by Jordyn White
I mean, I get that people looking for love don’t handle casual sex very well and can feel like shit afterwards. I get it. I’m not an idiot. But there are those of us who handle casual sex just fine. Since I’m one of them, the whole thing was a little perplexing.
It almost makes me wonder if... well. There was that moment with Jack last week. Somehow he was... holding me kind of, and the back of my neck had goosebumps where his fingers were touching me. I had goosebumps all over, I think. He had a strange look on his face. I have no idea what that look meant and don’t really want to analyze it, to be honest. I still remember how he smelled, though. Like Jack, but more. Probably because he’d been sweating from tearing down that wall. Probably it was just that. I mean, guy sweat smells sexy. That’s no shocker.
I exhale sharply and get off the couch. I’m being an idiot. That has nothing to do with anything. That moment with Jack was just... a thing. Nothing.
But feeling like I did last night after what should have been a pick up for the books, well... that’s not nothing. It’s not like me at all.
I head into the kitchen, looking for something to snack on. I open the pantry, but just kind of stare at everything. I really need to go shopping. I’m totally out of the good snacks. The only thing in here that’s passable is fucking graham crackers.
I consider talking to Jack about this weird unsettled feeling I have. He’s supposedly coming over sometime today to fix the drywall, so maybe I can talk to him about it then? When he’s not being a big dork, he can give me pretty good advice. If he ever shows up. It’s kind of late in the afternoon to start a project like this. Maybe we’ll just blow the whole thing off today.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I hear Jack’s ringtone. Speak of the devil. “Hey. Are you on your way?” I shut the pantry and start heading for the living room.
“Not exactly.” His voice has a strange quality to it. Echoey, but something else.
“You sound like you’re going through a tunnel. Where are you?”
“On a plane headed to Spain.”
O-kaay.
“Ha ha.” I’m still trying to figure out what I hear in his voice.
“No, seriously. We land in about three hours.”
I stop and the gears in my brain start working overtime. This can’t be right. He’s supposed to be on his way over here. “We?”
“Emily and I. It was kind of an impromptu thing, you know.” His voice definitely does not sound normal. “We wanted to go and so we’re going.”
“To Spain?” No, he has to be joking. Surely. He’s such a dork sometimes. “Look if you can’t do it today, it’s not a big deal. Just say so.”
I hear giggling in the background. “Just a minute, honey,” he says. To her, Emily. Not me. Then he laughs. Still not to me, to her. Now I can identify what I’ve been hearing in his voice: excitement. He’s practically giddy.
What in the hell?
“You’re seriously on your way to Spain. Just like that?”
“Sometimes you just have to take a leap, right?” What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
Now, thanks to Jack, my aforementioned unsettled feeling has morphed into a vague sense of dread. Probably because he’s acting like an idiot and is, as a bonus, up in the air in one of those death traps they call an airplane instead of safe on the ground where he belongs. And what’s he doing flying off to fucking Spain? Who does that?
I’m hovering in the middle of the living room, but I find I need to sit. Foregoing the couch, I sink to the edge of the coffee table. “When do you get back?”
There’s a pause where there should have been an answer. The wheels in my head are working again.
“Jack?”
“Um. I’m not sure. It’ll be awhile.”
What? What the hell? I try to wrap my head around what he’s saying. There’s more giggling in the background. He gives her a soft laugh. It’s a deep throaty laugh that makes me frown. I don’t know why. “Sorry, Sam, I have to go. But I sent over a guy. His name’s Ron and he owes me a favor. He’ll take care of your drywall for you. Won’t cost you a thing.”
“But—”
“Bye, Sam.”
The phone goes silent.
I bring it around and stare at it. Jack’s name is still on the caller ID but the call’s been disconnected. “What the fuck?”
The doorbell rings. I drop the phone to my lap and stare at the front door. I don’t move.
“What. The actual. Fuck.”
