The Truth About Jack (Entangled Crush) (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Jack

Friday, I text Dakota to see if she wants to go to the beach again. I play at the restaurant tonight, so it will have to be a little earlier than usual, but I still want to go. We’ve fallen into a rhythm: Attila and I pick her up around two every day, and we walk on the beach until after sunset. I always have Felix pack a picnic basket with meat and cheese and good bread, fresh fruit, chocolate, that sort of thing. Walking in the sand for hours can make you hungry. Plus I love to watch her devour everything, licking her fingers, totally unselfconscious.

When she texts me back saying she can’t hang out, my spirits plummet. I know I’m probably overreacting, but I can’t ignore the anxiety that sits cold and heavy in my gut. Everything’s been so perfect until now. I wonder what’s changed. Somehow, though, I know it has changed, the way you know the sun’s gone behind the clouds even with your eyes closed.

I drag myself through hours of rehearsal though my fingers feel sluggish and clumsy. Then I retreat to my bedroom with a book, unable to muster the energy for a workout. Someone knocks on my bedroom door a little after one. I don’t feel like dealing with whoever it is, but I can hardly pretend I’m not here.

“Yeah?”

Attila opens the door, looking confused. “We don’t go to the beach?”

“No. She can’t.” I turn back to my book,
conversation over,
but he lingers.

“Why not?”

I sigh and stand up. Maybe retreating isn’t my best course of action right now. Maybe I need to be around people. “I don’t know, but I feel like something’s wrong. Is Joaquin around?”

“He is still at the high school, no?”

“Let’s go get him,” I say, grabbing my sweatshirt.

Joaquin looks surprised to see us parked outside the school. As usual, though, he takes it in stride. A bunch of students have gathered around the car, gawking. He gently nudges them aside and climbs into the backseat. He wears mirrored sunglasses; after he closes the door he props his glasses on top of his head and gives me a long, assessing look.

“What’s up, Sauvage? You look like someone died.”

“I don’t know. She’s just…I feel like something happened—something bad.”

“Where do we go?” Attila asks, starting the car.

“I’m starving,” Joaquin says. “You guys want to grab a burger?”

“I don’t think I can eat, but if you’re hungry, that’s cool.”

“I can eat,” Attila announces. “I can eat like a horse.”

“You can eat a horse,” Joaquin corrects him.

“That too.”

Joaquin directs us to a little burger joint on the outskirts of town. There are picnic tables scattered outside. We find one in the sun and take a seat. Attila and Joaquin both dig in. I just sip my soda, unable to work up an appetite even with the delicious smell of fries and grilled meat hanging in the air.

“So what’s all this?” Joaquin asks between bites. “You’ve been so happy all week and suddenly you’re like walking gloom.”

I try to find words for the dread coagulating inside me ever since I got her text. “You ever just have a feeling? It’s not logical, but you
know
something’s wrong?”

“Sure. You’ve got that?”

I nod. “Maybe she’s figured it out.”

“Figured what out?” Attila looks puzzled.

“The whole thing—that I’m really Alejandro and I lied to her.”

Joaquin makes a sound in this throat. “No way! How could she guess that?”

“Maybe she’s just…” I hesitate, worried that I sound paranoid, “I don’t know,
intuited
that I’m not being totally honest with her.”

They look at me like I’m crazy.

“What?” I say, sounding defensive even to myself. “That could happen. The better she knows me, the more she can see I’m hiding something.”

Attila shakes his head. “I don’t go on your beach walks, but I’m with you in the car, and I do not think she ‘intuits’ anything. She likes you. I can tell.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” I’m not convinced, though.

“You’re not actually going to tell her, are you?” Joaquin’s voice says clearly what he thinks of this idea.

“Maybe I should. She might be mad for a day or two, but after that…” I trail off.

They’re both wearing matching scowls.

“Okay, maybe not,” I concede.

Joaquin slaps me on the back. “You’re just getting nervous because everything’s going so well. Give her space. She can’t hang out with you every single day. Where’s your sense of mystery?”

“I don’t want mystery.” I steal one of his fries and stuff it into my mouth. “I want her.”

“And you’ve pretty much got her,” he assures me.

“Hardly!”

“They have not even kissed,” Attila reports solemnly.

I shoot him a dark look. “Hey! That’s not true.”

“Not on my watch,” he replies with an arched brow.

“Just because I don’t make out with her in the car—which would be creepy, by the way, with you driving—doesn’t mean I’ve never kissed her.”

