Finding Jack, page 13
He had to know it would be impossible for him to choose wrong. But I let it go and started Phase One of Operation Crack Jack.
“So I feel like I know you so well and yet not at all,” I said. “Does that sound crazy?”
He pressed his lips together and tilted his head for a minute. It was his thinking face. How cute. See? I’d already learned something new about him: his pondering expression. This was going to be a productive night.
Finally he said, “No, it’s not crazy. I think in some ways you know me better than a lot of people in my life right now.”
I was very glad I was sitting down because I’d just discovered that “going weak in the knees” could actually happen in real life, not just Ranée’s cheesy novels that I stole and devoured when she was gone.
“I thought tonight could be about getting to know each other better,” I said, “but I was trying to figure out how to still respect your rules for no cocktail party talk. The answer is obviously that I have to psychologically profile you using the most cutting edge tools available.”
His eyebrows went up. “Obviously.”
“I’ve assembled the finest personality assessments available. Look.” I angled the laptop so he could see the precarious pile of magazines. I picked Cosmo off the top and held it up to show him the page I’d left it open to. “Can you read that? It says, ‘What Is Your True Age According to Your Social Media Habits?’ I figured this would be a good one to start with considering how we spend most of our time talking.”
“I don’t need to take it. The answer is thirteen. Maybe fourteen. Next.”
“Fine. We’ll find out which Backstreet Boy we’re each meant to be with instead. Oh, but before we get started, I should warn you, I’m on my laptop because I’m running out of data on my phone plan, but the Wi-Fi is acting up, so it might cut out every now and then.”
“It is?” Ranée said, choosing that moment to walk back in. “Weird. It’s been fine for me.” She leaned down to smile at the camera. “Hi, Jack,” she said, squishing into the shot with me.
“Hi, Nay-Nay.”
“Nay Nay?” I couldn’t help that it came out almost as a hoot.
Jack’s eyebrows scrunched. “Yeah. Nay Nay. That’s what Sean always calls her, isn’t it?”
“Who cares?” I asked. Okay, fine. I almost crowed it. “That’s definitely what she’ll be called from now on.”
“Ugh.” She straightened. “Everything was fine until that stupid dance and song came along. He’s not allowed to call me that anymore. Neither are you and Jack.”
“Okay, Nay Nay,” we said at the same time and then cracked up.
“When I said I hated you before, I was kidding. But now I mean it. I’m leaving,” she said, heading for the door.
“Bye, Nay Nay!” Jack called from the computer.
“I’m not on your team anymore,” she yelled before shutting the door behind her. Hard. A magazine slid off my pile.
“Too far?” Jack asked.
“Definitely not. You’ve made me so happy.”
He shook his head. “Cheetos and coffee and using a nickname your roommate hates. You’re not exactly high maintenance, are you?”
“I don’t know, but I have a quiz that will tell us.” And then I started mouthing words without saying anything. After a couple of seconds, he cut in.
“Emily? I can’t hear you?” He pointed at his ear and shook his head.
I mouthed, “You can’t hear me?”
He pointed at his ear and shook his head again. I held up my finger in a “just a minute” sign and then disconnected the call.
I grabbed the first item from my arsenal, the shirt from a pair of scrubs I’d bought at the costume store and pulled it over on top of my tank top. Then I hit FaceTime again.
Phase Two was about to begin.
It had only been about thirty seconds since I disconnected the call, but if Jack was surprised to see me in hospital scrubs when he answered, he didn’t show it.
“Sorry about the call dropping,” I said.
“No problem. You were saying something about the Backstreet Boys?”
“We better start with a pre-quiz question: do you know who the Backstreet Boys are? I mean, I’m sure you know the band. But do you know each of the members? Because otherwise the results might not mean anything to you.”