The doorbell rings again and I hop up, irritated that whoever’s on the other side can’t seem to wait one goddamned minute while a person walks to the door. I open it to find the Anti-Jack standing on my stoop: he’s short, balding, and looks to be in his fifties, at least.
He gives me a broad smile. “I’m Ron. Jack sent me.”
Jack sent me. That rat bastard.
“Yeah, he just called.” I open the door to let him in. “It’s over here.”
Still frowning, I lead the Anti-Jack into the dining room. I’m still not entirely sure what’s happened. How could Jack be on his way to Spain? And how can he not know when he’ll be back?
I send him a quick text: Let me know when you land.
God, I hate airplanes.
I show Ron where the wall used to be and try to remember to act polite as he assures me he’ll have me fixed up “in a jiffy.”
I don’t even have the energy to mentally mock the “jiffy” comment. I’m still wondering what on earth Jack is doing.
What about work? I text him.
I instantly realize Spain has Wi-Fi as well as we do, but still. Is he working from Spain now? Doesn’t he need... I don’t know... plug adapters or something there?
An hour later, my dining room is sporting fresh drywall, Ron is out my door in a fucking jiffy, and I’ve sent another half dozen texts to Jack asking him where he’s staying and if she has family in Spain and doesn’t she have work too and what does she do for work?
But he doesn’t answer any of them.
When I go to bed, I break my self-imposed rule about no phones in the bedroom while I’m trying to sleep (I have no such rules about phones in the bedroom when I’m trying to fuck). I bring in my charger so I can keep my phone on the nightstand, within easy reach.
Around midnight I still haven’t heard from him but I’m relatively sure his plane landed okay because there are no reports on the internet about a plane crash or a terrorist attack or a fucking meteor hitting an airplane or anything.
The thought crosses my mind that he may have gotten into an accident on the way from the airport to the hotel, but I’m pretty sure he’s just ignoring me.
“Fine,” I say out loud, turning off the light and punching down my pillow. “Whatever, Jack. Enjoy your little European fling. Whatever.”
I don’t sleep much that night.
Probably because I had my phone in my bedroom. I wake the next morning resolved not to charge it in there again.
Chapter 7
Jack
Part of me knows this was an act of desperation. But it’s only the teeniest part of me and I’m ignoring it.
Mainly, I’m on cloud fucking nine after having such a brilliant brainstorm. One minute, I’m sitting on Emily’s couch feeling miserable enough to actually say aloud: “I just fucking need to get away.”
She’d sensed my mood, though she had no idea what was behind it, and started joking around about all the places we could run away to: Nantucket! Neverland! Nigeria!
See? She’s not the only one who knows how to joke around with me. It’s not just Sam. Emily gets me, too.
The next thing I know, we’re looking at Groupon deals and I’m starting to get serious about things.
I could get away. I really could. Plus, Emily’s company is pretty forward-minded, so when she’s not off on a business trip, she works almost exclusively off-site in her home office.
Where I fucked her lights out after booking our flights to Spain. See? It doesn�
��t have to be Sam.
It doesn’t.
No. All I need is some distance and some time to spend with Emily without having Sam right in front of me all the time. I mean, she’s still my friend. We’ll always be friends. But that’s clearly all she wants and so, well, fuck it. I’m just going to focus on the girl I have.
And she’s great.
Really.
And Spain’s fucking great. Amazing.
And when I wake up to find Emily in the bed next to me, I can almost manage not to wish it was Sam instead.
Almost.
Chapter 8
Sam
Portland, Two Years Ago
“Even in Portland, you’re still Jack’s girl.”
That’s what Ashley said several months after we all graduated from Hartman College and kind of went our separate directions. She was talking about the fact that even though Jack’s still in Rosebrook and I’m up here in Portland, we talk and text so much it’s practically like I’m still living there. I still chat with my girls too, so I don’t know what Ashley’s fussing about. Okay, the girls and I don’t talk every day like Jack and I do, but it’s Jack. It’s always been like that. We can’t use the phone just because I’m in Portland?
