Awkward. Page 8

  “The truth is...?” Allie prompts.

  “I’m in a rut here, and I think this opportunity came at the right time.”

  There’s a long silence following my statement. Her expressions flash through a rainbow of emotions—pain, frustration, anger. I know how all of these look in her eyes—and eventually, she forces herself to land on a shadow of indifference.

  “Fine,” she says, ending the conversation. “Can I give you a ride home?”

  Chapter 10

  ALLIE

  My fingers bang furiously against the keyboard.

  Stupid Florida, I think, as a page of Google results pops up with a list of the most common ways people die in Florida. I scan the list, copy and paste the top ten items from it into an email, and hit Send.

  I’ve been sending Jack every possible article I can find over the course of the last week that details how dangerous and scary of a place Florida can be. Never mind the articles raving of clear blue ocean water and deliciously fresh fruit. Banana trees grow in Florida—which is very cool—but I’ve ignored this fact and instead pummeled Jack with a list of deaths by alligators and snakes for the last hundred years there.

  He’s politely ignored all of my emails.

  It’s Sunday afternoon again already, and I’m preparing to face Jack for dinner. If he decides to show up, of course. Now that he’s all about new experiences and new things, I can’t help but wonder if our Sunday night dinners will become a rut for him.

  While I might be overreacting slightly, Jack is, too. If he wants new experiences, he could look at a new local hospital or take up marathon running or compete in hot dog eating competitions. This sudden interest in a job across the country feels a lot more like Jack’s running away from something, rather than toward it.

  He’s always told me research was not his career plan—he likes being with patients too much for that. He’s also never before expressed a desire to move out of state. Which is why I have a plan, and I’ve put together my thoughts into a spiffy little PowerPoint presentation to set Jack straight.

  I’ve decided that Jack’s problem has to do with what started Romance Academy in the first place: his love life. I plan to give him the presentation over dinner tonight. I’ve even included charts and graphs, and I have a laser clicker.

  Jack might feel like his life is in a rut, but the one thing sure to change that is love. Falling in love has the tendency to upset everything in one’s universe—at least, I imagine so based on the books I read. I’ve never been in love myself, so I’ve learned pretty much everything I need to know about love from books.

  But if the books are to be trusted, getting Jack to fall in love in California will keep him grounded here, and this is the entire basis for my slideshow. I’ve put together ten different examples from ten different novels and created the most beautiful PowerPoint on the face of this earth. I even have movie clips to back up my arguments in addition to the graphs.

  When Jack arrives tonight, he’s in for a treat. And it’s all based in logic, something that Jack can appreciate. If nothing else, he’s methodical in his decision making. My entire hypothesis is that once Jack falls in love, he’ll be satisfied in all areas of his life: career, love, passion.

  At the moment, he has his career and his passions in order, but because that love piece is missing, he’s feeling all unsettled and doesn’t know where to set the unrest. Mostly because Jack doesn’t deal in feelings. He deals in actionable steps, which is why I’ve accelerated the curriculum for Romance Academy.

  Three months is plenty of time for me to work with him. He wouldn’t start his new job until October, which is perfect because I need him to fall in love before his mother’s awards ceremony in a few weeks, anyway. He won’t accept the job if he’s found something—or someone—to keep him here.

  So, Romance Academy it is. Another practice date, and then we’re moving onto the real deal. The first practice date will be with someone he’s been talking to online for a few weeks. Her name is Cindy, and Jack seems to think she’s promising. A twenty-eight-year-old graphic designer who seems normal, based on all my cyber-stalking.

  I pull up her website for the eighty-third time this week and scroll through the art there. Not only is she talented, but it turns out that she’s created some of my favorite book covers, which automatically earns her a few points in my world. I have high hopes for Cindy.

  “Come on,” I whisper to a picture of a pretty brunette. “Help me out. Operation Keep Jack Darcy in Cali.”

  I flip back to the browser tab filled with reasons Florida will be the death of Jack, and I study it for a minute. When I close out of the tab, I’m left with a word document. It’s sort of blank.

  Fine. It’s not really blank. It has some words on it. Words that I’ve put there, words that I’ve come up with, words that might make it into my first blog post. After my pep talk the other day, I’ve decided that if Jack can make his dreams come true, so can I. I mean, my dreams are slightly smaller than his: write some words onto a document and post it online, but it feels equally as terrifying as journeying to Florida to start a whole new phase of life.

  As I erase my first blog post for the thirty-third time, I sigh and rest my head against the keyboard. Nobody out there could possibly care what a woman like me has to say. What does a twenty-seven-year-old (single) kindergarten teacher know about love?

  I shake myself off, pull my head from my keyboard, and decide to focus on the logistics first. Maybe once I have the site, I’ll be more inspired to add words to it.

  Brainstorming a list of names for the blog buys me another thirty minutes of procrastination. I settle on Love & Literature, and only once I start looking at the time and thinking I’d better log off and shower before Jack arrives, do I realize my plan of attack.

  Romance Academy. Jack can’t be the only one out there struggling for love. I’ll document the “rules” I teach him and, without using his name, of course, I’ll journal his search for love. Maybe it’ll help some other guy or girl out there.