He looked at me like I’d just asked who the president was. Instead of answering, he stood up, backed away from the camera, and reached for a flannel shirt on the back of a nearby chair. He slid it on without buttoning it, then held each unbuttoned flap and shook it to make it look like the wind was blowing. He gazed back at me soulfully and sang, “Tell me why, ain’t nothin’ but a heartbreak,” in a perfect imitation of the video for “I Want It That Way.” I could practically see him on the airplane tarmac.
He sat back down and gazed at me expectantly.
“That came to you way too easily.”
“I might have done a homecoming lip sync in high school with the swim team guys.”
“With full choreography?”
He nodded. “And Speedos and flowy white shirts. So bring on the quiz.”
I had a very important question I suddenly needed to ask him first. “What about ‘Shoop? Do you know it? Do you like it? Can you do it?”
“I don’t exactly have ‘a body like Arnold with a Denzel face,’ but yeah, I can Shoop.”
I stared at him without speaking for so long that he tentatively said my name. “Em? Did I answer wrong?”
I swallowed. Hard. “No. That was the right answer. Um, back to this quiz. First question: you’re going on a first date and it just happens to be their birthday. What gift do you get? A, I’m the gift. B, a bouquet of balloons. C, why do you have to get a gift if you don’t even know them, D, chocolate never fails.”
“All bad answers,” he said. “E, flowers. I’d choose ones that make me think of her personality.”
“Oooh. Nice answer. But I’m going to put you down for chocolate. Next, if you were on The Voice, who would be your coach?”
“Blake Shelton.”
“It’s because of the plaid shirts, isn’t it?”
“Obviously. I would always know the dress code. I like dress codes that involve jeans for everything.”
“Noted. But what if your date wanted to go somewhere that required a brand-new pair of red high heels?”
His eyebrows went up. “If they’re the red heels I’m thinking of, then I would sew my own tux by hand if that’s what it took to make it happen.”
Oh, man. He was good. Very, very good. I cleared my throat and asked the next question. “Choose a cheesy nineties trend. Flannel, mood rings, “No Fear” shirts, golf visors, or starter jackets.” I rolled my eyes and marked flannel. “Got it.”
“It’s like you know me.”
I asked him a few more questions, pretended to tally the results, and read him the result I’d already written up ahead of time. “You got Brian Littrell.” He scoffed, but I ignored him and continued. “You’re an all-around good guy. You have a lot of patience, an even temper, and would probably work well in a profession with children.” I set the magazine down and studied him. “Interesting.”
He kept his expression neutral. “I thought this was supposed to tell me which Backstreet Boy I’m meant to be with.”
I shrugged. “I must have misread the name of the title.” Then I started mouthing words to him again. His forehead wrinkled then cleared. He folded his arms across his chest and sighed.
I disconnected the call and pulled my hair into a topknot of my own then slid a tongue depressor behind my ear like it was a pencil and called him back.
“Sorry again,” I said when he answered. His eyes flickered to the tongue depressor, but he didn’t say anything. “The Wi Fi is such a pain today. I have a bad feeling this call will drop a few more times.”
“Me too.”
I shot him a bright smile. By now he had to know what it would take to end this escalating nonsense. “Ready for the next quiz? We’re going to figure out which Marvel superhero you are.”
“Can’t wait.” A touch of amusement laced his voice.
“Would you pick to be part of The Avengers, S.H.I.E.L.D., The X-Men, or the Fantastic Four?”
“Avengers.”
Of course. I got the answers to other questions such as what motivated him, whether he’d ever date another superhero, and what he’d want for his last meal. (Bacon. It was alarming how perfect he was.) I slowed down on the last one. None of the answers mattered in terms of the result I would give him, but I wanted to know his answer to the question for real. “Interesting,” I said, reading it silently. Did I have the nerve to ask it? He leaned forward slightly. “Tonight’s the night,” I read aloud.
His eyebrows shot up again. “Are we going down this road?”
