Beneath the Surface, page 2
Assuming the man is her husband, I pause briefly to see if Mrs. Reynolds plans to introduce me to him, but she doesn’t. He doesn’t so much as look in our direction, so I decide to just continue following Mrs. Reynolds, who is now at the foot of the stairs.
Silently, I ascend the stairs, unable to shake a feeling of unease.
Calm down. This is going to be fine. Dad would never let you stay with them if he thought they were bad people.
I take a deep breath as Mrs. Reynolds knocks on the first door at the top of the stairs. If someone told her to come in, I didn’t hear them, but she opens the door and pokes her head inside anyway. Then, she motions for me to enter.
With my stomach still twisting and turning, I go inside. Although I’m not sure what I expected to find, it’s different from what I’d imagine a boy’s room to look like.
For one, it’s a lot cleaner than I anticipated, and for that, I’m grateful. Action movie posters hang on the wall, and there’s a pile of video games neatly stacked on top of the dresser. A navy-blue backpack sits on the floor next to the desk.
My eyes trail to the bed, and I find a boy around my age lying on top, propped up by a stack of pillows behind him. He’s clutching a video game controller, and I hear the game Fatal Zombies coming from the TV.
“Jax, this is Hannah. You might know her from school,” Mrs. Reynolds says.
Jax’s deep brown eyes shift in my direction, then immediately back to the TV. “Nope.”
My stomach does a flip-flop. He doesn’t want me here.
Mrs. Reynolds clears her throat. “I need to finish the laundry. If I leave Hannah here, can you let her have a turn on the game?”
Without waiting for Jax to respond, Mrs. Reynolds smiles at me. “You two will have fun. I’ll just be downstairs if you need anything.” And with that, she leaves me alone with this boy who wants nothing to do with me.
I stand there silently for a moment, hoping Jax will acknowledge me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he continues trying to kill zombies. When he does finally make a noise, it’s a frustrated groan because his game avatar died. He immediately starts a new game without offering me a turn.
The way I look at it, I have two choices. One, I can just stand here uncomfortably and hover while he plays. Or two, I can be the one who makes small talk and maybe get him to like me. As terrifying as it is, I go with option two.
I casually walk over to his desk, observing the books sitting on top of it. “I have the same science book, but I’m in Mrs. Worley’s class. Whose class are you in?”
“Goodwin,” he mumbles, his eyes still glued to the TV.
“What’s your favorite subject? Mine is social studies.”
No reply.
“Right now, we’re learning about the fall of the Roman empire. It’s so fascinating.”
More silence.
Reluctantly, I sit in his desk chair and angle myself so I can see the TV. If he’s going to stare in that direction, then so am I. Anything else just feels too awkward.
I nervously pick at the hem of my sleeve as I watch his avatar scale a cliff, only to be met by a herd of zombies, who quickly devour him.
He groans again before slamming his fist into the bed.
I debate on whether to say anything, but before I can talk myself out of it, I blurt out, “You know you need a katana to pass this level, right?”
That gets his attention. Instead of starting a new game, he shakes his dark hair from his eyes and actually looks at me. “What?”
The thread on my sleeve pulls loose, but I continue to fidget with it. “A katana. It’s a sword—”
“I know what a katana is. What makes you think I need it?”
His skepticism makes my cheeks flush.
“Because that’s how I passed this level.”
“Bull.”
I stiffen with annoyance. “It’s in the cave. At the bottom of the cliff. You missed it.”
He eyes me for a moment, trying to decide if I’m making it up or not. But I know I’m right. I don’t want to break it to him, but I passed this level three weeks ago. I’m almost finished with the entire game now.
Instead of arguing with me, he reaches out his hand, offering me the controller. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
He’s calling my bluff, which makes my ears burn.
Why does he think I’m lying?
“Fine.” I take the controller from him and scoot my chair closer so I can get a better angle on the TV screen.
I hit the button to begin the game, which starts with his avatar back at the bottom of the cliff. Without hesitation, I navigate the avatar to the right and to a cave that is off-screen. It blends in with the rocks, so it’s hard to see if you aren’t actively looking for it.
Within two minutes, I send his avatar into the cave, retrieve the katana, leave the cave, scale the cliff, and slice the brain of every single zombie in the herd. Victory flashes on the screen, showing that I successfully passed the level. I pause the game and offer the controller back to him. He watches me with wide eyes as I try not to gloat.
“Where did you learn how to do that?”
“I like video games,” I reply with a shrug, deliberately leaving out the part where I got into them two years ago when Mom got sick. She wasn’t up to doing much except resting, so I took up playing video games while she slept on the couch.
As silly as it sounds, the games remind me of her. Now, when I play, it makes me feel like she’s still here but maybe just taking a nap.
Instead of taking the controller back, Jax shakes his head. “Nah, go ahead. You’ve earned another turn.”
THREE
Jax | Present
The pain is so unexpected that for a second, I forget how to breathe. I suck in a breath, grit my teeth, and hold back the expletives that want to escape.
