Wrong About the Guy (20 page)

I
fell asleep trying to get some homework done that afternoon. When I came downstairs a little while later, still groggy, Mom was searching through a kitchen drawer. “Why can't I ever find a pen when I need one?” she said. “I buy them. And then they disappear.”

I said, “Hey, George,” with a yawn. “Didn't know you'd be here.” He was standing near the kitchen table, where Grandma was sitting with Jacob on her lap, the two of them playing a game together on the iPad. “I thought the office was all done.”

“He's running a couple of errands for me,” Mom said. “As soon as I make a list. Which I would do if I had a pen.”

“You could just text me the list,” George said.

“Good idea. Why don't I ever think of that?” She glanced around. “And . . . I left my phone upstairs. Hold on.” She ran out of the kitchen.

“Efficiency is not her middle name,” I said.

He flashed a bland smile and turned to Grandma. “So when do you go back to Philadelphia?”

“Friday,” she said. “I'll be happy to get back to my regular routine, but I'm going to miss my time with this little girl. We've had fun together, haven't we, Ellie?”

“Totally,” I said, and plunked myself down in the chair next to her. I looked up at George. “We really did.”

“I'm glad,” he said, and this time his smile was more sincere.

Mom came back into the kitchen, waving a pen. “I found one on the whatchamacallit—credenza—and saved myself a flight of stairs. Okay, now first I want you to go to Barnes and Noble—” She scribbled the words
Overcoming Autism
on the back of an envelope. “Look for this book—it'll be in the special needs section for parents. If you see any other books with
autism
or
Asperger's
in the title that look good, grab those, too.”

“Why are you buying those?” I asked.

“Because I want to read them. And then, George, I need you to go to the Apple Store—my car phone charger broke. I need a new one.” She wrote that on the list and then told him to stop at a wine store and buy a good bottle of wine for them to take as a hostess gift to some party they were going to the following night. “You need anything, Ellie? Mom?”

“I need something fun to read,” I said.

“You know what you want?” George asked.

“Not yet.”

“Text me when you do and I'll look for it if I'm still there.”

“Or you could get it on the iPad,” Mom said.

“I like real books,” I said. “And I'm in the mood to browse. I'll go with you to the bookstore, George.”

“I've got to do all these other errands . . .”

“I'll do them with you.” I wanted to spend some time with him, figure out whether he really did like Heather or not—maybe I could get him to say something about her while we were out together.

“Okay,” he said. “If you really want to.”

In the car, I kept glancing at him. He was being very quiet. Polite and not unfriendly. But quiet.

I said, “It's getting dark so early these days.”

He agreed that it was.

Then we were silent again.

His voice, when he spoke again, was surprisingly gentle. “I don't know how to say this, but I feel like I need to say something. . . .”

“What?” Oh, God. Was he about to tell me how much he liked Heather? I'd thought I wanted to know, but now I had a sudden overwhelming desire to plug my ears and hum so I wouldn't have to hear it.

“It's just . . .” He glanced over at me and then back
at the road. “Jonathan filled me in on the Marquand situation. Luke told him, and he knows how close I am to your family and felt I should know, too. I hope it's okay.”

“It's fine.” I was relieved that he wasn't talking about Heather, but not exactly thrilled with this topic either. Why was life such a cringe-fest? “So . . . ?”

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Okay? Why wouldn't I be? I mean, it's sad that they're separating and all that but—”

“I know the
whole
story,” he repeated. “Even the part about Aaron and Crystal. How they were—” He cut himself off and started again. “What he was doing to his father.” Quick glance at me again. “And to you.”

“He wasn't doing anything to
me
.”

“Come on,” he said. “I know you want to defend him, but sneaking around with Crystal when he was going out with you—”

I stared at him, torn between horror and amusement. “Aaron and I were never going out! Never. We were always just friends.”

“That's a little hard to believe.”

“Because he was all over me at Halloween?”

“And other times.”

“It was all a mislead—so people wouldn't notice that he and Crystal were obsessed with each other.”

His eyebrows drew together, in confusion, not anger.
“But you were always together. He was always over here. Spending nights when your parents were gone—”

“Because his father had thrown him out! For sleeping with his stepmother!” I bounced in my seat, frustrated, desperate for the world—or at least George—to understand the situation. I was tired of explaining it and tired of being seen as some sort of lovesick punching-bag. “I felt sorry for him. I barely even saw him when he was here—he slept in Jacob's room and didn't come back until late each night. I swear to you I'm not the slightest bit heartbroken or anything like that. I just feel bad for all of them. And relieved I'm not involved.”

He didn't say anything for a moment. Just gazed through the windshield, his forehead creased. Like something hadn't computed right, and he was running new figures through his head. Then he said, “You two always seemed pretty cozy together.”