“You treat her like a breakable thing,” he says cryptically.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Stop bickering, you two. You sound like an old married couple.” Joaquin finishes his burger and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “You’re totally closing in. Just don’t get all needy. That’s deadly.”

I want to believe him. I really do. But some part of me knows it’s not going to be that easy.

…

Dakota

I decide I can’t go to the beach with Jack on Friday. I need a boy-free day to sort through my feelings. Cody’s arrival has totally shaken me up. Yes, he’s a jerk, and everything that’s happened between us in the last two months has completely destroyed my trust in him. On the other hand, he’s the first guy I ever kissed, and he
is
sorry, and I don’t think what happened between River and him was quite as sordid as I first imagined.

Seeing him last night confused me, but I can’t deny it also helped mend my shattered ego just a little. After he got together with River and didn’t even bother to call and break up with me, I felt pretty disposable. Knowing he wants me back doesn’t erase the pain he inflicted, but at least now I get
why
he didn’t call—because he knew how badly he’d screwed up. It was cowardly and despicable, but it was never about me, and realizing that is kind of a relief.

God!
Boys!

Right now I really wish I had a friend I could talk to about all this. Obviously River’s out of the question. Anya’s a good confidante, but she and Jo went camping in Santa Cruz for the weekend. Fran’s cool, but she’s pretty old. I’m not sure she’d get it. Besides, she’s such a dedicated writer; I wouldn’t feel right interrupting her work to ramble on about my messed up love life. I fiddle with my geisha sculpture, but I can’t seem to concentrate.

I hear someone playing guitar in the garden and look out the window to see who it is. Emily’s sitting in the long grass under the cherry tree, strumming away. I can tell she’s a beginner; she forms each chord with tentative fingers. Dad’s sitting beside her, reaching out now and then to demonstrate. She looks young and small beneath the riotous cloud of cherry blossoms, much of her body hidden by the overgrown grass. Dad watches her, a look of profound tenderness on his face. I can’t help noticing how happy they both look.

Maybe I’ve been too harsh in my judgment of her. Talking to Jack about my parents’ divorce, I can see I still have some pretty tangled feelings to sort out. Not that I’m going to make an appointment with Gandalf the Stinky to “process.” I can just tell there’s some lingering bitterness I didn’t want to acknowledge before. It might take me some time to bleed that poison from my system, but I’m starting to think it’s possible. Jack makes it so easy to talk about that stuff, and saying it out loud makes it seem less scary.

I suspect my lingering resentment about Mom has spilled over onto Emily in unfair ways. I can’t assume every woman my dad likes will screw him over. Of course, there’s no guarantee they’ll live happily ever after. Watching them side-by-side in the grass, though, I can’t help but think they have as good a shot as any of us at lasting love.

After a while, Dad goes inside and Emily lingers, practicing the chords he showed her. I decide to see what happens if I approach her with a little less attitude.

I walk outside, cross the garden, and head for the cherry tree. When I sit down beside her, she turns to me with a look of mild surprise.

“Hi,” I say simply.

She stops playing. “Hey. How’s it going?”

“I’m okay.” I slump against the tree.

“You seem kind of down,” she ventures.

“Guess I’m having guy trouble.”

“Oh, I see.” I can tell she’s pleased that I’ve provided her with an opening. It makes me feel a little guilty for being so stingy with her all this time. I’ve been about as warm and receptive as a block of ice.

“You know about Cody and River, right?” It’s kind of an awkward segue, but I figure I might as well dive right in. She was there the night I freaked out at Dad by the fire pit, blurting out my personal problems in front of everyone, so I figure she’s not completely clueless.

“Cody was your boyfriend?”

“Yeah.” I yank out a weed by the roots and start twirling it around my finger, wrapping it round and round like I’m dressing a wound. “He hooked up with my friend River in Rhode Island.”

She sets down the guitar carefully in the grass and hugs her knees, looking sympathetic. “That must have been awful.”

“It sucked. But then I met a guy about a month ago. He’s great. I really like him a lot.”

“Miles?” She gives me a sly look.

“No. Someone else.”

“Okay,” she says, adjusting to this. “I’m with you so far.”

“So then Cody showed up last night and he wants me back and he says he only
kissed
River one time, they never slept together—and he
is
really sweet in his own way—but I don’t think I’m ready to forgive him. All I ever wanted was to go to RISD, but when everything happened with Cody and River, it’s like I got sent off on this other path, and now I don’t think I can turn back.”

“Why did you want to go to RISD so badly?” Her gaze is steady.

“I want to be an artist,” I say, like this should be obvious. “I figured they could teach me something about art and design.”