As I pick my jeans up off the floor, I glance at my toe, the one that I just slammed against the footboard of Bethany’s bed. It’s red and aching, but doesn’t appear to be bent in a strange position, so I don’t think it’s broken. I’ve broken enough bones throughout my life to know the difference.
The throbbing subsides as I pull on my jeans and begin searching for my black T-shirt. I remember yanking it off and tossing it across the room last night. Following the direction that I believe I threw it, I find it, half hanging off the dresser.
“Heading out?” Bethany asks from the bed, her voice raspy and sluggish.
I snatch up my shirt and catch the lingering smell of Bethany’s tart perfume as I tug it over my head. “Yeah, I’m late.”
“Okay.” Without opening her eyes, she pulls her comforter up to her chin. “Later, Jax.”
I pat my pockets, confirming that I have my phone and my keys. Then, I slip out of her room and out of her apartment, grateful not to run into her roommate, Vanessa, as I’m leaving.
Vanessa was stone-cold sober when Bethany and I stumbled in sometime after two a.m. She then proceeded to lecture Bethany for a solid ten minutes about what a mistake it would be to hook up with me.
“I’m an adult,” Bethany insisted. “I think I’m capable of making my own decisions.”
They were in the hallway, still within earshot, as I sat on the couch, mindlessly watching TV. Getting bored with a late-night talk show, I made my way into the kitchen and opened the fridge.
I’ll give Bethany five minutes to get Vanessa off her back, or I’ll head home.
If this were any other night, I would’ve already been out of there. Or rather, would’ve been kicked out for telling Vanessa to mind her business and get a life of her own. I’d have also pointed out that she was late to the party because Bethany and I had already hooked up twice this year. The first time had been back in March in the bathroom of a sorority house, where they were hosting their annual pajama party. The second time had been at my place after running into each other at Flynn’s, my go-to off-campus bar.
Things with Bethany were casual. No expectations. No drama. It was exactly what I needed to take away the reminder that in a few hours, I’d have to meet up with Hannah—the one person I’d been actively avoiding for the past seven years. I required something to break the scent of coconut that had been haunting me all day.
“You aren’t using good judgment,” Vanessa lectured Bethany.
Bethany let out a loud, exaggerated sigh. “You’re my friend, not my mother! I’m not even drunk.”
Vanessa huffed. “You don’t have to be drunk to make poor decisions.”
I found a case of beer in the fridge, pulled one out, and cracked it open. I’d already had more than my fair share at the party we’d just left, but I took a swig anyway.
“Look, I’m not trying to fight with you,” Vanessa said, sounding defeated.
“Then, what’s your problem?” Bethany asked.
“It’s the fact that Jax Reynolds is a total man-whore!”
I almost spit out my beer. Despite it being a clear insult, it impressed me that the word was in Vanessa’s otherwise uptight vocabulary. After wiping my lips with the back of my hand, I joined them in the hall to put an end to this pointless argument. Bethany was an adult, and it was up to her whether I stayed or left.
Vanessa narrowed her eyes at me as I came up behind Bethany, wrapping my arms around her.
“This man-whore is ready for bed,” I said in Bethany’s ear while intentionally locking eyes with Vanessa. I made no attempt to hide the smirk on my face.
Bethany giggled as she pulled my arms tighter around her waist. “Good. Me too.”
Vanessa rolled her eyes. “Fine. Whatever. It’s your life. Just try to keep it down.” And with that, Vanessa stormed to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
Outside their apartment, the morning sunlight hits my face, forcing me to squint as I look at my watch. “Shit,” I say under my breath as I realize I was supposed to meet Hannah five minutes ago to work on our project. I’m later than I thought.
Bethany lives in the student housing closest to the coffee shop, so it’s only five or six blocks away. There’s no way Hannah is running behind. She’s never late for anything.
As the coffee shop comes into view, I break into a slow jog, following the sidewalk around the back side of the building. A guy that I recognize from last semester’s Statistics class rounds the corner and immediately dips into the grass when he sees me. We aren’t friends, so I don’t expect him to greet me, but I also don’t expect him to go out of his way to avoid me either.
Ignoring him, I hurry past, only coming to a normal, casual walking pace when I reach the front door. There’s no way I’m giving Hannah the satisfaction of thinking that I’d run to meet her. I mean, if this class wasn’t literally the difference between me staying in college or getting expelled, I probably wouldn’t have even bothered to show up. Coffee with Hannah is the last thing I want to do this morning.
As expected, Hannah is sitting inside the coffee shop when I arrive. She’s hard to miss. I’d never confess it to anyone, but she’s easily the hottest girl in every room she occupies. Acknowledging this irritates me even if I’m only admitting it to myself.
Hannah sits at a table for two, but she isn’t looking for me. Instead, she’s fixated on whatever book she’s reading. It’s not until I’m scooting out the chair across from her that she looks up at me. The second she does, I can see the invisible shield go up and her expression turn stoic.
“You’re late,” she says.
I sit down, ignoring her comment, but taking notice of the way her hair drapes over one shoulder, exposing her smooth neck. “Let’s just get this over with, shall we?”
