The Truth About Jack (Entangled Crush) (8 page)

After a pause that lasts half my lifetime, I settle on a generic response. “I’m from the area.”

“But you don’t live here anymore?” This seems to intrigue her.

“I’m moving to New York in a few months.” Okay, that definitely sounded pretentious, like I’m too good for this place. God! Why can’t I say anything that doesn’t sound like some crazed egomaniac on the verge of taking a selfie and tweeting it to his four million followers?

“Are you going away to school?”

I nod. “Juilliard.”

“Cool.” Her tone seems to signal the end of our conversation. It’s not rude or dismissive, though, just straightforward
.

After she’s settled back onto the couch, I order a raspberry scone and a cappuccino. I watch Miles’s every move as he makes my coffee, since I know he’s all too eager to hock a loogie into the foam. When he rings me up, the hostility between us shimmers like heat waves off blacktop in July. It doesn’t bother me. Nothing can bother me right now.

The scone tastes incredible. She was right. I can’t tell if it’s the tart, plump berries or the knowledge that she loves them, that she went out of her way to share her love with me—maybe a little of both.

Chapter Nine

Dakota

The email pops up as I’m gathering images for my next sculpture. It’s my ritual whenever I start on a new piece; I cruise the internet for inspiration and squirrel away the ideas. Sometimes I print the best ones out and pin them to my corkboard, along with little odds and ends that fit with the theme—a dried dandelion, say, a crab claw, or a scrap of lace. I’ve just found the perfect sepia-toned World War II photo for my ambitious new life-size depiction of a geisha. I save it to the file called
Geishanation
, feeling tentatively optimistic.

When the little window pops up telling me I’ve got new mail from “barcelonatorres,” my heart bumps crazily against my ribcage.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Lost Arts

Don’t worry, I won’t stop writing letters. You’re right, it is an old, wonderful, but mostly lost art, like homing pigeons or radio drama, reading tea leaves, cobbling shoes. So many wonderful traditions set adrift in the rising tide of technology. Still, it is sometimes a wonderful thing to punch out a message and know it can reach you in mere seconds, no matter where I am or where you are. Today I find myself with a—how do you call it?—internet connection, and so I will use the magic of modern life to send you a note. How are you? Are you in your “Luna Cove” now? Do you have the internet there? I loved your last letter, especially the beautiful illustration. You must tell me more about your home and the wonderful artists who live there.

Besos,

Alejandro

I look up from the screen and take a sip of my chai, unable to hide my smile. I can feel it spreading across my face, all goofy and enormous, a clownish cartoon grin. Besos! Doesn’t that mean “kisses”? I quickly Google it and yes, there it is. Kisses. Mmm. God, he’s so adorable. I love his slightly stilted English, his funny blend of formality and flirtation.

I take a quick, exploratory nibble of the biscotti Miles insisted on giving me (Bleh! Hate biscotti. Tastes like sweet, crusty cardboard). Then I try to concentrate on my response. I’d better write back quickly; it sounds like he’s only got internet for a little while.

As I look around the café, searching for inspiration, I notice the cute, tall Juilliard guy I talked to earlier. He’s got his phone out and he’s staring at the screen intently. He did order the raspberry scone—there are only a couple bites left on his plate. I mouth,
Good, right
? He looks like he’s trying to turn away, pretend he didn’t catch my eye. But then he reads my lips and nods, his face turning red.

I turn my attention back to my computer and hit Reply.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

RE: Lost Arts

Hello! Thanks for your email.

I immediately erase that and start over.
Boring.

I’m not in Luna Cove, actually. I’m in my favorite place to eat scones and drink chai, Café Vida. It’s right by the herb shop where I work. Where are you? Someplace amazing, I bet. Maybe hiking the Pacific Crest Trail or—no, wait, you have internet, so probably not that remote. Maybe you’re in a bar at the top of the Empire State Building. Maybe you’re looking at Niagara Falls. You could be in a hot air balloon drifting over New Mexico. Okay, I give up! Where are you?

