Finding Jack, page 10
“Are you high?”
“I’m not high.”
“Then maybe you’re having a stroke? I bet that’s it. You’re having a stroke that’s wiping out your short-term memory of the five months you spent nagging me to cut him loose.”
She shrugged. “I admit that I’m rarely wrong about people, but I got Paul wrong. He’s all right. I’m saying I wouldn’t give you a hard time if you date him again.”
“I’m not dating him again. This is why I don’t like to tell you stuff sometimes. I didn’t break up with Paul because you told me to. I didn’t start talking to Jack because you told me to. I have never made a single decision in my life to do anything because you told me to.”
“You should start that bacon.”
I got up and laid some strips in the skillet. “I’m not doing this because you told me to.”
“Understood.” The sizzle of cooking bacon filled the silence for a few minutes. “So is it weird for you if Paul and I both volunteer at the barn?”
“Weird in the sense that it’s a bizarre coincidence, but it doesn’t bother me at all. Wait,” I said, almost running to plop down in front of her again. “Are you trying to tell me you want to date Paul?”
She looked at me like I’d just suggested she go for a naked jog. “Definitely not.”
“Then why are you so stressed?”
“I really like this volunteering thing and I didn’t want it to be awkward for you that he’s there.”
“Nope. That’s it? That’s what you were stressed about?”
She muttered something, but I could make it out plain as day. I made her repeat it anyway. “Sorry, a little louder, please.”
She scowled at me. “I said I was worried I had maybe ruined your dating life because I was wrong about Paul.”
“That last part one more time?”
She rolled her eyes and rose to take her bowl to the sink. “You’re the worst.”
“Just so we’re clear, Paul was nice, but you’re right. He was too boring for me.”
“I’m glad it’s not a big deal if we end up having overlapping hours. I love riding, and the kids aren’t so bad either.”
“I’m sure they’d be honored to hear you say so.”
She flashed a grin in answer then changed the subject. “So you had a date last night. How’s Jack?”
“Fine.” So very fine.
“When are you going to meet him?”
I’d thought about it. Of course I thought about it. That’s why I had an answer ready. “I’m not.”
“Um. What.”
“That’s not what this is. Ten-hour car rides are bad for relationships.”
“But one-hour flights are good for them. Of course you have to meet him.”
“If he lived here, or even kind of close to here, yeah, of course I’d go out with him. But he doesn’t. It’s a moot point.”
“If moot means not meeting him is totally stupid, then sure. Moot point.”
“It’s a fun distraction,” I said. “Joking around with him definitely helped me see why Paul and I were a bad fit. But this isn’t about a relationship. It’s about entertainment.”
“I accept that you believe that right this moment. But is that how he’s seeing this too? We all watch the same movies. I think ten out of ten people in this exact situation would meet sooner than later.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “You know I’m not big into defining relationships.”
“No,” she agreed. “You roll with it until the guy refers to you as his girlfriend and then suddenly you’re in a relationship, and then you roll with it a little longer until you break up with him. I know your M.O., girlfriend. It’s a weird personality tic for such a—ahem.” She fake coughed.
“Such a what? Control freak?”
“You said it.”
“That’s not true.” Except it totally was.
Ranée didn’t even bother to call me on it. “Either quit talking to him or start talking about what this thing is.”
“I don’t get this,” I said. “You’re the most commitment-phobic person I know. Why are you pushing me toward this when you can’t stand relationships either?”
“I’m honest about it. I don’t think you know you’re a commitment-phobe too, but you’re as bad as I am.”
“That’s not fair. We’ve been roommates for what, three years? And I’ve had two boyfriends to your zero.”
“I’m straight with every guy I go out with. They know I’m just there for the party. You, however, honestly think you’re open to relationships. It’s what makes you dangerous.”
Ranée was always a direct talker. It was one of my favorite things about her, but this conversation was not my favorite thing right now. But she wasn’t done.
“You pick guys you know you can’t fall for, and then—surprise—you don’t.”
“I know the type of girl you’re talking about. I had friends like that in college, but those girls picked guys who were in relationships and were happy as the side chick because they got all of the perks with none of the work, or they got involved with professors, or dudes in their last year of law school who were going to be gone by the end of the semester so they could break it off. This Jack thing is the first time I’ve ever gotten involved with someone who I legitimately don’t see a future with.”
“Ah ha! You said you’re involved.”
“Oh for—look, haven’t you ever heard of the analogy of the farmer’s breakfast? He had bacon and eggs. The chicken was involved. The pig was committed.”
She wanted to laugh. I could tell. But she wanted to win the argument more. “The whole reason I pushed you to talk to Jack is because he’s exactly the kind of guy you need. He doesn’t take himself seriously, and he doesn’t let you take yourself too seriously either, does he?”
“I don’t take myself too seriously.”