Speaking of Portland, I’m way fucking over it. The job I got was pretty awesome for a new college grad, but my asshole boss is driving me crazy and I seriously miss the blue skies of central California. I can’t get over how often it rains here. Portland’s a hip town and I’d probably fall in love with it if it weren’t for all the fucking rain.
That makes Jack happy, let me tell you. He’s been on me to get a job in Rosebrook ever since he found out about the job I got in Portland. He wants Isabella to move back to Rosebrook, too. And Chloe. He was not happy when she left her post-college job in Swan Pointe and moved all the way to Boise. I’ve no idea what the hell’s in Boise, but whatever. The point is, Jack thinks the Firework Girls should all live in Rosebrook forever even though things don’t usually work out that way.
Yet, for the past several months I’ve been hounding the Rosebrook job boards, too, like Jack’s been doing for me ever since I moved here. But Rosebrook’s a smaller town than Portland so there’s not as much opportunity in my field. The few high-quality firms there are tiny and entrenched with long-term employees. They’re just not in the market for anyone new.
At least, I didn’t think they were.
Jack texts me early one morning to tell me The Adelman Group is hiring. Fucking Adelman. If I could hand-pick any company in Rosebrook to work for, it’d be them. When I do my own search for their job listing, though, I come up dry. I’m at work, so I have to be sneaky about it. I’m sneaky about my text back to Jack, too: Are you sure? I don’t see anything.
Jack: Just wrapped up a job for their PR director and he said they need a graphic designer. I recommended you.
Me: Seriously?
Jack: Just emailed you the details. I need my drinking buddy back in town, so don’t screw it up.
Me: Suck it.
I open Jack’s email and start drafting a cover letter to The Adelman Group. Halfway through, my hopes are rising in my chest. I could be back in Rosebrook, close to Jack and Ashley, who’s still at Hartman College working on her masters in music. And Adelman is such a good company.
I send Jack another text: Thanks.
He sends back a GIF of a couple drunk guys doing a fist bump, and missing. “Dork,” I say, grinning.
Three weeks later I have the job, I’ve put in my notice, and Jack’s made an impromptu drive up to Portland to help me pack.
We’re sitting on the floor of my closet, half packing, half sorting crap. I have way too much crap. I have enough clothes and shoes and accessories to outfit a small country. I should’ve cleared things out before I moved up here, but I wasn’t in the mood to deal with it, so I threw everything into boxes and hauled it up here instead. I mentioned this in passing to Jack and now here we are, a box for packing in front of me and a big trash bag for donations next to Jack.
The bag is nearly empty, even though we’re nearly done with the tops. The sorting isn’t going too well.
But I am hearing a rather entertaining story about Jack’s latest girl. Or, ex-girl. Well, the problem, really, was that she thought she was his girl, when he thought she was just a girl.
Poor guy’s been down this road before. The fact that he’s a big softie at heart only makes it worse.
“I don’t mean to make it happen.” He finishes folding a shirt I’ve indicated is a keeper and puts it in the box. The nearly-full box. “I’ll be going along with someone and think we’re just having fun and next thing I know they’re telling me they love me.”
He has this startled look on his face and I have to laugh. I add a whole stack of shirts to the box.
“Love me.” He shakes his head. “So then I have to go and end it and there’s tears and sniffling and why does this keep happening?”
“Because you’re just so lovable.” I swat him on the chest and bat my eyelashes.
“Ugh.” He holds up the last shirt in his pile and gives me a questioning look.
I forgot I even had this shirt and for good reason. When did that thing ever look good? I make a face and Jack tosses it into the donation bag.
Okay, there’s a little progress.
“I’m starting to think you’ve got the right idea about repeats.” He means my policy of limited encounters with the same person. But I know him too well. He’s so friendly and easy-going, it’s just not in his nature to keep a girl at a distance when he thinks everyone’s having a good time.
I continue to “sort” the clothes in front of me and Jack starts absentmindedly poking through the shelf in front of him. There’s all kinds of random crap on that shelf, so who knows what he’ll find. “Oh yeah baby. What have we here?”
