by Anne Eliot
I cringe, hating the idea of being trapped in this room with her.
I push away the images of the party that changed—no—ruined—both of our lives freshman year.
Does she remember? Does she remember me?
“I did the right thing to wake her up,” I say even louder. As though noise could drown out my questions, hide my cowardice and undo what I did wrong out there in the parking lot. What I didn't do right at that party years ago…
Goose bumps plaster my arms as I replay the promise I made to this girl's parents three years ago: Stay out of Jess Jordan's radar and don't go near her. Ever. A promise I'd kept faithfully for three years—until today.
Of course I'd kept it. Her psycho mom told me if I approached Jess, the girl would suffer a serious setback. Or a flashback, or... something terrible.
I would have promised anything back then. Hell, I'd offered to do way more, but her parents wouldn't let me. They only wanted me to stay away from their daughter. I didn't want to risk Jess suffering any more hurt, so I agreed to never approach her.
Only, crap! I just did way more than approach her. I accidentally scared the hell out of her. Then, I blinked at her like a gaping asshole. And ran. Let's not forget that classy move.
My pack's heavy. Full of mock product ideas required for this interview today. Mine are hockey pucks in various duct-taped configurations. And, I'm pretty sure they suck, but I didn't want to show up empty handed. Who knew they'd sound like an exploding bomb when slammed into her Jeep? It's not like I slam my backpack into random vehicles to test the sound it's going to make.
She's getting closer. I swallow and scan the room for exit signs.
“If I'd left her there asleep. If I'd walked away…then what?” I mutter, glancing quickly over my shoulder to make sure I'm still alone. I contemplate leaving again, but this makes me angry with myself and unfairly, at her.
I want this internship. I can't afford to walk away from an $8K payoff and perfect working hours for me. ME. This is about me! Me. Me. Me.
Not Jess Jordan.
I'd figured Jess had parked behind the dumpsters to pull some sort of surprise attack. At the very least she'd been trying to eye the competition. It's why I'd shown up early. I'll admit that. I'd wanted to call her bluff. Let Jess know her car had been spotted.
But then…hell. I saw her. Sleeping away in that Jeep, blanket and all. Acting as though she didn't have a care in the world.
I must've been struck with temporary insanity. That, or a giant alien magnet had drawn me straight out of my car and right to the side of hers.
She'd been so far gone, I'd spent three good minutes peeking over her dash watching her breathe. All that time, I tried to convince myself to leave her there. Jess, missing this interview, should've been my personal gift from fate. A gift I well deserved after all the bullshit I've had to eat because of her—that night—that party.
I'd almost had myself talked into bolting, when she'd smiled in her sleep. Held out her hand like she was having a strange dream.
After that, I couldn't leave her there alone. Wouldn't.
What went down at that party years ago wasn't her fault. It wasn't my fault, either.
Not directly.
But I'm not one to repeat my mistakes—that's for sure. Maybe I screwed up by freaking her out; but I wasn't about to leave Jess Jordan needing something from me ever again. I run my hand through my hair and manage to swallow the tight ball of what feels like dry, scared-shitless-dirt lodged at the back of my throat.
The nagging questions won't stop: Does she remember? Does she remember me?
I don't know why I'm worried about that. From what her parents told me—from my careful non-interactions with her—Jess has no idea who I am. No memory of the night I stopped her from being raped by a senior asshole at a hockey party. The night I chickened out and ran out on her after she'd asked me to stay. God…I'd been such a loser that year.
I'd done my best to make it right after.
After, the guys on the team beat the shit out of me for blowing the whistle. After, I'd quit playing competitive ice hockey when the coach wouldn't prosecute the player who tried to hurt Jess. But…after is always too late. I've learned that lesson. No such thing as re-plays or penalty points in real life, no matter how valid and real the fouls might be.
I eye the large, over-stuffed bag Jess has brought along for her interview. I can only imagine the perfect product samples she's concocted to win this internship. The girl's loaded, has straight A's, and adults love her. I can guarantee her product samples won't be made out of tape, hope and bullshit like mine.