She smacked her palm on the table. “Not with me. But you never let guys see this side of you. You show them perfectly behaved Emily, highly successful Emily, and you never let them see that you are hands down the most ridiculous person I know.” I frowned, and she snorted. “Don’t even try to act offended. Your ridiculousness is my favorite thing about you. But that’s exactly why you never let that side out for these guys. Because then it gives you a point in the relationship where you can say that he doesn’t fully understand you, that you guys aren’t clicking at some level, and then suddenly Paul’s sitting on the curb.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Paul again?”
“Whoever. You know you do this,” she said. “And it’s exactly why you’ve let your real self out with Jack. Because you’re counting on the distance to keep you safe, and that’s not fair.”
Irritation flickered through my chest and my palms started to tingle. It was a warning sign that the adrenaline of a temper tantrum wasn’t far behind. “Why do you even care about my relationship dysfunction? I’m not hurting anyone. Let’s talk about you and why every guy is a party and none of them ever gets a third date.”
“Because I’m a total disaster. Disillusioned with men, heartbroken by a toxic relationship when I was too young, the whole bit. I’m not a mystery.”
I took a calming breath. She wasn’t trying to hurt me, even though it felt like I should be hunkering down in a foxhole right that second. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
She shrugged. “You shouldn’t talk to me about it. But you definitely should talk to Jack and make sure he knows that whatever this is now, that’s all it’s ever going to be.”
She was repeating my words, but it gave me a hollow pang inside to hear her say it.
“I’ll say something to him the next time we talk.”
“When is that going to be?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t make any plans or anything.”
She got a knowing look on her face. “He will. You will. I saw your face last night while you were counting down the minutes until he called, and it said something very different than what your mouth is telling me right now.” She jumped up and gave me a drive-by hug before she pulled a U-turn and sped for the door. “Gotta muck some stalls!”
And then the door closed behind her, and I was alone with my thoughts, which was the last place I wanted to be.
Chapter 17
I tried not to think too hard about Ranée’s criticism over the next few days, but flashes of it returned every time I caught myself grinning at every text from Jack, or when we spent an hour Tuesday night flirting over Messenger.
Ranée was wrong. I knew she had my best interests at heart, but mostly Ranée just liked to fix things while remaining a hot mess. Working on me meant she didn’t have to work on herself.
I tried to ignore her when Jack texted me Wednesday morning to ask if I wanted to go out again.
Yeah. Yes. So much yes. But…what if this wasn’t play time for him too?
Gah. Stupid Ranée.
I texted back with a short, Sure.
Cool. Call you tonight to figure something out.
I blinked down at his text to me. Call me tonight? If he was calling me tonight, then what was the date? Wasn’t the call the date?
I hurried home from work and scarfed down some phở before I turned on Netflix and tried to pretend my phone didn’t exist. I was halfway through an episode of Jane the Virgin when Jack called.
“Hi,” I said. At least I didn’t have to go through a shame spiral from answering the phone this time.
“Hey,” he said. “Is now a good time?”
“I mean, I was busy improving my mind with some highbrow television, but I can pause it.”
“I’m impressed. I was watching Storage Wars.”
“That one guy who drives the old fifties car always overbids.”
He laughed. “He does. So, are you free on Friday night?”
I nestled down in the sofa. “Friday works. But when one goes to Rome and London on a first date, how does one top that?”
“One doesn’t,” he said. “One changes directions completely. One upgrades the format and downgrades the activity.”
“I don’t follow, but you’ve got me very curious.”
“How about a low-key night of board games?”
That didn’t sound nearly as exciting as a stroll through Hyde Park, but I kept my voice light as I said, “Sure.”
He cleared his throat. “But over FaceTime.”
So that’s what “upgrading the format” meant. “Sure,” I said again, but I wasn’t sure I’d kept it quite as light this time. “So I have to find my conditioner?”
“Nah,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “But I’m definitely buying the good kind tomorrow.”
Man, he was smooth in the dorkiest possible way. “I’ll pencil in a tangle-free date for Friday.” We chatted a few more minutes and hung up.
For the rest of the week, the stomach-flipping and flutters recurred every time I thought about our first face-to-face date. Or “face to face,” I guess. But every time that happened, I also heard Ranée in my head. Make sure he knows this is all it will ever be. I imagined all the different ways I could shut her up when her voice intruded. Hand over her mouth. Duct tape. Or if it intruded a lot, maybe a pillow over her face.
That was the most annoying thing about Ranée. Once she planted an idea like that, I had to deal with it completely before I could dismiss it. So I tried.
The most uncomfortable part of her argument was that Jack’s expectations might be different than mine. Even planning dates suggested a deeper investment than goofing off in chats and texts all week.
Gah. Stupid Ranée. I was going to have to deal with this.
I could not feel any stupider about having a “define the relationship” talk with my online playmate. And yet it didn’t make me look forward any less to our game night.
Friday afternoon I rushed straight home from work and ransacked my closet trying to figure out what to wear. It all looked lame. I gave up and Googled “best colors to wear on camera.” It was more like a list of all the things not to wear on camera, which could be summed up as “everything.” Except blue. Blue was “safe” on camera, which was good because heaven knows tight patterns, dangly earrings, and above all STRIPES would make the camera explode, probably.
