The Truth About Jack (Entangled Crush) (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Jack

Moonlight pours through the windows of the conservatory. I’m pounding on the keys so feverishly I’ve worked up a sweat. It’s two o’clock in the morning, but I can’t sleep.

I’ve been in here for three hours, pouring all my angst into a new composition. It has a dark, brooding melody that says exactly what I want to say. I tried my hand at love and failed miserably. I met the quirkiest, smartest, most beautiful girl in the world and I lost her because I didn’t have the confidence to tell her how I feel, to show her who I am. Each note is laced with Dakota—that smile that’s like winning the smile lottery, her funny way of stomping down the beach like a little general on her way to the front lines, her beautiful glittery hand-drawn fireworks. As my fingers caress the keys, she’s there with me, but so is the loss of her. The darkness in the melody is my darkness, the gaping hole Will’s death left in the center of my heart. I’m terrified my best friend died because I was a half-assed friend—too caught up in Lucy to see the private hell he’d fallen into. How do you make up for that? Now I’ve tried to open up again, but I did it in such a backward way that I’ve screwed it up. I’ve trampled my connection with Dakota before it even had a chance to blossom. Maybe I’m too damaged for real love. Maybe some people just aren’t built for that brand of joy.

When I look up from the keys and see Gran, I’m so lost in the music and my morbid, self-defeating thoughts I almost scream like a girl. Unlike Mother, she doesn’t have any qualms about interrupting while I’m playing. She stands over me, pulling her robe tight, her hair loose around her shoulders. I don’t recall ever seeing her hair down before; the wispy white strands look ghostly in the moonlight.

I stop mid-phrase. Whatever she sees in my face must be completely pathetic, because she reaches out and smooths my hair away from my forehead, her eyes full of compassion.

That simple gesture breaks me. I can feel tears stinging my eyes.

“What is it, darling?” She sits beside me on the piano bench, one arm wrapped tightly around my shoulders.

Nobody in my family touches me except Gran. Tonight I feel so raw, so fragile, I can barely stand it. I can’t seem to get any words out. After a few moments I manage to get past the threat of tears, thank God, but my throat still feels too tight to speak.

“Love can be cruel.” She rubs my back, tracing slow circles. “I know. I know.”

She goes on just sitting with me for a long time. Only an occasional groaning pipe in the house’s mysterious innards breaks the silence. When I finally feel more composed, I tell her about what happened today with Dakota. She listens with wide eyes. Now and then her gaze seems to turn inward; I wonder what memories my story elicits, what private sorrow it stirs.

I shake my head. “The worst part is that I’d pretty much decided to tell her. Not that she would have forgiven me, but now I don’t stand a chance.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” She squints at me, considering. “What does this girl need right now? What does she want?”

I make a sound of disbelief. “You’re not suggesting I bribe—?”

“In her life, I mean—not necessarily a physical thing, but emotionally, what’s she looking for?”

I search the ceiling, thinking. I recall the long walks we’ve taken, our endless, meandering talks. I know she feels alone, with nobody to turn to. When River and Cody hooked up, they severed two of her most important connections. Her old dream of studying at RISD seems tainted and stale now; she needs new discoveries, an open vista. She needs new dreams to dream, new miracles to hope for.

“You’re a perceptive young man, Jack.” Gran’s voice is so full of tenderness, I can feel myself tearing up again. “I’m sure you know the answer.”

“She needs a new plan,” I say. “Something to make her believe in magic.”

Her eyes light up. “Tell me more…”

…

Dakota

The next morning, I wake up with puffy eyes and a mangled bed. I tossed and turned all night, kicking the covers and getting so twisted up in the sheets I could barely breathe. Four or five times I got up and stalked around my yurt like a caged animal. I tried to sketch an idea for a new sculpture, but I hated everything I came up with. After crumpling up like fifteen sheets of really good drawing paper, I finally hurled my notebook across the room in a fit of rage. Around three I managed to drift into some semblance of sleep, but my dreams were like devilish imps poking and prodding me mercilessly.

And now someone’s knocking on my door. It’s—I look at my bedside clock—eight in the morning. Whoever it is, they’ll soon wish they never set foot on my porch.

“Go away!” I grumble, fluffing a pillow and burying my head under it.