“Yeah, well, that should have been a giveaway right there—no chemistry. Just coziness.” I gave a short laugh. “Trust me, if we'd actually liked each other, there would have been a lot more awkwardness.”

“Good point.” He rubbed his forehead with the back of his wrist. “I was pretty far off base.”

“It's okay. Luke went there, too. It's that stupid Halloween party—Aaron fooled everyone.” I heaved an exaggerated sigh. “I just hope this doesn't happen to me
every
time a guy pretends to be in love with me to cover
up the fact he's actually sleeping with his stepmother. It could get old.”

He laughed, and things felt normal again. I was relieved that the weird tension between us had been dispelled. But also oddly let down. There had been something electric about that tension—something that made me feel like we were forging into some new territory together. But now we were back to being just plain old George and Ellie.

At least he seemed willing to talk to me again.

We split up at the bookstore. I went all the way up to the third floor to look at the fiction but I felt restless and couldn't focus. I stared at the spines, but I couldn't make sense out of any of the titles, so I wandered around the floor aimlessly for a little while, then rode the escalator back down.

I found George in the parenting section, searching through some shelves. “Oh, hi,” he said, standing up. “That was fast. You find anything?”

“No. I'll get something later. Are you done?”

“I guess so.” He picked up a small stack of books.

I wanted coffee, so after he checked out, we wandered over to the store's Starbucks.

“I'll get us a table,” I said, taking the books from him. “Get me a vanilla Frappuccino. Extra whipped cream. And some kind of muffin.”

“You sure you don't want to just mainline a bunch of
sugar packets?” But he got in line.

I was leafing through one of the books he'd just bought when he brought his coffee and my muffin to the table. “They're still making your Frappuccino,” he said.

I looked up. “This is unreal.”

“It always takes a few minutes.”

“Not that. This.” I held up the book. “Have you looked at this? At any of them?”

He sat down. “Just the titles and covers. Why does your mom want books on autism anyway?”

“Seriously?” I said. “You can't guess?”

“Because of Jacob?”

I nodded.

“I kind of figured, but no one's ever mentioned it before.”

“Did you think that Jacob might be autistic?” I asked. “Before Mom asked you to get these books?”

He hesitated, then said, “My cousin's daughter has Asperger's. Jacob kind of reminds me of her sometimes. But what do I know? Has he been diagnosed?”

I shook my head. “The speech therapist raised it as a possibility, that's all. But I'm kind of freaking out here—I just picked this book up and started reading . . . and it's like they're describing him. Like right here, it says that some autistic kids stare at fans. I've seen Jacob do that a million times. Other stuff, too, like wiggling fingers in front of his eyes . . . or how he hates to make
eye contact.” I shut the book and dropped it on top of the others. “I think maybe Mom's right to be worried.”

“Maybe. But don't panic or anything. My cousin's daughter is totally great. She's a little quirky, but in a good way.”

“Does she do therapy?”

“Tons of it.” He took a sip of coffee. “There's a clinic near them that they go to that my cousin says is great. I could get the name for your mom—it's in New York but they'd probably be willing to talk to her and they might know of a good place near here.”

“Thanks. I think Mom wants to start looking into stuff like that, but Luke's really opposed to it.”

“Why?”

“He thinks it's wrong to slap a label on Jacob. He says people on the Westside are way too quick to—” I stopped because George had suddenly jumped to his feet. “Um . . . did I offend you?”

“I think I heard them call your name. Hold on.” He crossed the room and came back with my Frappuccino, which he put in front of me with a wrapped straw.

I thanked him and he sat back down and took another sip of his coffee. “What do you think I should do?” I flicked at the books. “Mom and Luke are in such different places about this.”

“Maybe Luke would be willing to at least read one of the books? The more information he has, the more
likely he is to see what she sees.”

“He'll just get annoyed if Mom asks him to.”

“Then
you
ask him.”

“Why would that help?”

“Because no one can say no to you.”

I thought about that a moment, as I sucked sweet vanilla goo up through my straw. I swallowed and said, “Do you mean that in a
you're too charming for anyone to say no to
sort of way or a
you're spoiled and they give you whatever you want
sort of way?”

“Does it matter?”

“My ego says yes.”

“Then for the sake of your ego, let's go with the charm thing.”

That wasn't a satisfying response. I picked at the muffin, but it had blueberries in it and I didn't like blueberries. I should have been more specific, but I'd kind of assumed George would know what I liked.

A
s we ran the other errands, we talked more about the Jacob situation. When we were in the car, I read bits out loud from the books we'd bought, and then in the stores, we discussed the things that reminded us of Jacob—like the delayed language—and the things that didn't, like how a lot of these kids avoided being touched, and Jacob loved being in our arms.