“Settle down and wait for the rest of the question. Tonight’s the night: you’re going on your third date with the most perfect person in the world. What makes them so attractive to you? Is it A, they have a—”
“Wicked sense of humor, quick mind, and a sense of adventure? A strong sense of herself and no fear in setting boundaries? Someone who is driven and ambitious? A killer smile and better hair than me?”
My mouth fell open a tiny bit. I didn’t know what to say to that.
“Just put me for whichever option that is.”
I nodded and marked something random. I wished I could record this conversation and play that bit back over and over. “Ready for your result? Oh, this is shocking. It’s a tie.”
“Can’t be. I’m Thor, obviously.” He pointed to his long hair. “Except his looks better down than mine does.”
I loved Chris Hemsworth as much as the next girl. More, probably. But as a bonafide Chris Hemsworth lover, I wasn’t so sure he had anything on Jack in the hair up OR hair down department. I kept that to myself and shook my head instead. “Sorry. Thor isn’t even in the tie.”
“Let me guess.” He settled back and shot me a look of resignation. “It’s a tie between Captain America and Bruce Banner.”
He was exactly right. “How’d you know that?”
“Wild hunch.”
“Good instincts. Let’s see, if I read through both of these and sum it up, it sounds like you’ve got the excellent problem-solving scientific mind of Bruce Banner with the strong sense of duty like Captain America. It says here you’d be well-suited to a career that combines a fine diagnostic mind with a desire to help others.”
“It says that, does it?”
“It does.”
“And now that this quiz is done, are we about to have another totally random Wi-Fi outage?”
“No, but here’s the thing. I’m kind of hungry so I was thinking I’d make myself some avocado toast. Is it going to bug you if I eat while we’re hanging out?”
“Of course not.”
“Oh, good.” Since he refused to take the bait on the scrubs and the tongue depressor, it was time to raise the stakes.
I reached for the syringe.
I’d already loaded it with guacamole, so when I held up a plate with a piece of toast on it and a syringe full of green paste, Jack looked even more confused than he probably would have by me holding up a giant syringe at all.
“I have a bad relationship with avocados,” I said.
“Okay…”
“They’re perfect for about two minutes. The rest of the time it goes hard, hard, hard, hard, two minutes of ripeness, mushy.”
“If you feel that way about avocados in California, imagine our pain in Oregon.”
“The thing is, if I were a Marvel superhero, I would probably be Iron Man because I came up with a brilliant invention to solve the problem.”
“You did?”
Yeah, I did. About four hours ago when I was trying to figure out how I’d work a syringe into our conversation. But all I said was, “Watch this. I think I need a patent.” And then I angled the camera so he could see me squish out enough guacamole to spread it around with the tongue depressor on the toast. I held up the syringe again, half empty now. “See? All this guac I didn’t use will stay in here, no air, not turning brown.”
Hmmm. Maybe I really did need a patent.
“I concede. Definitely genius.”
“Glad you can see that. Now for another quiz.”
“Oh good.”
“It almost sounds like you don’t mean that.”
He dropped his head. “Can’t imagine how you got that idea,” he mumbled into his folded arms.
“Now we’re going to figure out what our patronus is.”
He lifted his head. “Mine’s a sparkle unicorn.”
I shook a magazine at him. “This quiz will decide that. All right, first question. What is your natural element?”
“Hermit cabin,” he said before I could give him his choices.
“Earth, air, fire, or water?”
“Mud.”
“Runny mud or thick mud?”
“Thick.”
“So earth. Next: your significant other reveals she cheated on you, but she apologizes and promises never to do it again. Do you—”
“Wait, why are you cheating on me?”
I knew he was kidding, but the implication that I was his significant other made my cheeks heat. I ignored the interruption. “So do you dump her, try to work it out, follow your gut, or cheat in revenge?”
“Definitely dump her.”
“What kind of dancing do you like to do? Slow and smooth, like a waltz? Fast and crazy? Free flowing? Never mind the answer. Let me figure out where ‘hip-hop in a Speedo’ fits.”