“Dakota? It’s me.”

I pull the pillow away. “Cody?”
What the hell?

“Can I come in?” He sounds all meek.

“No!”

There’s a long pause, and for a second I wonder if he actually listened to me for once and left. I know he’s still out there, though. I didn’t hear footsteps, and the walls of my yurt are just canvas, after all. You can hear everything through them.

Well, I can’t have him sitting out there all morning. Dad or someone else will take him in like a stray pup. That’s all I need—getting the whole community involved. Before you know it River, Cody, and I will be immersed in some nightmarish group therapy session, with everyone urging us to
process our issues.

“Okay, okay, hold on. I’m coming.” I flop out of bed and stumble over to my full-length mirror. My eyes are bloodshot and my hair’s ratted up wildly on one side, while it’s completely flat on the other. My rumpled tank top and baggie boxer shorts only add to my slovenly appearance. I look like the mad woman in the attic. Well, if he came here looking for pretty, he’s out of luck.

Cody knocks again. “Dakota, please?”

“Hold on!” I roar. The last thing I want is Cody in my yurt. It’s way too intimate in here.

“Okay.” He sounds a little frightened.

I fling open the door after a super quick tooth brushing (I’m
not
planning on kissing him, but I do have
some
hygiene standards). He’s slouching on the porch in his Che Guevara T-shirt and old brown cords, his dark blond hair damp. He looks skinny and sleep-deprived and a tiny bit pathetic.

“Come to breakfast with me,” he says. “Please.”

“Why?” I cross my arms and lean against the doorjamb, a little pleased by his sorry state, though I know I shouldn’t be.

“Because I think I’m in love with you.” Before I can react to that, he pulls a piece of crumpled paper from his pocket and holds it out. “I wrote you a poem last night. Actually, I wrote you twenty poems, but this is the only one you get to see.”

“Seriously?” I take it and start to open it, but he clamps a hand over mine.

“Don’t read it in front of me!” He looks mortified. “Come on. I’d die of shame.”

“Okay, jeez, calm down.”

“So will you come have breakfast with me?” He flashes me a crooked smile.

I rub my face, trying to wake up. Did he seriously just tell me he loves me? We’ve never even used the L-word before. I’m still reeling from the newness of it. Did he mean “love” as in passionate, undying devotion or “love” as in
I love chocolate ice cream
?

He inches a little closer. “Eating eggs together doesn’t mean you have to forgive me.”

“I don’t like eggs,” I grumble.

“But you
do
like scones. I know that much.”

I can’t hide my smile. “Yeah, okay, I like scones. Some scones. Not the gross sugary kind.”

“I know a place that makes
amazing
scones.” He inches even closer.

“Where?” I take a step back and look at him sideways. I can’t help wondering if he’s talking about his favorite place for breakfast, this grimy little hole in the wall in Bodega. “You better not be talking about that disgusting diner.”

He laughs. “You know me too well!”

“Let’s make it Café Vida,” I say. “I have to be at work later. It’s right by there.”

“Okay. Whatever you say.” He looks past me, his gaze moving around the yurt. A smug look of triumph lights up his face. “I see you still have my picture up.”

We both gaze at the woodblock print of a whale hanging above my bed. I’ve been meaning to take it down, but haven’t gotten around to it.

“It’s beautiful, even if the guy who gave it to me turned out to be a jerk.”

“Ouch.” He puts one hand over his heart.

I fix him with a look. “This doesn’t mean anything. We’re just having breakfast.”

“If saying that makes you feel better, then absolutely.” His brown eyes sparkle with mischief.

“Let me comb my hair and put on something decent.”

He glances quickly at my bare legs—not a Miles style leer, but enough to show me he’s noticed. “You look great.”

“Shut up,” I say, still grumpy.

He grabs my wrist and pulls me closer. “I miss you so much.”