I only let myself hesitate a second, checking to make sure I haven’t committed any egregious spelling errors. Then I force myself to hit send.

Within minutes, his response appears in my inbox.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

RE: Lost Arts

You must be psychic. I am indeed floating in a hot air balloon. Not over New Mexico, though. I am drifting over the Gulf of Mexico, watching the dolphins far below.

I sit there, staring at the screen, beaming like an idiot all over again. What is it about this guy? His emails turn me into a puddle of goo.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

RE: Lost Arts

You are not! I seriously doubt you have internet access in a hot air balloon over the Gulf of Mexico.

Chapter Ten

Jack

I squint at my phone, torn between the desire to look at her and my fear that if I do, something in my face will give me away. Not that she’s likely to guess. Seriously, why would she?
Hey, I don’t know you at all, you’re just a random scone eater, but come on, admit it, you’re the real Alejandro Torres, huh?
Still, the irrational fear that she’ll catch on is stronger than my rational certainty of her ignorance.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

RE: Lost Arts

You are right. I lied.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

RE: Lost Arts

Come on then, ’fess up! Where are you?

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

RE: Lost Arts

That is my secret, young lady. I assure you, though, wherever I am, I can picture you with shocking clarity, sipping your chai and eating your scone. I bet the sun is shining on your hair, and it looks like spun gold.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

RE: Lost Arts

How do you know my hair’s gold? It could be jet black and so fried it looks like an old man’s beard.

She’s right! Okay, damn.
Backpedal, Sauvage, fast
.
Don’t let her physical presence not twenty feet away dazzle you into giving away more than you should
. One more slipup like that and she might start to suspect.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

RE: Lost Arts

Even an old man’s beard would look good on your head.

I sneak a quick look at her while she types a reply, her small fingers flying over the keys with easy grace. She looks happy. The idea that my emails (okay, “barcelonatorres’s” emails) make her glow like that seems too good to be true.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

RE: Lost Arts

You don’t know that! I could have a face the texture of tapioca pudding. I could have a nose three sizes too big for my tiny cone-shaped head.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

RE: Lost Arts

Blasphemy! Now you lie. I refuse to believe such a story.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

RE: Lost Arts

How do you know?

I watch her for a long moment. How do I know she’s beautiful? Aside from the fact that I’m staring at her right now, and the sun’s slanting in through the windows, illuminating her peachy skin, her dimples, her pale hair, her expressive and quirky eyebrows? Somehow, I think I would know, even if all I had were her letters. Her beauty seeps into everything she does, everything she touches.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

RE: Lost Arts

No girl who drew those exquisite little firecrackers could be anything but beautiful. Not that it matters. If you were five hundred pounds with a pig’s nose and a bright red Afro, I would still find you charming.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

RE: Lost Arts

Not five hundred just yet. Closer to four. But I’m glad you don’t mind.

I’ve just taken a sip of my cappuccino when her reply pops up, and I sputter into my cup, caught off guard. She glances over at me, amusement lighting up those gorgeous blue eyes. For two seconds I think she’s on to me, but she apparently writes off my odd little coughing fit as a coincidence, because she turns back to her computer without comment.

I hunch over my phone and type three words.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

RE: Lost Arts

Lying little minx.

Chapter Eleven

Jack

Attila, Joaquin, and I meet in the pool house around nine thirty Wednesday night to approve the final draft of my second letter. Attila brings a bottle of Stoli and a six-pack of mini tonics.

I raise my eyebrows as he mixes three drinks at the bar. The look is supposed to say,
You could get fired for this. Maybe you shouldn’t.

He shrugs one shoulder, insouciant as usual. “Your mother took two Ambien. She won’t wake up, believe me. Besides, I’m not going to let anyone get drunk. Is under control.” His slightly wonky grammar makes me wonder if he’s already imbibed a little himself; he’s usually so precise in his phrasing.

