” David explained.

“Oh, that must be tough, pressing a
button.”

“Mm-hmm,” I said. “You’re an
asshole. Maybe that’s why I don’t have you sleep over.”

“So, how
did
that happen?”
David asked. He smiled. "I don't think I got the story last night. Jack
said something about weak knees."

“I told you,” Jack said. “I kissed
her. She fell.”

“I had just jumped out of a plane,”
I said. "And I'd skipped breakfast. So, I'd say low blood sugar."

David smiled. "So, wait, tell
me about the interview. What's the job exactly?"

"It's for a job that's split
between New York and the Middle East. Responding to crises as needed,
basically."

"That's perfect for you."

Jack nodded once. He stared at his
pancakes. “What do you mean by crises?”

“Like, violent conflict, mainly,” I
said. “At least, in the Middle East. But, really, probably any major news in
the region. I’d probably be focused in Syria, but it all depends on what needs
to be covered.”

“You really want to do that?”

“Well, yeah.”

“I mean, have you thought about
it?”

“Sorry?”

“I mean, have you—have you really
thought about what working in a violent, misogynistic region of the world could
be like on a day-to-day basis?” he asked. "Are your parents okay with
that?"

"Obviously, I’ve thought about
it. It’s my dream job. And I'm an adult. Though, I doubt my parents care."

He sipped his orange juice. “I bet
they care.”

“Why?”

"Why?" he repeated.
"Because you're their kid and you're talking about going into an actual
war zone. With a notepad instead of a gun.”

I raised my eyebrows. "Are you
serious right now?"

"My mother would absolutely
kill me if I told her I was going to be a reporter in Middle Eastern conflict
zones. That’s all.”

David met my eyes. “
Will
your parents care?”

“Only if they notice,” I said. My
father would probably care. But, I’d have to get the job first and then he’d
have to decide to check up on me or my mom. I’d probably
be
in the
Middle East by the time he figured it.

“How are they not going to notice
that you're working in like, Afghanistan or Syria or whatever?" Jack
asked.

 “Look. I haven't even interviewed
yet," I said. "And I have no idea what will happen if I do get the
job. And my parents aren't going to notice because my parents are super
self-absorbed. And it doesn’t matter. They don't want me to be any kind of
journalist. So, if I end up doing it in the Middle East, it won't make any
difference."

“Why don’t they want you to be a
journalist?” Jack asked.

“They think it’s stupid. They think
I won’t get paid anything and that it’s a huge fucking waste of my time and
energy.” I snapped at Jack. “These, by the way, just so you have a little
background, are two people who couldn’t stand to be on the same
continent
as one another, but on this, they agree. It’s a dying industry, it’s low-paying,
and nobody gives a shit. Point taken. I still want to do it.”

Jack shook his head. “That’s not
what I said.”

“Well.”

“That’s not what I said,” he
repeated stubbornly. “What you're trying to do is dangerous. That’s all. I
didn’t mean you shouldn’t be a journalist.”

I exhaled. “Oh.”

He smiled. “So, you can relax.” He
took another bite of his blueberry pancakes. I watched the lines of his
shoulder. The way he moved his fork. Something about that made me fall a little
in love. Or lust.

He caught me looking at him and
smiled. “You’re not getting any of my pancakes,” he said, glancing at my empty
plate. “These are
mine
.”

I laughed and for a moment, the
tension diffused. But there were still so many unresolved things. The fact he
slept over. The way I just freaked out at him over my parents. David’s
boyfriend. The whole goddamned newspaper resting squarely on my shoulders.