She closes her book, which I recognize as the same one our professor told us to read before starting the assignment. The book is about Enneagram personality typing. Before going out last night, I glimpsed at it, but only long enough to figure out which of the nine distinct personality types Hannah was. It wasn’t hard to figure out at all. I didn’t even need to read through all of them to find it.
The semester had begun with us taking an Enneagram personality quiz to determine which personality type we were. I could not care less what my type was, but it annoyed me that Campos refused to release our results to us.
I wondered, What’s the point?
It wasn’t like you couldn’t just go online and take one of a hundred free quizzes to figure it out if you really wanted to. What I hadn’t predicted was that Campos is a weirdo who enjoys forcing strangers to ask each other invasive questions in order to determine their partner’s personality type. Winners are the ones who guess correctly, I suppose.
Thanks to my brief preparation, I already have Hannah figured out. And knowing Hannah the way I do, she’s already read that book front to back and has me pegged.
Hannah pulls a laptop out of her backpack and places it on the table. “I downloaded the list of questions Professor Campos provided as sample starters, and as she instructed, I added several of my own. I hope you did the same.” She opens the laptop and powers it on.
I sit back in my chair. “No need. We’re good.”
She glances up at me. “What do you mean?”
“We don’t need to do the stupid assignment. We’ll just write our papers and be done with it.”
She tilts her head slightly. “We can’t do that.”
“Why not? We already know each other well enough to write a damn paper.”
“I’m not cheating,” she replies with a scowl. “Professor Campos was very clear that we needed to provide recent, specific observations and examples to back up our assessments. We don’t have that.”
All I hear is that Hannah is planning to ask me a bunch of intrusive questions, and the thought makes me want to bolt from the coffee shop.
“I’ll start with the questions she provided.” Hannah looks down at her computer and reads off a question from the list. “Would you say that you are more inclined to help others with a problem or entertain them?”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t care about doing either. Why is it my job to babysit someone else?”
“Okay. I’ll just put too selfish to be bothered as your answer.” She clears her throat and moves on to the next question. “Would you say that you have a strong inner critic?”
I can’t do this. Not with her.
“I’d say that I have a strong outer critic,” I reply.
She types into her computer, and I don’t know how much more of these ridiculous questions I can take. These are the easy ones, the ones that our professor provided. Without a doubt, Hannah’s questions will be much more difficult—more personal.
“Want me to prove it to you?” I continue, unsolicited, hoping that if I can be abrasive enough, she’ll give in and do things my way. “You’re an Enneagram Type Nine, a Peacemaker. Through disassociation, you live your life in denial. You prefer to bury your head in the sand rather than face something difficult. You’re a pushover, scared of doing anything that will cause conflict or disrupt your peace. Am I close?”
I watch as she turns pale. She sits there for a moment, eyeing me, likely trying to process what I unloaded on her. It’s clear that I’ve caught her off guard, and in true Hannah fashion, she doesn’t know how to respond to it.
It’s not until she stands up and hurls her backpack into her chair that I realize she’s pissed. “How’s this for a pushover?”
“What are you doing?” I ask, although it’s clear that she’s leaving. I fully expected her to back down, not go toe-to-toe with me.
She closes her laptop, picks it up, and slides it into her backpack. “We’re done here. I won’t take this from you. Not again.”
The familiarity of what I said to her sinks in, and I can’t blame her for wanting to walk out. Yes, I meant to get under her skin, but I didn’t intend to rub salt in an old wound. I open my mouth, unsure of what to say when she beats me to it.
“For the record, I know exactly who you are too, Jax.”
I stay silent because I’m curious to know what she thinks of me.
Her face turns pink with anger. I’ve only seen it that way a few times, when someone pushed the right button. Apparently, I pushed them all at once.
“You’re an Enneagram Type Eight, a Challenger, and an exceptionally unhealthy and dysfunctional one at that,” she says quickly, as if she has so much to say that she needs to get it all out in one breath. “You enjoy intimidating people because it’s easier than letting your guard down or actually showing an ounce of real human emotion.”
She’s not wrong.
I shrug. “Good. This isn’t rocket science. Put it to paper, and let’s just be done with this.”
I’m not interested in trading insults with her. I just want to get the hell out of there. But I can’t do that until we agree on how to handle the project. If we don’t, we’ll both fail.
She picks up the book and places it inside her backpack. I watch as she silently zips it up and then tosses it over her shoulder.
“Good luck with your life.”
“You can’t leave.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Watch me.”
As she takes a step backward, I find myself desperate to stop her. “Wait.”
Thankfully, she pauses.
I shift in my seat. “I was just trying to prove a point.”
“What point, Jax? That you’re a bully? Believe me, I’m well aware.”
Her comment stings. Not that I’d ever let her know it.
She takes another step, and I blurt out, “I’m on academic probation. If I fail this class, I’ll get kicked out of school.”
Once again, she stops. A tiny wrinkle appears between her eyebrows. It’s a hint of concern that quickly smooths back out. “That’s not my problem.”
“You don’t want to flunk either.” I don’t know all the details about Hannah’s life these days, but I’d be willing to bet everything I own that this is an accurate statement.