“What about Dad?” I ask.

“I do not think Mr. Sauvage would mind.”

Joaquin nods in agreement. “Your dad’s pretty cool, actually.”

This is news to me. Never in my whole life have I thought of my father as “cool.” Then again, he does own one of the most successful wineries in California, so getting all freaked out about his eighteen-year-old son having one or two drinks would be slightly hypocritical. I decide to go with it. Like Attila said, nobody has to get drunk.

Attila adds a slice of lime to each drink and brings them over to the table on a lacquered tray. I pull out the letter and nervously unfold it, then push it their way for inspection. Instead of looking at what I’ve written, though, Attila raises his glass in a toast.

“To Jack and Dakota,” he says.

Joaquin flashes a wry smile. “You mean
Alejandro
and Dakota.”

“Whoever he is, may he finally get laid,” Attila says.

I don’t comment. I just raise my glass and clink it against theirs, then take a sip of the fizzy cocktail. This whole male bonding thing is starting to make me a little edgy, to be honest. Ever since Will died and Lucy turned out to be a shallow gold digger, I’ve pretty much kept to myself. I have my music, my workouts, my books—a private world of my own making. I haven’t felt the need to complicate any of that by reaching out to people my own age.

Will and I were inseparable for years. When he ODed, everything I thought I knew about friendship exploded into flames. I had no idea he was so depressed. A little melancholy, sure, but suicidal? And okay, so nobody can say for sure it was an actual suicide, but Will wasn’t into drugs—at least any that I knew of—so why would he suddenly decide to down an entire bottle of OxyContin? I must have been a seriously shitty friend if Will felt the need to hide the most significant facts of his existence. Maybe I was too distracted by my infatuation with Lucy to notice the warning signs. If he felt suicidal, why didn’t he tell me? I couldn’t have been
that
distracted. If someone I thought of as my best friend could hide a sadness that huge, it makes me wonder what I can trust. What’s the point of bonding if those connections are just illusions, fragile as spider webs?

“Don’t look so gloomy, Sauvage.” Joaquin takes another swig of his drink. “Worse things could happen.”

Attila flashes an apologetic smile. “I do not mean to offend.”

“No.” I wave a hand dismissively. “Whatever. Just, take a look, see if I’ve made a total ass of myself. Nobody’s getting laid if this letter sucks.”

“Speak for yourself.” Attila wiggles his thick eyebrows.

I give him an obligatory chuckle, but my heart’s not in it. I think, but don’t say, that I’m not trying to just “get laid,” as Attila says. I’m trying to get close enough to Dakota’s sundrenched smile to know the secrets she holds, the things she thinks about when she’s all alone, the songs that move her and the ideas that set her on fire. Saying all this, though, is out of the question. Even a philosophical Romanian who devours romantic Russian novels and a guy who once invoked the name of Vin Diesel to make progress with a girl would mock me if I admitted all that.

I can’t help feeling stupidly nervous as they both bend over the single sheet of paper I’ve spent days composing. As they read, their brows furrow and their eyes scan the page. I take another sip of my drink. My pulse races. The alcohol does little to calm my squirming guts. The vodka tastes vile. I stand and begin to pace the room. It’s furnished in a tropical theme, with bright yellow furniture and watercolors of exotic beaches. It’s supposed to be relaxing and casual, but right now the sunny colors just grate on my nerves. I walk the circumference of the room, running my hands through my hair.

“Not bad,” Joaquin pronounces when he’s finished reading. “But you spelled churros wrong.”

“I think you should work in something about a sunset,” Attila suggests.

“Really, why?”

“Girls like sunsets,” he replies, like this is glaringly obvious.

I return to the table and take another swig of my drink. It tastes better now. Maybe the ice has melted enough to soften the kick of the vodka. Or maybe I’m starting to relax.

