Knowing Jack

by Rachel Curtis

  Ten – If you find yourself attracted like crazy to some guy who follows you around all the time, then meditate instead on how much you hate him.

  ***

  I’m leaving class a half-hour later, keeping my head down as I hurry through the hall. Jack is at my heels, as usual.

  I keep my head down most of the time, since I’m afraid someone is going to snap my picture and it will end up on Tumblr with a nasty caption. It’s not a great way to live. I should either be callous enough not to care or I should give up and finish college somewhere else.

  But I’ve always been in between. I’m not going to leave and let the bastards win, but I still dread pictures being taken of me.

  “Slow down,” Jack murmurs, putting a hand on my shoulder.

  It’s only now I realize I’m nearly running, trying to get out of the building. I slow to normal walking speed and raise my head. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Try to toughen up.”

  And that’s obnoxious enough to distract me from everything else. I give him my best outraged glare. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  He glances around the green lawn and crowded walks of the middle of campus. Clearly not liking the exposed location, he puts a hand on my back to guide me to the side of the building to the narrow walk between the wall and the dumpsters—a much more protected location.

  For the last month, he has almost always been calm and laidback. Only when I get a nasty message does he look angry, and only when there’s a potential threat (none of them materializing into real danger) does he look urgent.

  But now, for no good reason, he suddenly seems to simmer with some sort of intensity. He steps forward until I’m backed up against the wall, and I stare up at him with my lips parted. It’s like something is shuddering inside him, just begging to get out.

  I have no idea what it is, but I like it. God help me, I like it.

  “I mean you’ve got to toughen up eventually,” he murmurs, a thick note in his voice I’m not used to.

  It makes me shiver. It makes my girly parts clench.

  But the actual words make my spine stiffen again. “What do you mean I have to toughen up? I’m plenty tough.”

  He plants a hand on the wall behind me, just to the right of my shoulder, and he leans into me, so there’s only a few inches between our faces. I see the dark curve of his eyelashes. I see the heavy stubble on his jaw. I see the fire in his eyes, and I just can’t look away from it.

  I have to clench my hand to keep from touching him.

  “You are not tough enough,” he says, his voice even more gravelly than before. “You’re tender. You’re vulnerable. You’re soft and sweet, and your heart is just as soft and sweet as your body. I can stop them from hurting your body, but I can’t stop them from hurting your heart. You’ve got to do that yourself.”

  Oh, God, I ache. In my chest. Between my legs. I’m mesmerized by his eyes, his voice, the heat of his body just a breath away from mine. “I’m trying.” My voice is a little shaky, and I can’t help but tell him the truth. “I’m trying, but how the hell do I not let them hurt me?”

  “You’ve got to stop caring about what they think. You’ve got to believe that they’re not important to you.”

  “I do care. I care that people hate me so much. People have never hated me before.”

  “I know they haven’t.” He reaches out and cups my face. His hand is really big and a little calloused, and it curves around my cheek and jaw—warm and strong and protective. His thumb moves in a little caress, stroking just to the side of my lips.

  It feels so good I lean into the touch. One of my hands goes up to his chest, and I tighten my fingers in the fabric of his shirt.

  I can’t remember ever being so turned on—flushed, weak in the knees, throbbing in all the goods spots—from something that isn’t sexual. Just Jack’s intense physicality and the gentle stroking of his thumb on my cheek.

  There’s no way I can hide it. I let my head fall backward and arch my spine against the wall, pressing my breasts toward him without thinking. I let out a long, textured, embarrassing sigh. It’s almost—almost—a moan.

  He drops his hand and takes a quick step back, moving away from me in about half a second.

  “We shouldn’t hang around here,” he says, his voice still thick but business-like now. “It’s too exposed.”

  Talk about exposed. My nipples have tightened, and the outline of them is poking visibly through my cotton top. I’m pulsing with desire from my toes to my ears, but obviously nothing is going to happen.

  Since grabbing him, pushing him down on the ground, and having my wicked way with him is clearly out of the question, I summon all the dignity I can muster—which isn’t much—and say, “All right. Let’s head back. I need to stop by the bookstore before we go, though.”