“Easy.” I wriggle free. “I’m not even awake yet. Wait out here.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

I dart inside and quickly change into a T-shirt, hoodie, and jeans. My head’s awash with sleep-deprived, sluggish thoughts. It feels good to know Cody’s hung up on me, I can’t deny that. It’s not just an ego boost, either; Miles showing interest in me was an ego boost, a little reminder that I’m not hideous. Cody professing his love for me means a little more, because he’s someone I really do care about, someone I’ve spent way too much time thinking about over the past year. Still, I know I’m not in love with him. Not now, not ever. Even when we were new, he didn’t make me feel the way Jack does. He could never look into my eyes and pull secrets from my depths. Cody and I could never talk for hours on end the way Jack and I do, moving seamlessly from furniture design to my parents’ divorce to his fear of goats all in one breathless afternoon. Cody might think he’s in love with me, but what we share isn’t love. It’s affection and friendship, but nothing more.

Now that I know Jack lied to me, I have no idea what to do with all the feelings I have for him. Just thinking about him fills me with a cocktail of hope and wonder and pain all mixed together. I thought he was so sincere, so real. Our talks never felt staged or dishonest in any way. If he pretended to be Alejandro, though, if he lied to me so easily, can I trust anything about our connection?

The memory of the conversation I overheard yesterday makes my stomach clench with anger. Why would Jack, who has every reason in the world to feel confident, hide behind a fake identity? Did he do it as a joke? It seems so unlike him. Either he wrote those letters as a mean-spirited prank or he wrote them to hide some secret insecurity. Neither possibility sounds like the Jack I know.

Then I think about the stuff “Alejandro” wrote in his letters. In his very first one, he confessed that when it rains he thinks about his best friend who ODed. That really happened. Jack told me about it one day at the beach, and Miles mentioned it, too, when he was trying to convince me Jack was a crazy tweaker. Jack’s voice got kind of shaky when he told me about his friend Will and how he died; I could see how hard it was for him to talk about. When I asked more questions, he changed the subject, I think because he didn’t want to break down in front of me.

Maybe Jack needed to approach me as Alejandro at first so he could admit the hardest truths about his life. He may be gorgeous, talented, and rich, but that doesn’t mean he’s immune to insecurity. Was it such a crime to create Alejandro if he did it in order to feel safe with me?

I can’t help inwardly groaning at the twisted irony of the situation. Here I am, about to have breakfast with a boy who claims he loves me. All the while, I can’t stop thinking about the guy I’m afraid I might love, a guy whose identity I’m not even sure of anymore. Is Jack a player, a liar, a fake? Or is his only crime going to great lengths to get close to me?

Why does this whole situation get more confusing the more I think about it?

For now, I need to just concentrate on getting some breakfast. An extra-large chai should set my brain in motion. Maybe then I can navigate the chaotic house of mirrors my life’s become.

…

Jack

“Hurry up!” I lean forward in my seat and stare at the speedometer. “Can’t this ole rust bucket go any faster?”

“Your mother will be furious if I go over the speed limit,” Attila says.

Joaquin, sitting next to me in the backseat, takes my side. “Come on, man, it’s an emergency! Do you want to be careful, or do you want Jack to get his girl?”

In answer, Attila passes the Prius in front of us, stepping hard on the accelerator. When we finally pull up in front of Anya’s Garden, I leap out of the Rolls, my pulse racing.

The glare on the plate-glass display window makes it hard to see who’s working behind the counter. I grip the gift I brought, its sharp edges cutting into my palms. I pray the shiny gold paper and sparkly bow Gran suggested aren’t too ostentatious. The door jangles as I push my way into the little herb shop, ready to deliver my speech. The woman behind the counter isn’t Dakota, though. It’s the blond woman I’ve met a couple times now briefly, Anya.

She looks surprised to see me. “Hi there. Jack, right?”

“Yeah.” I’m glad she remembered me, knows my name even. Maybe it means Dakota’s mentioned me here and there. “How are you?”

“I’m great! You looking for Dakota, or did you have a sudden craving for chamomile tea?” Her tone is teasing, but not unkind. She catches sight of my ridiculous package and bites her lip, trying not to smile.

“Chamomile tea sounds delicious,” I say, trying to temper my determination with a little levity. I don’t want her to think I’m crazy. “But yeah, I’m looking for Dakota.”

“Quite the gift you’ve got there.”

I can feel my face turning crimson. Suddenly the little shop feels way too warm. Tiny beads of sweat start to break out on my forehead. “You don’t happen to know where she is, do you?”

Her expression goes from amused to something else…Contrite? Worried? “She doesn’t start work for another hour.”