  Who knows? Maybe I’ll read it over after Jack moves to Florida, and maybe it’ll help me sort out my own love life. Then again, they say that those who can’t do, teach. I don’t believe that’s true—you know, since I’m a teacher and all—but maybe there’s something to it. Maybe if I can teach Jack how to find love, I can teach myself.

  So, I opt for new tabs on my blog: Love & Literature and Romance Academy. I figure the two will go hand in hand and, as I jot down my thoughts and reviews on books, I’ll simultaneously document Jack’s journey over the next few months.

  Sitting back, I sigh with satisfaction.

  I have a blog. It doesn’t have any words on it, but it’s there.

  If I’m lucky, the words will come.

  If I’m luckier, Jack will fall in love and remain here as my best friend.

  Everything will be rosy and unicorns and rainbows.

  Just about, a little voice corrects in my mind. Everything might be just about perfect, but not quite.

  Before I can address this annoying little voice in my head, a knock on the door pulls me from my tasks. I glance at the clock; it’s only five p.m., which means it can’t be Jack. He works until after six, then goes home and showers before he swings over here with the food on nights when I host.

  He usually hosts our dinners, but I insisted on having it at my place tonight. After all, I have the PowerPoint all ready to go, and I need the home field advantage. I don’t even know how to work Jack’s television because it’s so high tech. The only problem is that he’s not supposed to be here until eight o’clock.

  “Who is it?” I put my computer to sleep as I leap up from my desk and scurry toward the door. I’m a huge mess, having spent the day splitting time catching up on reading and researching ways Jack could die in Florida. Because of my jam-packed day, I haven’t quite made it to the shower yet, and after a night out yesterday with Aimee, my hair leaves something to be desired.

  “All
ie, it’s me,” Jack calls through the door. “Sorry I’m running early—I meant to call, but...Allie?”

  I whip open the door, not entirely pleased by his response to me. “What?!”

  Jack’s eyes rake over me, and for once, I can’t tell what’s happening behind those big chocolatey eyes of his. His gaze seems stuck on my hair for a moment, but then it drops to my legs, and he seems to freeze there.

  “Um...” He can’t seem to come up with a response, and this makes me laugh.

  “What?” I repeat. “You got a problem with this?”

  His cheeks, to my surprise, turn a little red. “No, but I, uh...”

  I’ve never seen Jack Darcy speechless before, and it has me slightly baffled. I suppose it could be because I look like a drag queen, but then again, he’s seen me in all states of undress, un-makeup, and un-flattering before. That’s nothing new.

  I glance down at my legs, but again—nothing new there. I have a pair of my old shorty-shorts on because they were the only thing clean in my drawer, and a sports bra with cool straps on the back. I bought it because the straps made it look like I work out, and I’m only wearing it because I was too cheap to turn on the AC and didn’t feel like getting my nice bras all sweaty.

  My feet are bare and my hair is wild—again, nothing all too surprising there. The only surprising thing is the angle at which Jack’s jaw is hanging open.

  “Sorry,” I apologize. “I can take a shower if I’m smelling bad or something.”

  “Is someone else here?”

  “What?” I seem stuck on that word, but before I continue I realize we’re standing at the door like morons. “Come on inside—of course I’m alone. You’re the only person I would ever allow to see me like this.”

  “Good,” he says, and it’s this weird sort of low voice that’s gruff and growly. “Keep it like that.”

  “Sorry if I’m offending you,” I say. “I was going to shower before you got here, but I haven’t made it there yet.”

  He pinches his nose, as if I’m missing the point entirely. “Can you put a shirt on or something?”

  “It’s hot,” I whine. “What’s your problem, anyway? You see me like this all the time. My bathing suit shows more skin than this.”

  “Forget it,” he says in that growly voice again. “I need your help.”

  He doesn’t make eye contact with me as he says this, and I’m finding this afternoon stranger and stranger. “Yes, sir,” I say, raising my hand in salute to my forehead. “What can I help you with? By the way, did you get my email?”

  “Which one?” His eyes flick toward me, wavering from my face just slightly before glancing down at my body and then returning to my face. “I have thirty-seven emails from you. Three are unread. I skimmed the rest of them.”

  “Great.” I move over to the kitchen to grab a soda from the fridge. “Then I imagine you’re well-educated in all of the ways you could die should you take the Florida job. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No, Allie.” He moves across the room and closes the refrigerator door before I have it halfway open. “I need to talk to you about something.”

  I straighten, feeling just a little too close to Jack for comfort. Suddenly, my weird outfit has me feeling extra exposed. Jack’s breath dances off my neckline, and somehow, it makes me strangely ticklish. In a good way. A very, very good way.

  I step backward. “Okay. Also, where’s the food? I haven’t eaten since lunch.”

  Jack’s eyes scan over my shoulders, and his eyebrows raise the second he spots the leftover Pop-Tart wrapper. “Don’t tell me you ate that for—”

  “Didn’t you have something to talk to me about?” I interrupt, sensing another lecture coming on about trans fats. Jack seems to think that being a doctor gives him the right to educate me about what I should and shouldn’t be eating. I happen to disagree.