The people who run this place must have fallen for her big-time. But they'd liked me too! Invited me back—like they'd invited her. Yesterday, the CEO, Mr. Foley, told me I have the creativity and motivation Geekstuff.com looks for in an intern.
And hell yes, I do.
Desperation and an empty wallet makes for buckets of creativity and motivation.
I stare, knowing she can't see me behind this door. I take in her small frown, fair skin, and determined expression. She's sporting some brown, geek-girl shoes, and her long legs are hidden under the weirdest grey skirt I've ever seen. Her strange pioneer/nerd outfits are always a source of school conversations.
Looking at her now, I remember my stupid freshman crush on this girl. How she'd always had this easy smile and quiet laughter. How she also blew me off every time I came near, and how empty and lost her eyes had seemed after she'd come back to school.
I pull in a ragged breath. I think Jess was the lucky one to have her slate wiped clean. Remembering all this time has been hell. As much as she might not know me—as much as I've worked to keep myself out of her radar—I've been tracking this girl out of the corners of my eyes ever since.
Jess makes it to the landing and pauses. For the second time today, glass is the only thing separating her face from mine. It's impossible not to notice how beautiful she still is.
A trickle of sweat drips between my shoulders and my knees start this embarrassing quaking thing. Exploding grenade heartbeats kill my chest, reminding me—begging me—to do the right thing. Only, after my backpack move—after staring at her like this—I have no idea what the right thing is supposed to be anymore.
I hold my ground and decide to play it out. It's not like this same girl can trash my life twice. I've already broken the promise I made to her parents. I can't erase the fact that she's seen me up close. Way too close. If the girl is going to have some sort of episode or flashback thing—then I suppose I should hang around. Try to make things right, or call an ambulance—or something….
I step into a darker part of the room, watching as she frowns at her reflection in the door. She pauses to mess with her bangs.
“Besides, I'm staying because I need the money,” I mutter, over and over again.
But I can't silence the nagging truth:
I'm simply too curious to leave. I wonder…I want to know…
Does she remember me at all?
Chapter Three
Jess
All of my imagined warrior-princess-bravado fades when I'm vanquished by Geekstuff.com's gigantic door. As I push through it knocks me forward like a paper doll. It's all I can do to save myself from tripping flat on my face in the dark lobby. The contents of my bag create a junk and paper waterfall. I manage to maintain my mask of composure by keeping my eyes trained on the scattering mess.
Make-up containers and my precious iPhone have been ejected like bullets. They travel the farthest, coming to a rest at the base of the receptionist's paisley-shaped, and thankfully, vacated desk.
It's not lost on me in this air-conditioned battlefield that my breathing sounds embarrassingly erratic next to Gray's very calm and employable steady intakes of breath.
He's somewhere on my right.
I glance through my lashes and find his navy blue Converse moving toward the epicenter of my mess. I move in the opposite direction. As he bends to
scoop up a few of my things, I'm completely aware that the guy has open access to my interview secrets.
This makes me feel slightly ill, and annoyed at myself for losing control of my stuff.
And of myself. I never lose control of that.
I panic for a moment and look into my bag, relaxing a little when I realize it's only my makeup and product samples—about twenty bumper-stickers—that have spilled. The résumés and the ridiculous ‘How to Be Normal’ checklist my ever-helpful sister handed me this morning must still be at the bottom of my bag.
Safe.
I'm proud of the bumper stickers so…let him look. Maybe they'll intimidate him.
Because I'm not prepared to have any sort of intelligible smack-down session—a session that must happen soon, I go after the other stuff.
I scoop up my phone and the Sunshine Glow Mineral Powder first. This item has exploded into beige dust-bombs a few times in my bag. I'm happy to find it's intact and not all over the eggplant-colored carpet. I hate the junk, but it's the only product that can wipe out the permanent dark circles I have under my eyes from not sleeping at night.
