The Truth About Jack (Entangled Crush) (14 page)

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 sounds 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: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

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?”

“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.

When we pull into the parking lot at Luna Cove, Attila turns off the car and pulls out his novel. I look from him to Jack a little uncertainly. It’s pretty breezy out here; the wind pushes against the car, rocking it slightly.

“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.”