Wrong About the Guy (21 page)

O
utside, I said, “We don't have to get frozen yogurt. That was just a panic plan. We could go . . . I don't know . . .” A sideways glance. “Maybe your place?”

“I like the frozen yogurt plan,” he said, opening the passenger door and gesturing inside. “I need a little time to process all this. You work fast.”

“You work slowly,” I said, and climbed into the car.

We filled big cups with frozen yogurt and he paid for them, which may have been gallantry or may have been because I'd forgotten to bring my wallet. “You do this to all the guys, don't you?” he said, carrying the cups to the table.

“Only the ones I want to take advantage of.”

But when we sat down at a table and I lifted a spoonful of yogurt to my mouth, I suddenly didn't want it. “I can't eat right now,” I said, dropping my spoon.

“I know.” He shoved his own dish away. “I can't either.”

I leaned forward. “Tell me.”

“What?”

“Everything.”

“Everything?” He sat back in his seat and pushed his leg against mine. I pushed back, just as hard. “I was born at Saint Vincent Hospital. . . .”

“Everything that has to do with
me
.”

“Yeah, I should have guessed that was what you meant.”

I reached out across the table. His hand curved up to meet mine. I said, “Heather thought you liked her because you were always so much nicer to her than to me. And I thought maybe she was right. You need to explain that right now. Why were you so much nicer to her than to me? Why did she rate a stuffed bunny and I didn't?”

“Isn't it obvious?” he said. “I was terrified of showing how I felt about you. You were my boss's daughter and even if that was okay, you already had a boyfriend. A slimy, obnoxious snake of a boyfriend, I might add.”

“None of that is true,” I said. “He wasn't my boyfriend and he's not a slimy snake.”

“You can't deny he's self-centered and selfish.”

“Yeah, but so am I—you said so yourself.”

He shook his head. “No, you're not. Not really. Not deep down. But I think that's why it bothered me so much when you were mean to your grandmother—I could see how Aaron was changing you, how he was teaching you to only think about yourself, to be just like him.”

“In fairness to him, I was
never
all that nice to Grandma,” I said. “I mean, until you told me I should be.”

“Yeah, that conversation . . .” He smiled at me ruefully. “I thought that was it for our friendship—let alone anything else. I didn't think you'd ever talk to me again. You couldn't get away from me fast enough.”

“I was
embarrassed
. You had seen what a jerk I could be.”

“I didn't think you were a jerk. Just that you were letting Aaron influence you too much. I felt like I had one last chance to make a difference.”

“And then you gave up. You barely talked to me after that.”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“Yell at me more?”

“Yes,” he said. “Because girls like it so much when guys criticize them.”

“I
did
,” I said.

He laughed. “No, you didn't. You were good-natured enough to tolerate it, that's all. Which is actually pretty
impressive. Most people would have been resentful.”

“I liked that you cared whether or not I was a decent human being.”

“You
are
a decent human being,” he said. “You just forget to be when you're around Aaron.”

“Stop blaming him for my defects!”

“It's how I see it.”

“Well, you're wrong. I'm defective all on my own. Anyway, if you were worried I'd hate you for criticizing me, you could have thrown in a compliment now and then. Why didn't you ever say anything nice to me?”

“Too dangerous. I didn't want you to guess how I felt. It wasn't safe to look at you too much. Or smile at you too much. Or praise you too much—”

“Let's be honest,” I said. “You were never in danger of
that
.”

“Probably not,” he agreed, and I liked the mischief in his glance.

“So you were nicer to Heather so no one would notice how much you liked me?”

“More or less.”

“Then you're just like Aaron,” I said triumphantly. “He paid attention to me so no one would notice how much he liked Crystal.”

He shifted away, withdrawing his hand from mine. “That was completely different.”

“Don't get mad just because I'm right.”

“You're not right and I'm not mad.” He fingered the end of his spoon, then looked up again. “But I'll admit I don't like being compared to that asshole.”

“That asshole is one of my best friends,” I said. “You have to learn to like him.”

“The sad thing is that I like him better now that I know he had an affair with his stepmother than I did when I thought he was having a perfectly appropriate relationship with you.”

“Wow,” I said. “You totally lack any moral compass. Which may not be a bad thing.” I snuck my hand under the table and touched his leg. “If we're not going to eat our yogurt, can't we just go to your place?”

He rubbed his temple, like his head hurt. “God knows I want to.”

“So?”

“I just want to be careful. Go slowly.”

“You've already ravished my virgin lips,” I said. “It's too late to think twice.”

“Your lips weren't virginal. I saw Aaron kiss you, remember?”

“Doesn't count. Neither of us meant it.”

“Are you going to say that about every kiss you've ever had?”

“There haven't been any others,” I said. “Seriously.”

“Oh, God,” he said, and rubbed his temple harder.

“That doesn't make me any younger,” I pointed out.
“Just more discriminating.”

“I guess.”

He was going to rub all the way through to his brain pretty soon. I leaned in, trailing my fingers along the top of his thigh, and said, “Come on. I want to be somewhere alone with you. Are you really going to refuse? Why would you do that?”