She thinks about this. “But now you don’t want that? What happened with Cody and River ruined your dreams of being an artist?”

“No! It’s not that. It’s more like it made me stop and think about
other ways
of becoming an artist.” I try to organize my thoughts, which are flitting haphazardly around in my head like a swarm of bats. “I’m afraid I’d be so miserable there I couldn’t concentrate.”

“Sometimes misery is good for art.”

I sigh. Dad wants me to stick to the plan, go to RISD, get a degree. Maybe Emily feels obligated to push that agenda too. “I’ll still go to art school. I’m not giving up on college. I just think traveling for a year could be good for me. I might learn something about myself and what I want to say before I go off and study how to say it.”

She listens intently, her expression grave. “Do you have money for travel?”

“A little.” The truth is I only have about five hundred dollars in my bank account, and even that’s not rock solid; the number gets smaller if I use too much gas or indulge in too many chai lattes. RISD’s pricey, but I’d planned on getting financial aid. I know I can’t expect Dad to pay for my travels; he doesn’t make much, and he’s not exactly wild about my plan anyway. I have vague ideas about working more hours and leaving as soon as I’ve saved enough, traveling super cheaply, maybe even finding work once I’m there. They’re just that, though—thinly constructed, fragile notions that fall apart under closer scrutiny.

She seems to sense my discomfort and backs off a little. “You’re at a crossroads. It’s confusing, having so many options.”

“It doesn’t really feel like I have options,” I say.

“You do, though. And it’s good to have choices.”

I bite my lip. “I’m sorry if I was rude to you before.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“No, really. I guess I’m just extra protective of my dad.”

She grins. “I think that’s sweet.”

I recall what Jack told me at the beach when I said how nice it would be to have a normal family.
We don’t get to choose that stuff. We just make do with what we get.
He’s right. There’s no point in wishing for some idealized version of “normal” when we have perfectly good versions of “not normal” to work with. Emily cares about my dad, and she’s kind, with a pretty, heart-shaped face that reminds me of an elf. That should be plenty for me to work with for now. Even if Dad and Emily don’t end up staying together, that doesn’t mean true love is a myth. They’re just two everyday people getting to know each other and trying to find happiness. What more can they do? What more can any of us do?

Suddenly I’m overwhelmed by a powerful urge to see Jack. As much as I thought I needed a boy-free day, right now I crave his eyes, his voice, his heat. He’s so incredibly
warm—
like he walks around in this nimbus of solar energy.

“Tell me more about this boy you met,” Emily asks as if reading my mind.

“He plays the piano really well,” I say, getting an idea. “In fact, he’s playing tonight.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Jack

Joaquin and I sit on the veranda outside Pinot Noir. He’s got his guitar, trying to master a Muddy Waters song with an especially tricky bridge. I’m brooding. What’s the point of denying it? I’ve been brooding all day—brooding and moping; it’s hard to say which is worse. We’re both working at the restaurant tonight. Our shift starts in ten minutes. He just started bussing, making a little extra cash to put away for college, and I like how it gives us more chances to hang out. Joaquin and I are so different, but I dig him. He’s cocky and flippant and even a little arrogant at times, but I kind of like that about him. I could use a little Joaquin mojo right now.

“I’ve decided.” I lean forward in the Adirondack chair and slap my knees as he pauses between riffs. “I’m telling her.”

He shakes his head. “Not a good idea.”

“Dakota’s smart. If I don’t volunteer the truth, she’ll probably figure it out.”

“She’s not going to figure it out!” His voice rises in frustration. “That’s ridiculous and paranoid.”

It’s obvious I’ve tried his patience today. I don’t mean to—it’s just that when I sink my teeth into a moral dilemma like this, it’s almost impossible for me to think about anything else.

I know I should drop it, but I keep talking. “She got jerked around by that douche-bag who slept with her friend. What she needs from me is complete honesty.”

Joaquin stops playing the guitar and glares at me. “Go ahead then. Pretend I’m her.”

“You’re a cool guy and everything, but I don’t really feel that way about you.”

He shoves me. “You know what I mean! Pretend I’m her, and tell me exactly what you’re going to say. Like a rehearsal.”

“Okay.” I take a deep breath. “Dakota, I have something to confess.”

He bats his eyelashes and responds in a ridiculous falsetto. “Yes, lover boy?”