I glance at what he found. Oh, right. I forgot I had a bag of mini Snickers bars left over from the after-Easter sales. I bought two bags, because, come on, how often are Snickers in the post-Easter bargain bin? Since Jack hasn’t been around to pilfer my food, I still have some left even though it’s nearly two months later.
He slowly reaches inside the bag, looking at me questioningly, as if to say, Is this up for grabs? Man, we have been apart too long if he thinks he needs to ask. I smile and roll my eyes. He dives in, extracts a piece, tears off the wrapper, and tosses it into his mouth whole. “Mmmm,” he says, his eyes rolling back.
“No food orgasms in my closet.”
“What else do you have in here?” He grins and glances around before taking a handful out of the bag.
“It’s a wonder you’re not six hundred pounds by now.”
I toss the last shirt in the box and grab a pile of scarves. Jack’s very busy unwrapping and devouring his candy. “Keep. Keep. Keep.” I toss one scarf after another into the box. “Donate!” I pick up a floral scarf that was outdated two seasons ago and toss it in his lap. More progress!
“This?” He picks it up. “You sure?”
“Donate,” I say, tossing two more into the box.
He wraps it around his neck and gives me a serious expression. “Is this my color?”
I roll my eyes and he grins at me.
I get to the green scarf I’ve always loved, but that no longer goes with anything I wear on a regular basis. “Hmm.”
“Keep,” Jack says, tossing it into the box for me.
“How do you know?”
“If you have to hesitate, you shouldn’t get rid of it.”
“Shows what you know. If you have to hesitate, you shouldn’t keep it. Girls only wear what they love.” But I keep it in the box. “You’re supposed to be helping me, you know.”
“I am helping you.”
I take a second to think about the progress we’re making, or the lack of it. “Pull down what’s on that shelf,” I say, pointing. “You can just pack it. I think it’s all coming with me.”
He gets up obediently and starts po
king around. “No more candy stashes?”
I finish with the scarves. I’ve only added three to the donate pile, including the one still around Jack’s neck. There’s something like thirty of them in the box. I sigh. Oh well. I tape it up while Jack retrieves an empty box and starts packing what’s on the shelf. I push the sealed box out of the closet and start putting the contents of another shelf into Jack’s box. I’ve given up on clearing things out. It’ll take me two years to pack at the rate we’re going.
“Hey,” Jack says. “Cool.”
He pulls down the wooden box he found and I smile. This box is probably the most precious thing I own. It’s made of walnut, but about the size of a small microwave so it’s not too heavy. There’s a raised, embossed dragonfly on the lid.
Jack gives me a devious grin. “Are all your deep, dark secrets hidden in here? What happens if I open it?”
He settles back on the floor and I join him, the wooden box in front of us. “Open it if you dare,” I say, scooting it closer to me. “It used to belong to Pandora.”
“I knew there was a reason I like you.”
“It was my grandmother’s.”
“Ah,” he says softer, as I run my hands over the embossed dragonfly on the lid. “The famous grandmother.”
The body of the dragonfly has started to fleck around the edges, but the outstretched wings are still iridescent blues, purples, and greens, made of cracked glass. I run my fingers over the ridged surface of each wing, just like I did when I was a little girl and the box still belonged to my grandmother.
“Have I ever showed you a picture of her?”
He shakes his head and I open the lid. The pleasant smell of old wood greets me like a familiar friend. The lavender satchel in here lost its scent long ago, though. Inside the box is a small stack of photos, a few pieces of her jewelry including the dragonfly broach, her big, broad-rimmed purple hat with the red feather, and the seashell I added to the box after she died.
My first sketchbook, which she gave me, is in here too, underneath everything else. I don’t flip through it much anymore. Even though I have an eye for design that really took off once I went digital, it’s painfully obvious how rough my drawing skills were back then. I keep it in spite of this because even though it’s my book, it’s as much about my grandma as everything else in the box. She somehow knew what drawing could become for me: a healthy way out.