“Tempestuoso is a good word to add,” Joaquin says, almost to himself.

“Where?”

He squints at the page. “Right here, where you write about the weather.”

“What’s it mean, tempestuous?”

“Yeah. Stormy.” He grins. “She’ll dig that.”

I scribble a couple notes on the draft, already thinking about how I’ll work in their suggestions. As I put down my pen, I feel a sudden rush of gratitude. Maybe it’s the vodka, but I doubt it. Half a weak cocktail can’t account for the giddy sense of lightness I suddenly feel. In the last couple of weeks, I’ve ventured outside the rigid parameters of my private world; I didn’t realize until now how much that’s stressed me out. I’m making friends. Sure, one of them is paid to drive me around, but until now Attila and I have never gone beyond our tutor-tutee relationship. These days we’re hanging out off the clock. He’s advising me on my love life. Joaquin’s lived on the property for two years, but we’ve never even attempted small talk. Now we’re having drinks together at nine forty-five on a school night. Not only am I making friends, I’m making contact with a beautiful, smart, mysterious girl. After almost four years of isolation, these are pretty big steps, even if I’ve approached both in a deeply convoluted way.

“The thing I don’t get,” Joaquin says, leaning back in his chair, “is how you’re going to actually get with this chick.”

I look up. He’s got a point. “Yeah. That’s a problem.”

“I told him he should play piano, make her come to him.” Attila knocks back the rest of his drink. “But he doesn’t listen to me.”

Joaquin laces his fingers behind his head. “Eventually, you either have to come clean and tell her who you really are, or get to know her as Jack, and have to compete with Alejandro.”

“And Alejandro is way hotter than you,” Attila adds solemnly.

“Ouch,” I say.

Attila gently slaps the back of my head. “I’m only saying.”

“Let’s see if she writes back.” I fold the letter and slip it into my pocket. “She may decide Alejandro’s a total loser, and then I’ll be free to make my move as Jack.” I can’t exactly see myself suddenly gaining that kind of confidence without the ruse of letters to hide behind. Seeing her in the café the other day had me so on edge I nearly gave myself an ulcer. Emailing her as Alejandro, watching her type, her face shining with happiness, I thought I’d explode. The very thought of crossing the room and asking her out gave me hives. Let’s face it; I’m not ready for real time, face-to-face Dakota. Her smile is so radiant, it’s like looking directly at the sun.

“I think you need some kind of plan,” Joaquin says.

He’s right, of course. I consider the suggestion carefully. When at last I offer up an explanation, I try to sound more confident than I actually feel. “Alejandro’s my cover for now. I’ll get to know her a little on paper, get a better sense of how she thinks. Then, once I understand who she is, I can make my move as Jack.”

Joaquin looks skeptical. “Like sending troops in to do reconnaissance before you attack?”

“Exactly. I’m a lot less likely to screw everything up as Jack if I get inside her head as Alejandro first.”

Neither he nor Attila seems entirely convinced, but they let my specious logic slide. They’re right to doubt me, of course. The entire plan’s been shaky from the start.

Still, I can’t stop grinning as Attila goes to the bar and fixes us one more round of drinks.

…

Dakota

Tuesday night, Dad takes me out to sushi. We go to Momoko’s in Petaluma, my favorite, where we wolf down spider, dragon, and California rolls with gusto. We both know he’s doing this as a peace offering, a chance to talk about our fight, but it’s not until the green tea ice cream arrives that he finally broaches the topic.

“You know I’m proud of you, whatever you do,” he says, his face tense.

“I know, Dad.”

He looks at the ceiling. “I shouldn’t assume that just because your mom did things a certain way, you will too. You’re not her, and it’s not fair to—”

“I’m not putting off college forever,” I interrupt. “I’m just considering my options.”