I roll my eyes. He’s obviously not taking this seriously. It’s not a bad idea, though. I try to imagine I’m really talking to Dakota. “I’m Alejandro. We’re the same person.” I lick my lips; my mouth feels dry even rehearsing this speech. “I saw you that day at the beach, watched you toss the bottle into the ocean. Only it didn’t go out to sea like you thought. It washed up on shore right after you left. I read your note and decided I had to meet you. Except I was so sure you wouldn’t be interested in the real me that I pretended to be someone I thought you’d like better.”

Joaquin holds my gaze for a long moment. “Okay, that shit right there, that’s just weak. She’s going to drop you in a heartbeat.”

“He’s right,” a voice behind us says. “It is weak.”

Joaquin and I both spin around, startled. There’s Dakota in a white sundress, looking beautiful.

And extremely pissed.

I stand up so quickly I bang my knee on the table. It hurts like a mother but I swallow the urge to cry out. “Hi! God. You surprised me. What are you doing here?”

“Overhearing something I’m not supposed to, apparently.” Her fierce eyes bore into mine.

“This isn’t how I wanted to tell you.” I run my fingers through my hair. The lukewarm dread sitting in my stomach all day now feels like an iceberg melting into my veins. “But I was planning to—”

“Sounds to me like it’s all a big joke. Like I’m just a prank, a dare or something. Is that what I am?”

“No!” I glance at Joaquin, but he looks as horrified as I feel. “Not at all. Of course not!”

Joaquin takes a step toward her. “You don’t know me, but—”

“And I don’t want to know you!” she spits out.

“Hey, take it easy.” He holds his hands up like she’s a tiger who might pounce at any moment. “I think you misunderstood.”

She plants her fists on her hips. Light, gossamer strands of her hair lift in the wind, and she looks like a vengeful goddess deciding some poor mortal’s fate. “Oh, I don’t think so. I think I’m actually getting a clear picture here for the first time.”

I take a step toward her but she recoils. My voice sounds shaky as I take another stab at explaining. “I didn’t think you’d like the real me—”

“Maybe I don’t if you’re a liar.”

“No, that’s what I’m—I wanted to tell you the—”

“Trust no one. That’s my new motto.” She shoots me one last furious look. Then she turns on her heel and strides across the parking lot to her car.

…

Dakota

Stomping to my yurt, tears blurring my vision, I’m way too absorbed in my own anger and confusion to notice my surroundings. When something moves in the apple orchard ahead, it takes me longer than usual to register that it’s a person. There’s River, half hidden in the long grass, sitting under an apple tree. I’m too off balance to do anything but gape.

She stands, rising from the veil of grass with her usual queenly bearing. Our eyes lock for a long moment. The wind blows her vivid magenta bob this way and that. I notice she’s added a couple blue streaks. It’s one of her many attention-seeking ploys—to be so striking, so colorful, nobody will ever forget her.

“You’re mad,” she says, by way of greeting. “I can tell.”

“Oh, yeah? Brilliant deduction. What tipped you off?” My voice doesn’t even sound like mine. My tone is bitter—hateful, even.

She picks at the bark of the apple tree, shrinking visibly. “Can we talk?”

“Go ahead. Talk.”

“Come on.” Her head tilts to the side, her eyes imploring. “Let’s have some tea or something. We need to work this out.”

“Do we?” I stare her down. “I work things out with friends, and friends don’t stab each other in the back. Friends don’t steal each other’s boyfriends.”

“Yeah, well, I’m what you’ve got, like it or not.” A little of her old bravado rises to the surface, breaking through her uncharacteristic meekness. It’s almost a relief. Without her cocky attitude, her take-it-or-leave-it bluntness, I hardly recognize her.

It’s not exactly what I want to hear, but she does have a point. River’s not only my best friend; she’s pretty much my only friend, and she knows it.

Dammit.

I jerk my head in the direction of my yurt. She follows.

As I’m putting on the kettle, she settles herself in my favorite green velvet chair, leaving me the ratty armchair across from it. It’s so like her—always claiming the best for herself, not a shred of humility or consideration, even now. Man, this day’s really kicking my butt. First the big reveal with Jack, now this. My brain feels too crowded, like a hoarder’s attic, stuffed with so much junk I don’t even know where to begin sorting it all out.

“I’m not going to sugarcoat it.” River slips off her shoes and curls her feet under her. “I messed up. You have every right to be pissed.”

“At least we agree on something.” The ice in my voice is unmistakable.

“I can’t go back and change it. What’s done is done.”

I lean against the counter, arms folded, still keeping my distance. “Get out of my chair.”

“What?” She looks so startled, I almost laugh.

“That’s my chair. Sit in the other one.”