Nothing seemed obvious except, we agreed, that it couldn't hurt for Mom and Luke to bring Jakie to an expert who could evaluate him.

When we were finally heading home, I suddenly felt the full weight of what we were talking about. The books made it all seem very real. “I just want him to be okay,” I said, rolling my head sideways to look at George as he drove.

“He will be,” he said. “He
is
. He's smart and adorable and sweet. What's not okay about that? And your
mom is willing to do whatever needs to be done to help him.”

“I'll try to talk Luke into being more supportive.”

“You'll succeed,” he said. “You could talk anyone into anything.”

“Not really. I—” My phone buzzed, interrupting me. I glanced at it. “Heather,” I said, and put the phone away without texting back.

“How's she doing?”

“You don't know? She said you guys text sometimes.”

He raised his eyebrows. “She did? I think we've exchanged one text since you took the SATs. Maybe two.”

“That's weird. She said it was more.”

He shrugged and I studied his face for some reaction to the mention of Heather. There wasn't any. I pushed harder, suddenly desperate to know for sure whether he was indifferent or interested in her. “It's just . . . I think she might kind of like you.” She had told me not to say anything to him but that was when I thought she was talking about Aaron, so it didn't count, right? “And she seemed to think you might be interested back. Are you?”

“Are you being serious?” he asked warily. “Or just finding a new way to tease me?”

“I'm serious.”

“I think she's a nice kid,” he said slowly.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, then no. I want to help her with the college stuff but that's all. I'm sorry if I gave her any other impression.” We were at my house. He punched in the code and we waited for the gate to swing open. “Do you think I need to do anything about it?”

“Nah, you're good,” I said, suddenly feeling very cheerful. “It's nothing you did. She gets a lot of crushes on teachers and people like that. She gets over them.” As we pulled into the driveway, I said, “We're not
that
much younger than you, you know. Just a few years.”

“I know,” he said. “It's not necessarily an age thing. It's more who she is. I just could never see her that way. It's not like . . .” He stopped talking as he put the car in park. He turned the engine off, avoiding my eagerly curious gaze.

“Not like what?”

“Nothing.” He opened his car door and got out.

I jumped out my side and came around the car, meeting him by the trunk. I put my hand on his arm to keep him from opening it. “Wait. Not like what?”

“Nothing. Don't forget the books.”

“You were going to say it's not like the way it is with me, weren't you?” My heart was thumping wildly in my chest. Leaping and thumping. I felt sick and excited. And suddenly enlightened.

Maybe I hadn't been jealous of Heather just because
George was my tutor. Maybe I had been jealous of Heather because she said he liked her, and I didn't want him to like anyone—except me.

George opened his mouth and closed it. His beautiful dark-green, dark-gray eyes—they
were
beautiful, even if I'd never admitted it to myself before—avoided mine as he said, “Ellie—”

My fingers pressed into his arm. “Just admit it. That's what you were going to say. You know I'm not going to leave you alone until you do.”

“Man, you're pushy,” he said.

“I know.”

“And conceited.”

“What else?”

He stared at my hand on his arm and said, “And if someone walks into a room that you're in, he's not going to notice Heather. Or anyone else, for that matter.” He passed his free hand over his forehead like it ached, then said in one big rush, “Or what time it is or whether there was something he was supposed to be doing in there or where he is or what his name is.”

A thrill of pleasure shot through me. “Someone?” I said. “Meaning anyone? Or someone specific?”

“We need to go inside.” But he didn't move.

“Not yet.”

“You think you can order people around,” he said. “You're overbearing and dictatorial.”

“Are you still listing things that are wrong with me?”

“The last act of a desperate man,” he said. Then, so quietly I could barely hear him: “I thought you were in love with Aaron.”

“Never. Not even for a second.”

“It doesn't matter.” He shook his head as he carefully slid his arm out from under my grasp. “I shouldn't have said anything. Your parents trust me. I'm supposed to be tutoring you.”

“Oh, for God's sake,” I said. “You're only a few years older than me. Aaron slept with his
stepmother
. This is nothing.”

“Yeah, Aaron's not exactly a role model.”

“You really hate him, don't you?”

“Not a big fan,” he admitted.

“Because you've been jealous of him. Because of me.” I grinned right up into his face—the thought delighted me so much I couldn't not grin right up into his face.

A very small, reluctant smile played on his lips. “That may have influenced me slightly. But he's still a selfish jerk.”