He studied me for a moment, his eyes narrowed in thought. Then he grabbed the hand that was on his leg and crushed it in his. He said in a low voice, “Half of me wants to take you home and do all sorts of indecent things to you. And the other half wants to beat myself up for even thinking about you like that.”

“Let the first half win for now,” I suggested. “The second half can come riding in on a white horse later. Or just mind his own damn business.”

“I pick B.”

“Hold on,” I said. “Wait until you've eliminated some of the other answers. Narrow your choices down first and explain to me how you know the answer is B.”

“Because it's
right
,” he said.

I basically tackled him as soon as we walked through the door of his apartment. I knew if I hesitated even for a second, he'd get all doubty again. (That needs to be a real word, by the way. It's very useful.)

It was a good strategy, even if we almost tripped
trying to make it to the sofa without letting go of each other. Actually, that was kind of fun. We laughed, our lips shaking and sliding against each other, and then got serious again.

He never did get around to beating himself up, although he did occasionally stop kissing me long enough to say, “You sure this is okay?” until I told him
I'd
beat him up if he didn't shut up and stop worrying.

What was funny was how little had really changed between us, even though everything had changed. We were still teasing each other; I was still playing the cocky, overconfident girl; and he was still rolling his eyes at me with a mixture of frustration and barely tolerant affection. I used to see it as sort of a fraternal thing, but now . . .

“Not fraternal at all,” I said out loud when we were curled up together on his sofa.

“Excuse me?” he said, pushing himself up on his elbow to look at me.

“Nothing. But I'm curious: How long have you been . . . you know . . . adoring me from afar?”

“Who said anything about adoration?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Way too long.” He collapsed back down at my side. “You don't want to know.”

“In Hawaii?”

“Definitely in Hawaii. Maybe even before. Do you
have any idea how beautiful you are? Or how much fun it is just to be with you?”

“Tell me.”

He pulled my head onto his shoulder and pressed it down there, almost roughly. “No. You're conceited enough.”

“Never enough.” I raised my head and studied his face, then gently traced the line of his nose with my fingertip. It felt almost wicked to do something that intimate. His skin was pale and smooth, with slight purple shadows just under his eyes. It seemed perfect to me.

He lay there with his eyes closed, letting me trail my finger lightly along the outlines of his face. Then he grabbed my hand and pressed it against the side of his cheek. Then he opened his eyes. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” I said, and settled back down next to him, pressed against his side, inside the circle of his arm. Where I belonged.

E
ventually he took me home. It was late, so I crept quietly up to my room, assuming everyone was asleep. I was lying on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, too dazed and happy to start getting ready for bed or do anything really, other than gaze at the spinning fan and wonder if the last few hours had been some kind of a dream, when there was a knock on my door and Grandma walked in.

“Well,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

Nothing—really, nothing—could make me as sure that I wasn't dreaming as the sight of my grandmother in her striped long johns (yellow and green) with her hennaed hair sticking up around her head like a spiky red halo.

“Hi,” I said, sitting up. “I didn't know you were still awake.”

She came over and settled down next to me.
“Someone's in love! And I know who with.”

“It's not exactly a secret.”

“He's a good one. I approve.”

I bit down on the sarcastic rejoinder I wanted to make—
oh, thank you, because of course I wouldn't dream of dating someone without your approval—
and just said I agreed: he was a good one.

“And now,” she said, “we need to talk about condoms.”

“Oh, God, no,” I said fervently. “Please not now.”

She waggled her finger at me. “If you're going to act like an adult, you need to be responsible like an adult.”

“Can't I just enjoy kissing a boy for the first time without having to talk about all that? That's all we've done, I swear.”

“You'd be surprised how quickly one thing leads to another.”

“We both want to take things slowly.” George did, anyway. I wasn't so sure and had done my best to break down his defenses that night. I'd almost succeeded. But not quite.

It had been fun trying.

My being impulsive and his being cautious—it was who we were. It felt right even when everything else between us had changed.

“Don't be afraid of sex,” Grandma said. “It's good for the body—it revs up your circulation and improves
brain function. But you do have to be
careful
. So . . . condoms.”

“Got it,” I said, deciding it was easiest just to agree with everything she said: arguing would lead to a longer discussion, and I really just wanted to be alone. Almost as much as I didn't want to have a Sex Talk with my grandmother.

“It's good to be practical, but never forget that sex can be spiritual, too,” she went on. “There's the tantric approach, of course. And the many positions of the Kama Sutra. And yoga can open you up to better orgasms—but I had to stop doing yoga because of my hip problems. You're lucky you're young.”

I nodded, my face blank.
I don't have to listen. I have to sit here, but I don't have to hear what she's saying.

She nudged my shoulder with hers. “Experiment. I wish I'd experimented more when I was young and my body was like yours.”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

She put her face close to mine. “Your mother isn't as open-minded as I am,” she whispered. “No one was wilder than she was as a teenager, but now she likes to pretend that none of that happened. So don't go to her if you have questions. Come to me.” She shifted back. “My mother didn't talk to me openly about sex and it took me decades to learn everything I'm telling you
tonight. I want you to be an expert right away. So ask me anything.”