We eat our ice cream slowly, a thousand unspoken impulses and memories swimming under the surface of our conversation like a school of fish beneath the opaque surface of the sea. It’s not easy for us to talk about Mom, maybe because he was every bit as blindsided and hurt by her affair and subsequent transformation as I was. In a way, not being able to talk about that means not being able to talk about lots of other stuff, skirting heavy topics in general. It’s like opening up about anything means balancing on the rim of a steep, slippery pit, and we both know what lies at the bottom of it: Mom.

“I’m sorry about River and Cody,” he says carefully. “That’s got to hurt.”

I nod, not trusting myself to answer.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” He’s trying to sound detached, but it’s pretty obvious he’s hurt.

“It was too raw.” I can feel a lump forming in my throat. “I couldn’t really talk about it.”

I don’t add that I didn’t want him worrying about me more than he already does. Knowing him, he’d want to help me “process” the whole thing, which sounds torturous. He might even book me an appointment with his therapist friend, a guy named Jared with a long white beard who smells like sandalwood mixed with sweat and wears socks with his Birkenstocks. That’s all I need—to have a stinky wizard gazing at me earnestly, encouraging me to emote.

“What do you think of Emily?” Dad asks, changing the subject. He can probably tell I’m less than eager to hash out the River/Cody debacle. Unfortunately, he’s chosen to leap from one uncomfortable topic to another.

“She seems nice.” I shrug. “I don’t really know her.”

The ghost of a smile flits across his face, like he’s remembering some tender moment they shared. He looks boyish suddenly, smitten. Not for the first time, I find myself thinking,
I hope you know what you’re doing.

He uses his spoon to scoop up the last of his ice cream, but pauses with it halfway to his mouth. “I’d like to see more of her. You feel okay about that?”

“How well do you know her?”

He looks surprised at something in my tone. Even I can tell that came out sounding wary, maybe even hostile. I try again.

“I don’t mean to be negative. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.” I leave off the last part:
again.

He flashes a warm, paternal smile and ruffles my hair. “Don’t worry about that, Ducky. I’ve got it under control.”

Between my own disastrous breakup and the hell I watched him go through with Mom, I’m not so sure anyone in love has it “under control.” Maybe that’s why they call it falling—because you can’t stop yourself. I don’t know for sure if Dad’s falling for Emily, but it sure looks like it. I keep all this to myself, though. Going on about my tarnished view of relationships would earn me an appointment with the smelly wizard for sure. If there’s one idea that’s sacred at Luna Cove, it’s “Love Matters.” The whole idea behind communal living is that art thrives when it’s fed by love and togetherness. I want to believe that—who doesn’t? Lately, though, the evidence for such hippie-dippie idealism is pretty scarce.

That night, back in my yurt, I find myself drawing a very detailed portrait of Alejandro—the way he looks in my head, anyway. Having a guy you like on paper is totally different from having a real, flesh and blood boyfriend. During the long stretches between letters, you can fill that empty space with fantasies and daydreams. He can be whoever you want him to be. He never annoys you by saying careless, insensitive things and he never disappoints.

I do miss flesh and blood kisses, though. Cody was an excellent kisser. Like me, he wasn’t all that experienced, but I found that kind of reassuring. His lips were soft and warm, and he’d always pull back to study my expression before he slipped his hands under my bra, making sure each move he made was what I wanted, not just rushing ahead blindly. We didn’t take it any further than under-the-clothes fondling, but if he hadn’t moved away so early in our relationship, I’m pretty sure we would have gone all the way. We talked about it a couple times, about sharing that together, the first time for both of us. Now I’m so glad we didn’t. Knowing I’d lost my virginity to someone who couldn’t keep his hands off my best friend would have made everything a thousand times worse.

I gaze at my portrait of Alejandro and sigh. Maybe that’s why I’m so into him, because boys who only exist on paper can’t hurt you. Between my mom’s abrupt decision to cut me out of her life and the shock of Cody and River getting together, I need a reprieve from real life. I need a fantasy boyfriend who will tantalize from afar and never, ever, make out with my best friend.