  “Caroline has had a complication with her nose,” Jack says, frowning as he pulls his gaze away from the Pop-Tarts. “I figured you would know what to do.”

  “Huh.” I rest a hand on my hip, sizing Jack up and trying to determine what’s off about him this afternoon. “Is that right? What makes you figure that? You’re the doctor.”

  “I mean, the part about you knowing how to make her feel better. You’re good at people things.”

  “That is quite possibly the best compliment you’ve ever paid me.”

  “I compliment you all the time,” Jack argues. “What are you talking about?”

  Jack steps closer to me, and I retreat further. We’re playing this little dancing game in the kitchen, and it has my heart thumping around in weird patterns. I extend a hand and rest it against his chest, feeling a racing pulse there, too.

  “It was a joke, Jack. What’s bothering you today?”

  He freezes at my touch. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re acting strangely.”

  “I’m just...” He pauses, shakes his head. “I guess I’m just on edge.”

  “You think? Tell me what’s bothering you.”

  “You’re not wearing a shirt, for starters.”

  I blink. “I never wear shirts when it’s this hot; you know that. I’m conserving money.”

  “I’ll pay your electric bill. Just put on a shirt, please.”

  I roll my eyes. “Is this about Caroline?”

  He starts to say no, but then catches himself and thinks. “Maybe,” he eventually agrees. “I feel bad about last week, and now she’ll be out of work for another week.”

  “It was an accident,” I say, and this time it’s me closing the distance between us. I put my hands on his shoulders and squeeze, which causes his eyes to close. “Accidents happen. I have an idea. Let’s make her some soup and take it over.”

  “Isn’t soup what you bring when someone’s sick?”

  “It’s about the gesture,” I tell him. “I have this recipe that’s impossible to mess up, and it doesn’t take long.”

  “Why don’t we just buy it from the store? It’s faster.”

  “Because it’s the thought that counts,” I tell him. “Lesson Number Seven, Jack: it’s not about the soup.”

  Chapter 11

  JACK DARCY

  It’s not about the soup, I repeat for the hundredth time. It’s not about the soup.

  I replay this mantra in my head as we set to work making soup on a ninety-five degree Sunday—in a room with no air conditioning. This would normally be torture, but oddly enough, there’s nowhere I’d rather be.

  I could pretend this development has nothing to do with the fact that my body’s reacting to the sight of Allie Jenkins in nothing but lingerie. She says she’s wearing sweatpants. She’s wrong.

  All that seems to matter to my libido is the fact that I can see the curve of her butt under those tiny shorts—not to mention the softness of her skin which brushes against me just enough to keep me alert. Then she turns on the smile, and my blood pressure soars.

  I can’t admit to her that my heart just about stopped when she opened her apartment door earlier with massive sex hair. It might be the first time I’ve ever been speechless around her. Thankfully, my panic attack had been for naught.

  “Chop the carrots smaller, will you?” Allie instructs. “This is the size of my finger! Who takes bites this big?”

  She holds up half of a long carrot, and I can’t help but smile. “Sorry.”

  “Come on,” she coaxes. “You still haven’t told me what’s wrong. Is something on your mind?”

  “Besides your lack of shirt,” I mumble, too softly for her to hear. “I’m fine, really. Just preoccupied.”

  “Okay,” she says, sounding unconvinced.

  I want to tell Allie how I feel about her, I truly do. But I’m afraid it’ll make things weird between us, and I can’t risk that happening. If we were meant to be together, surely we would’ve figured it out by now. I’ve known her for twenty-seven years; I’d have to be a huge idiot to miss signs that she’d been inter
ested in me along the way.

  “That’s a little better,” she says, surveying my handiwork with a newly chopped carrot. “The size of my thumb.”

  “How long does this take?”

  “Jeesh, you needed more sleep last night, Mr. Grumps. Go look at the recipe,” she says. “I have it saved in my Favorites on the computer.”

  Thankful for the break, I wander into Allie’s bedroom where her computer sits on an antique, rickety old desk that she seems to love. She picked it up from some old lady’s estate sale, and I keep trying to tell her that it’s unsanitary.

  As always, she never listens to me.

  Sitting at a desk that’s much too small for me, I pop her laptop open and enter the password. Neither of us make huge efforts to keep our passwords secret, and after a lifetime of knowing Allie, we have few secrets between us.

  Her password? OrangeChicken7777.

  The screen unlocks and I’m left with a view that looks like the backend of a website. I shouldn’t be snooping, but it’s the first thing that popped up on the computer, and naturally, I’m curious.

  I take one glance at the name of the site, and then immediately feel guilty for spending the extra second on her computer. Flipping to a new tab, I click the Favorite button for soup and pull up the website.

  “Did you find it?” Allie pads into her bedroom and glances over my shoulder, her finger trailing down the recipe until she reaches the needed cook time. “Thank you...wait, what’s wrong?”

  “I looked at your screen.”

  “What?”

  “I looked at your screen when it unlocked.”

  “So?” Her face pales as she glances over my shoulder, and she sees the tab open. “Oh. Well, forget it. It’s nothing.”