“I will,” I said. “Only not tonight. I'm really tired.”

“Sex gives you energy,” she said. “Did you know that? It doesn't work with men—they lose energy with sex. But women gain energy from it. Remember that.”

“Yeah, okay,” I said, and she smiled and, to my huge relief and with one more pat on my leg, finally left.

I couldn't fall asleep. I just couldn't. Most of it was happy, excited energy, but there was a tiny part of me that felt uneasy—the part that didn't know how I was going to tell Heather that I was totally in love with the guy she had admitted to having a crush on.

Eventually I gave up on sleeping, picked up my phone, and texted George. He was awake, too. We texted for a while. It was ridiculous—we had been together all evening but still had so much to say to each other. Neither of us was the sentimental type, so it wasn't gooey and silly, but we talked about what we should do together tomorrow and the next day and the next and about his frustrations with not having a real job yet and about my anxiety about leaving for college when I felt like Mom and Jacob still needed me—stuff like that. One thought led to another, which led to another. It could have gone on all night, but sometime after two a.m. I
heard a wail from down the hall.

Jacob's crying. Going to get him

I dropped my phone and went to Jacob's room. He was sitting up in his bed, rubbing his eyes, and softly weeping.

“Hey, there, baby dude,” I whispered, and picked him up. “What's wrong?” I carried him over to the rocker in his room and sat down. “Why so sad?”

He said something. It was definitely a word—I just didn't know
what
word. It sounded a little like “uggy” so I repeated it. “Uggy?”

He shook his head and said it again.

“Oggy? Uppy?”

He moaned in frustration and hit me—lightly—with his fist. He wasn't trying to hurt me, just letting me know I wasn't getting it.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I wish you could talk.”

“Me too.”

I looked up over his head and saw Luke in the doorway.

“He wake you up?” he asked as he came over to us.

“I was awake anyway.”

He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it gently. “I can take him if you want to go back to sleep.”

“I'm okay. I just wish I knew what he was trying to tell me. I think he had a bad dream or something and he's trying to tell me what it was about.”

“Uggy,” Jacob said again.

“Uggy?” I repeated, and his body became rigid with fury.

“No!” He collapsed against me, sobbing.

“See?” I said to Luke. I stroked Jakie's back. “You know what he means?”

“No idea.” Luke sat down on the corner of the bed nearest us. “Poor little guy. He's so frustrated.”

“You'd be frustrated, too, if you couldn't speak the language.”

There was a pause.

“Luke?” I said.

“Mm?” His hair was sticking up funny and he was wearing retainers—his teeth were shifting but of course he couldn't have braces put on, what with his TV appearances and music performances, so the orthodontist made him retainers to wear at home whenever he could. Sometimes I wished all the women who adored him could see him like this. He just looked so
normal
.

I touched the top of Jacob's head and said quietly, “I really don't think Mom's being crazy when she says there may be something going on with him.”

His face tightened. “I never said she was crazy. I'm just trying to protect him from being boxed into a corner at the age of two.”

“He's almost three. You should look at those books Mom bought today. A lot fits.”

“Your mother just starts jumping to conclusions—”

“It's not jumping to a conclusion if you've really thought about it—it's
reaching
one, and that's different.” I hugged Jacob hard. “This guy is amazing. He's smart and cute and wonderful and nothing changes that. But I want him to learn to talk to us. Don't you?”

“He's in speech therapy.”

“I know but maybe there's more we could be doing.”

“I want what's best for him, Ellie. You know that. I'm just not sure that what he needs at this stage of his life is a bunch of doctors and a label.”

“Mom's not sure either.” I rocked Jacob slowly. “But can't you guys try to figure it out together? You could read those books and talk to the therapists and if the two of you just keep talking to each other about it all—”

“Ellie—”

“You've told me a million times that you love me and would do anything for me. Well, this is what I want you to do more than anything else in the world: I want you to listen to what Mom's saying. Really, really listen. Please, Luke?”

He sat there for a moment, staring at Jacob, who was calm now against my chest. “I promise,” Luke said finally, with a sigh. “You always win, don't you, little girl?” He held out his arms. “I'll take him now. You go back to sleep.”

“Okay.” I got up and let Jacob slide into his arms,
where he settled down contentedly against Luke's broad chest. “Good night.”

“Hold on,” Luke said. “We haven't talked about
you
yet.”

“What about me?”

“You know how I feel about those Nussbaum boys. I trust them more than anyone else in the world. But George is a lot older than you and in a different place in life and—”

I stopped him with a raised finger. “You don't need to worry,” I said with my most disarming smile. “He doesn't have an attractive young stepmother. So I think this could really work out.”

Luke laughed, just like I'd hoped. “There are other potential issues, you know.”

“He's a good guy,” I said more seriously. “He would never take advantage of me in any way. But I will probably take advantage of him in every possible way I can.”

“Good,” Luke said. “That's exactly how I want it to go.”