She blinks at me, confused. “You’re serious?”

“Yes. Move!”

“What the hell difference does it make?”

“You always take whatever you want. Ever since we were little. I’m sick of it.” My voice rises until I’m almost yelling.

She looks completely floored. I’ve never spoken to her like this. For as long as I can remember, it’s been me bowing down to her. All hail the great and mighty River. She got to choose what games we played when we were little. She got first pick when we lined up for food. She got to decide which music was cool, which clothes were lame, which movies we should see. The idea of me telling her what to do is utterly foreign to both of us. I’m the docile little lapdog suddenly rearing up with a vicious growl.

I stare her down, heart pounding. Finally, with an annoyed little huff, she gets up and moves to the other chair.

A small victory.

The kettle sings one high-pitched, cranky note. I brew us a pot of chai, even though I know she prefers English Breakfast. Too bad. I hand her a cup in silence and settle into the green chair. Then I blow on my chai to cool it and give her a long, stony look, daring her to begin.

She tries a tentative smile. “You’ve changed.”

I just watch her silently. Ice has crusted over my heart.

“What do you want me to say?” she demands, exasperated. “We were both drunk and we’d been hanging out a lot and it just…happened.”

“Cody said it was one kiss.”

Her eyes go wide. “You talked to him?”

“He says you came on to him and he stopped it, but not soon enough.”

She lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Yeah, I guess he would say that, huh?”

“Are you saying he’s lying?”

“No.” She sighs, raking her fingers through her hair. Her bangs stand up at a funny angle. I notice she’s got dark roots. Her neck has gone all red and splotchy, the way it does before she starts to cry. “I’m just saying we all remember things differently, especially after four or five margaritas.”

All at once I explode out of my chair. I pace the room like a caged tiger. My body hums with adrenaline, and I can’t sit still. “He was my first boyfriend! The first guy I ever kissed. You should have known to stay away.”

“I like him!” Tears roll down her cheeks. “I didn’t want to but I do.”

I face her, suddenly cold again. “Do you want to be with him?”

She looks around helplessly. “If things were different? Yeah. But not if it means losing my friendship with you.”

“Damage is already done there. You might as well take what you want, just like you always do.” I can’t help twisting the knife a little more. It’s so unlike me, but right now I don’t feel an ounce of mercy. “Oh, except he’s not interested, is he? He wants me back.”

“He said that?”

“He begged me.” I say it slowly, enunciating each word.

She clutches her T-shirt like I just punched her in the stomach. Good. Let her feel what it’s like to get the wind knocked out of her. Let her gasp with shock at the damage your best friend can inflict. She’s crying for real now, not sobbing but pretty close. She covers her face with both hands, her shoulders shaking.

Just like that, the urge to hurt her drains out of me.

How is this helping?

I take a deep breath and sit down. My chai’s getting cold, but I feel too sick to my stomach to take a sip. For a long moment, neither of us says anything. There’s only the sound of her ragged breathing and the wind pushing against the canvas walls of my yurt in moody gusts.

I get up and forage in my chest of drawers until I find an old bandanna.

As I toss it to her, she looks up in surprise, her eyes red and splotchy. “Thanks.”

She uses it to dry her face and blow her nose.

“I’m not getting back with him,” I say at last. “I don’t trust him.”

She bites her lip. After another long pause, she says in a soft, apologetic voice I’ve never heard her use, “You’re like a sister to me, Ducky. You know that, right?”

I just nod. A thousand memories threaten to flood my icy resolve—finger painting with mud down by the swimming hole, playing with plastic ponies at the beach, making up secret code names, putting on makeup for the first time. She said it: this is what I’ve got, like it or not. I can try to cut her out of my life, amputate her like an infected limb, but our lives are so intertwined, it’s almost impossible. We’re like sisters. We share the same memories, the same home, the same eccentric past. Where in this huge, crazy world would I ever find someone to replace her?

“Guys come and go, but friendships like ours? That’s sacred. Irreplaceable.” This is so completely out of character for River. She’s the least sentimental person I’ve ever met. I can see by the tension in her face just how hard it is for her to humble herself—just how much it costs her to be deferential rather than brash.

I stare at my lap, annoyed by the lump forming in my throat. “It might take me a while to get over this.”

“I know.” She leans forward and puts her hand over mine. “I get that. I’ll be patient.”

“Yeah?” I breathe out a little laugh and raise my eyes to hers. “Aren’t you always saying patience is overrated?”

“I’ll make an exception this time,” she says, “for you.”