Google could only boss me up to a point, then I rebelled in very Emily-esque style by only kind of obeying but also not NOT obeying and pulled on a teal shirt because it wasn’t exactly blue but wasn’t NOT blue. Other famous Emily rebellions included high school spirit days when all the student government kids were required to wear our student council T-shirts. As the Club Coordinator, that meant me. I hated those boring gray shirts, so every Friday I cheered myself up by wearing a neon green bra underneath. No Google list was going to make me wear straight blue even though it’s my favorite color.
I’d have fastened in some dangly earrings too except I didn’t want Jack to think I was trying too hard. I put in a pair of tiny silver hoops instead. Then I sat. And then I started freaking out about the apartment being on camera too. I’d planned to stay in my room so Ranée wouldn’t get nosy and holler something like “Emily thinks you’re hot,” because truths like that didn’t need to be told aloud, but suddenly my bedroom seemed like a bad idea. Like, “Here I am on my bed.”
Nope.
I figured the living room was safe enough. I fluffed the throw pillows and filled my water bottle in case talking parched me.
I practiced all the ways to ask Jack if I was stringing him along.
So, what are your expectations for this thing we’re doing? Because I’m just killing time.
Do you plan on us ever meeting in real life? Because I don’t.
You know we’re not a thing, right? But can we still just do all this flirting all the time anyway?
None of those seemed…good.
Instead I decided to think about how Jack was going to look. I mean, I knew how he looked from pictures and how he sounded from our European trip. But there was something different about seeing someone’s expression and movement, from picking up the cues they didn’t realize they gave away in their face.
On the phone, he’d seemed shy but not insecure. Insecure guys, they always had that touch of bluster. Sometimes it was arrogance, talking about their cars or their gym routines. Usually it was quieter than that, even. Paul hadn’t bragged about being able to afford a decent apartment in the San Francisco housing market, but he’d find ways to mention compliments from his boss or refer to “his” employees to emphasize that he was successful enough to manage a team. I’d dated other guys who brought up their vegetarianism every so often, like, “Look at my virtue! Do you see me eating this lentil stuff? How about now? And now?”
It was all a way to highlight their best attributes, as if they were afraid I couldn’t figure them out myself. Or maybe because they didn’t want anyone to notice their flaws, so they trotted out their accomplishments like a personality combover.
Shy guys didn’t lean on any of that stuff. They started slower, watching and waiting before they let you see parts of themselves rather than just plunking them down for display. Jack was more that way. How would talking on camera affect that?
My phone buzzed with the FaceTime alert, and I took a deep breath as I pressed “Accept” to find out.
Chapter 18
There he was.
His head and shoulders appeared on camera. I half expected him to be in flannel due to my man bun prejudices, but he was wearing a dark gray thermal.
Here is the thing about men wearing thermals: they are so hot. I do not mean temperature.
How was that even fair? Guys can pull out their comfiest shirt and put it on, and immediately it gives them amazing shoulders and sex appeal. Meanwhile, one internet search on “what to wear on camera” later, and I’m sporting an adequate teal shirt and a FEMA situation in my closet.
His hair was pulled back, but a tendril had escaped and hung by his eye. I wanted to reach through the screen and brush it back. I had underestimated how hard it would be to keep a straight face. Not even a straight face, just not one of those pop-eyed, slack-jawed cartoon faces.
He waved. It was so much cuter than saying hi.
I waved back. Then I realized it was awkward when I did it because now no one had spoken, so I said, “Hi.”
“How’s San Francisco?” he asked.
“Foggy. It’s a good night to be inside playing a board game. How’s the hermit house?”
“Small and Oregony.”
“What does Oregony mean? Is everything made of hemp? Do all the throw pillows get their tassels dreadlocked?”
“No, I think that’s a San Francisco thing. I need to specify that this place is rural Oregony which means it looks like an LL Bean catalog in here, except if it was decorated by two old guys sloshed on Budweiser who dragged in all the furniture their wives wouldn’t let them keep and then shoved it wherever it fit.”
“I’m going to need to see this.”
He reversed the camera, and I cursed myself for making the demand because there couldn’t be anything more interesting in his house than his face. “This is something else,” he said, panning around the room. Faux wood paneling covered the walls, which seemed like an odd choice for a cabin in the actual woods. I spotted an old TV, a tweedy brown sofa, and a kitchenette with avocado green counters. The only modern touch was a large, sleek computer monitor on a card table in the corner that I glimpsed before he flipped the camera again.
“In my defense, I’ve made none of these choices.”
“You’re forgiven. How long have you lived there?”
“Couple years, I guess.”
The answer startled me. I’d expect to see his own style in there somewhere after so long. Not that I knew what his style was, but he’d already said it wasn’t this.
“What about you?” he asked. “How long have you been in San Francisco?”
“I’ve been in the Bay Area for about ten years. I came up for college, and I’ve been around ever since.”
“Up? San Francisco is not up. Oregon is up.”
“Up from the suburbs of LA. Everything is relative.”