He laughed, and I asked him a few more questions and then pretended to tally the results again before I read the answer I’d already written. “How interesting. You’re a Caribbean flamingo. Apparently they’re super nurturing, and they produce this natural concoction full of fat and protein to keep their flamingo kids healthy. That’s fascinating.”
“I’m riveted.”
“Oops, I couldn’t hear you. Wi-Fi connection must be going bad again. I better try reconnecting.” I hung up, pulled on a surgical mask, and hung a toy stethoscope around my neck. Then I pressed “Call” and listened to the heightened sound of my heartbeat in my own ears. I didn’t even need a stethoscope for that.
This was it. He had to crack now.
“Hi.” I grinned at the sound of my muffled voice coming through the mask when he answered.
He blinked at me.
“Next quiz. What’s your Hogwarts—”
He held up his hand in a “stop” gesture. “I’m sure whatever the result is, it will turn out to be the house that’s produced the most wizard doctors.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I get it. You know I’m a doctor. Did Ranée tell you?”
“No. And I feel betrayed that she didn’t.” I removed the mask, using the excuse of setting it down to gather my thoughts. He didn’t seem at all amused by my efforts to win that confession. “I found out the old-fashioned way. Relentless googling.”
“Did you consider there might be a reason for that?” He didn’t sound angry, exactly. His voice sounded the way my eyelids used to feel after studying all night in college.
“Yes. But I hoped if you knew I knew, then we wouldn’t have to talk around it anymore. That nothing in our conversations has to be off limits. We can discuss philosophy or small talk.”
“It’s not small talk. This is hugest-thing-in-my-life talk.”
“I get that.”
“I think you don’t.” His face slipped from pained to stony, a sudden shutdown of his emotions that left his expression blank.
He could have stabbed me with my hypodermic needle and it would have stung less. My whole point had been to get him to open up so I could understand him. Now my instinct was to close the laptop, crawl into bed, go to sleep, and wake up to a morning where I discovered I’d never started this conversation. But all the evidence that I’d opened a door I couldn’t close now was scattered in its Fischer Price garishness before me.
“I’m sorry.” His expression didn’t change, but I soldiered on. “I shouldn’t have pried. But we’ve had big and small talk for weeks. Now that I know about you being a doctor, can’t it all just be real talk?”
The tiredness I’d heard in his voice crept into the tight lines around his eyes. “Haven’t you been following my Twitter posts? You’ve seen the work I do. I don’t do real.”
“I think it’s amazing that you’re a doctor. I’m just trying to understand why this is so hard for you to talk about.”
“Are you?” His voice was even, but all the warmth I’d grown used to hearing in it had leached away. “Or are you trying to solve a mystery to satisfy your own curiosity? Because that’s what if feels like from where I’m sitting. Didn’t I just say something about how much I respect that you set clear boundaries? Why does that only go one way?”
If the earlier comment had felt like a needle, this was a scalpel, slicing through all my layers of justification for prying, right to the heart of things. “Okay. Your life isn’t a joke.” I tugged the stethoscope from my neck. I was ashamed of its bright yellow and redness as it dangled from my hand. “I’m sorry.” And then I didn’t know what else to say, so I said, “I should go now.”
He nodded. “Talk to you later.” And he disconnected as I was reaching for the button to hang up. The FaceTime logo filled the screen, and I shut the laptop. The urge to crawl under my covers and hide washed over me again. Instead, I stood and gathered up all my props from the coffee table and dropped them into the trash can, returning for the pile of magazines and giving them the same treatment.
Then I crawled into bed and pulled the covers over my head to wallow.
What had I been thinking? People who went to those kinds of lengths to keep their pasts under wraps didn’t want to talk about them for a reason.
Maybe the better question was who had I been thinking about?
Me.
I’d been thinking about my need to know. Why had I needed to know?
Because Ranée kept pushing me to find out. This was her fault somehow.
I flung down the covers so I could draw a breath of cool air.