“Admit you were jealous of him.” I took his hand and threaded my fingers carefully through his. He let me do what I wanted, watching me silently, his fingers tense and taut in mine. It felt daring and almost wrong to touch him like that—but also thrilling. I wasn't about to stop. “It's too late to go back to just being
my tutor,” I said. “Now I know you like me. I didn't before, because you have a strange way of showing it. Always criticizing me—”

“You need to be criticized,” he said. “You're spoiled. Your family lets you get away with everything. And Heather idolizes you and the world fawns over you and Aaron is even more spoiled than you are, which is saying a lot—”

“You adore me, don't you?”

“But you're not hopeless. Someone just needs to shove you in the right direction now and then.”

“Yeah,” I said dreamily. “You should shove me. Except not literally.”

“I'll say this for you.” He gazed at our entwined hands. “You take criticism better than anyone I know.”

“Only when it comes from you.”

“And why's that?” he asked in a suddenly unsteady voice.

I moved a step closer. So close I could feel the warmth coming off his body. “Are you trying to get me to say something nice to you? Don't you think you're being a little needy?”

“I've said nice things to
you
.”

“One nice thing. In the middle of a lot of mean things. You just called me spoiled.”

“You haven't answered my question.” He tugged on my hand and I came even closer. Our bodies were almost
touching. From this close, he seemed surprisingly tall. But then, I probably seemed surprisingly short.

I tilted my head back. “I forgot what it was,” I said, feeling very distracted by the way his fingers were moving up my arm, pulling me against him.

He put his mouth near my ear and said softly, “Why don't you mind it when I criticize you?”

The breath of his words on my ear made me shiver. “Because you're the only person whose opinion matters to me?”

“That's got to be an exaggeration.”

“Yes,” I said, keeping my face angled up but closing my eyes because all this closeness was making me a little dizzy. “It probably is. But only a slight one.”

His arms went around me and tightened. I gasped a little, not because they were too tight—just because they were there. “What now?” he whispered.

“I don't know. This is weird.”

“Too weird?” His arms instantly dropped down.

I opened my eyes so I could look at him. So I could look at
George
—the guy whose approval and instruction had come to mean everything to me without my knowing how or when, and who definitely had more than approval and instruction in his eyes right now. “No,” I said. “I like weird.”

“It's not too late to stop this.”

“Oh, yes, it is,” I assured him, and I went up on
tiptoes so I could put my lips on his and end the uncertainty. I don't like uncertainty. Or waiting around for other people to do things I'm perfectly capable of doing myself.

I'd never kissed anyone before. I'd never wanted to. A couple of guys had tried to kiss
me
back in middle school, in the back rooms and corners of parties, but I always pushed them away. And in high school, I had avoided even flirting with anyone. Aaron had landed that one theatrical kiss at the party, but it didn't count. So pressing my mouth against someone else's—this was a new experience.

Which meant it was exciting and scary—and also lovely and ridiculous and forbidden and delicious—everything all at once, and also nothing all at once because I had closed my eyes again, which made everything disappear except the warmth of his mouth against mine and the gentle shock when our tongues touched and the feeling of wanting more and more and more and not wanting it ever to end and wanting more and feeling too much and the clutching of our fingers against each other's arms and backs and shoulders and the wanting more and more and more until my brain felt like it was going to explode with both having and wanting so much.

It was like being overfed and hungry at the same time. I'd never felt anything like it before.

I didn't hear the gate or the car motor—just the sudden loud spray of gravel close behind us. We jumped back, hastily releasing each other as Luke drove into the four-car garage.

But instead of going directly into the house, he came back out to the driveway and squinted at us.

“Hey, guys. What are you doing out here?” The casual tone would have been reassuring, except it was arguably a little
too
casual.

Which meant he'd seen us before we'd broken apart.

I said, “We were just on our way in. We have to get the bags.”

“Yes,” George said. “The bags.” His eyes sought out mine, a little desperately. Luke was his brother's boss. And he was
Luke
. And he'd seen us kissing.

“All right,” Luke said easily. “I'll see you two inside.” But he kept glancing back at us as he went into the house.

George got the bags out of the trunk, while I retrieved the books from the front seat. “Do you think he's okay with this?” he asked as we went up to the front door.

“He'll have to be,” I said. My hands were shaking, but it had nothing to do with fear.

We carried our purchases into the kitchen. Mom and Grandma and Luke were all in there. They fell silent the moment we entered.

“I think we got everything,” George said.

“I'm sure you did,” Luke said, and Grandma giggled.

“Thank you, George,” Mom said with a reproving look at her own mother. “You too, Ellie.”

“You're welcome,” George said, and there was an awkward silence.

“We're going to go get frozen yogurt,” I said suddenly.

“We are?” George said. Then, “Right. Yes. Let's go.”

We said good-bye and crept out of the room. Luke murmured something we couldn't hear, and all three of them laughed from behind us.

“Your face is bright red,” I told George as he held the front door open for me.

“I can't imagine why,” he said.