I pick up the blush compact next. It's necessary because it has the mirror and the freshening pink tones my grey-colored cheeks crave. My lip-gloss, then the red-reducing eye drops are last. I shove the items into my skirt pocket and feel slightly comforted by their presence. I'm not vain or anything; it's just that without these products I look like the walking dead.
Once I'm sure my expression is solid and calm, I force myself to turn and look at my opponent. Gray's gathered almost all of my bumper stickers. Instead of looking impressed and floored by my cool product samples, he has the nerve to be sporting a confused expression. He's also shaking his head.
With a lightning quick glance at me first, he reads one bumper sticker: “Member: BBB. Boys in Books are Better?” He shakes his head again. “I didn't know you made these bumper stickers. This one's been on your car since last month.”
I gasp before I can stop myself. “How do you know that?”
“I like cars and I love Jeeps.”
His eyes flit to my face again and his cheeks go all red. This time he's trying to hold my gaze so I lock onto his for a stare down and don't respond. Silence always freaks people out.
He shrugs as though he hasn't noticed and continues, “Your Jeep is the most tricked out vehicle in the whole school.” He waves my bumper sticker in the air. “You slapped this very same chunk of duct tape silliness right onto the paint. They're called bumper stickers for a reason. They go on the bumper. Although with your chrome package I wouldn't even do that.”
I have no idea what he's talking about. What's a chrome package? Amazingly, the guy doesn't break my stare despite the ice bullets I've slammed into him. Maybe he's not wearing his glasses, or it's too dark in here for me to be properly effective. It's all I can do to keep a straight face and the glower from slipping. I think I'm losing control all over again. This is because I've registered two things above and beyond his hypnotic green eyes and rock star hot voice.
1. His perfectly square chin has one of those little divots dead center.
2. He's taller, and wider across the shoulders than I'd thought.
My heart ramps into some sort of a private hailstorm.
My list won't stop.
3. His hair is still shower damp. It's made up of little inky-black curls—an amazing amount of them.
4. The dumb eyes aren't simply green. They're like an exploded rainbow of greens and gold and browns. On closer inspection, he's…he's simply overall amazing and…I'll just say it again:
HOLY. HOLY. WOW.
“So…Jess Jordan…cat got your tongue? Do you really believe that bumper sticker? Is that why you put it on your Jeep? That boys in books are truly…better?” He shoots me a small smile.
I have to hide a second gasp of surprise. I can't believe this perfect-looking dude knows my name as well as my Jeep, and what sticker I've put on it! Whaaat-the-DOUBLE-F?
I shrug. “Yep. I believe it. I'm amazed you can read those. They've got some big words, Gray Porter,” I cover, tossing his full name right back at him and layering on the sarcasm while I work to control the tremor threatening my voice.
I feel like I'm about to go into shake and quake mode. I can't believe I've reached this state—not from a nightmare—but because I find a guy to be stunning? Or is it because a guy's said my name? I need to get myself together enough to make sure Gray understands I'm not here to chat or make friends—no matter how pretty he is! I don't have enough energy in me today for conversations like this.
“Mind handing my stuff back?” I say in my meanest voice. Lowering my eyebrows into attack mode. I head closer, trying very hard not to blink. I also work to keep my shoulders down and my expression bored. Very bored, and dripping with utter dislike and contempt.
Once again, the guy doesn't do what I expect.
Instead he meets me in the middle of the room and holds up two more bumper stickers. “I'd rather be in Forks? I shop the HOB? What do these even mean?!”
Time to end this, right now. It's all suddenly too close.
That, or he's just too darn close to me. I never let anyone enter my bubble, but this guy has almost popped it. Destroyed it.
He's touching all of my stuff and he smells like limes…or something shampoo-soapy. I raise an eyebrow, working to achieve the right tone of intellectual superiority. “If you've never read the Twilight books or the Hunger Games series you wouldn't understand. Not. One. Bit. They are complex stories. Big words. Probably beyond you.”
“Hey, no self respecting dude would read those books, or admit to reading them.” He laughs.
I don't answer. Instead, I drop down to create some needed distance while I pick up the remaining slew of bumper stickers still on the floor. I'm horrified to note one of my résumés has escaped. I glance up to see if he's got any printer paper in his hands. He doesn't, thank God.
“So…you're not going to tell me what they mean? C'mon. What's the Hob? Why Forks?”
When I stand, I switch to my blatantly rude, you're-an-idiot tone. This is the one that always pisses off my mom. To be sure he's not missing my insult this time, I also cross my arms and speak very slowly like I'm speaking to a toddler. “The Hob is from The Hunger Games books. It's the underground market where the characters trade food and information. Forks would be the town in Twilight. The setting. In boy-speak, Forks equals the planet Tatooine for Star Wars. You know—Anakin Skywalker's childhood home? Or are you not familiar with any global blockbusters? I suppose I could use Sesame Street or Pokémon for a reference—if it would help you understand better?”
Bam. That should seal it. I couldn't have sounded more like a total bitch.
He nods. “No, I've got it. My bedroom was Tatooine for all of third and fourth grade. Boy-speak…that's funny.” He laughs again, and it sounds warm and—and—not at all offended!
Worse, the laugh has disoriented me all over again. “Oh?” becomes my dorky uncontrolled response. I suddenly have hundreds of questions about how his room might have looked.
“Yeah,” he goes on as though he can read my mind. “I draped my walls with these ugly tan sheets to make the desert lands go on forever. It was more of a fire hazard than anything good.” His gaze is now glued back on my face as though he's looking for something, waiting for me to do something.
But what?
I glance down and fiddle with the zipper on my bag, hoping he hasn't deciphered that I'm in absolute unfamiliar territory here. By now, even the toughest kids would be running in the other direction. At the very least they'd be pulling the silent treatment on me. Maybe I'll have to take this on the direct. I could try: There is no reason we need to talk to each other. So let's just stop. As in. Forever. Don't talk to me, I won't talk to you. Deal?
He clears his throat as though he's signaling my turn, but when I refuse to engage he continues, “Anyhow...Twilight, The Hunger Games. Those books
were read by thirty million girls and their moms. Guys who admit to being into romance crap are lying or whipped. Major whipped. How's that for boy-speak? And those movies? You have to admit they were awkward.”
I make the mistake of looking up just then, prepared to blast him for the ‘romance crap’ comment and he stuns me stupid. He's in the middle of a total—entire face involved—eyes crinkling—happy grin. Grinning and happy at me, I guess?
“Tatooine, huh? So awesome you know Star Wars facts,” he adds nodding. “Do you ever watch the animated stuff?”
Grin. Grin. Grin.
I'm seriously at risk of an old-style faint. Holy-WTHECK? My neck and cheeks are volcano-hot. My entire chest swarms with an uncontrollable butterfly attack.
Butterfly riot.
Butterfly massacre.
Person slaughtered: Me.
Method used: Dimple.
The guy has a dimple. Of course he does. To match the Hollywood chin divot. To make the lump on my forehead pound even harder.
Points for Gray Porter: 3,000,000-bajallion, trillion to the millionth power.
Say something, Jess. Say anything.
And just when I'm about to think of what I should say next, my mouth goes into whacked overdrive like I'm possessed. “The graphic art in Clone Wars is my favorite,” I say. “I love how they drew the characters. You know—how everything looks so angular and—”
My words tangle and freeze when my brain finally arrives to shut it down.
Say something but NOT THAT, you psycho!
“Clone Wars. Love it, do I? Yesss.” He's actually responded in a Yoda voice!
I blink.
His eyes are kind, sparkling with laughter and still, all too green. Yoda green!
Am I losing my touch? Why won't this guy act like everyone else?
I want to giggle and smile back at him. It takes every ounce of my strength to tamp that urge away and revert to glaring. At a loss, I turn away to shove all of my product samples into my bag as a grey-haired oompa-loompa looking guy stumbles through a door behind the reception area.
“Good, good. You're both here,” the man says, pausing to right his glasses. “I was worried you'd have wandered off.”