  If I have to admit the truth, stopping by the bookstore is the last thing on my mind.

  ***

  I pick up the textbook I need from the bookstore as quickly as I can, since I’m acutely aware of Jack beside me, and it’s going to be better if I get home quickly so I can have some alone time.

  We’re on our way back to the car when a voice stops me. “Hey, Chloe. Wait up.”

  I turn automatically. It’s just what you do when someone calls your name. It’s Kent Lucas, jogging up toward me.

  Kent is a senior too. He’s cute and blond. A soccer player and incredibly popular. We went out a few times in freshman year. Back then, I was so excited. After he kissed me on our second date, I started planning out the entire course of our future—including where he would propose and what my wedding dress would look like.

  Maybe I’m the only girl who daydreams in such detail, but I’ve never been able to help it.

  I daydreamed about Carter too, and not one of those daydreams have come true.

  Last fall, Kent started paying attention to me again. I was just beginning to be interested, but that’s when I fell for Carter. After that, Kent, and everyone else, just fell away.

  When Kent catches up to me now, he’s smiling, half-friendly and half-sympathetic. “I haven’t seen you around much this year.”

  If truth be told, he’s in my literature class, but I’m not surprised we haven’t crossed paths. No one is eager to cross paths with me this year.

  I’m surprised Kent is being nice at all.

  “Yeah,” is all I say. I don’t know what else to say, so I figure it’s better to keep it brief.

  “I’m sorry about all this crap that’s going around.” Kent glances away for a minute, at the students milling on the walks and loitering around the entrance to the student center. “I wish I knew who was causing it all.”

  I make a sound. sort of like a huff. “Yeah. Me too.”

  “If I knew, I’d stop it. You don’t deserve this.”

  It’s nice. That he seems to be on my side. Back in freshman year, he just stopped calling me. Four dates and then nothing. Not an explanation. Not even a text. I was upset, but I never told anyone about my disappointment. It’s no one’s business that I get my hopes up a lot, only to be crushed when things don’t go the way I expect.

  But that was three years ago. Kent was younger then. Maybe he’s grown up some. He seemed pretty decent last year when we were talking again. He’s the only person who has gone out of his way to be nice to me all month.

  “Thanks.” I shift from foot to foot, feeling strange and a little awkward. Jack is right behind me. He hasn’t said a word, but I can feel him glowering.

  He glowers better than anyone I know.

  Kent’s eyes shift between my face and Jack behind me. “Maybe we can hang out sometimes.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.” I’m not really excited about the invitation, but it’s nice.

  It’s nice that someone is nice.

  Still smiling, Kent reaches into his backpack and starts to pull something out. Before he can, Jack moves forward, yanks the bag from Kent’s hands, and holds Kent back w
ith a hand on the chest. All without seeming to move at all.

  I stare, breathless and bewildered, and Kent grunts in surprise. “What the fuck—”

  Jack clearly isn’t fazed by this reaction. “It’s my job,” he explains, searching the bag and obviously finding nothing dangerous or suspicious. He hands the bag back to Kent. “Nothing personal.”

  Kent steps backward, his eyes darting from me to Jack. Obviously uncomfortable, he says, “Yeah. Sure. Of course. Okay. See you around.”

  Then he walks away.

  For a moment, I’m so angry I’m shaking with it. The first gesture of niceness in this whole miserable semester, and Jack has just ruined it for me.

  Like Kent would be hiding a weapon in his backpack.

  I slant Jack a cold glare and start walking again toward the car. I don’t say anything. I’m really too mad and upset to be lucid, and I’ve learned better than try to argue with Jack when I’m not in a fit state to counter him.

  “What was that look for?” Jack asks, falling in step just behind me as I stride across campus, as fast as my legs can go.

  Which isn’t all that fast, as a matter of fact. My legs are too short.

  Jack’s legs are a lot longer. Everything about him is bigger than me. “I asked what that look was for,” he says, when I don’t give him an answer.

  “I heard you. I didn’t answer because I didn’t want to answer.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you know what’s wrong. You know, and you just don’t care.”

  “It’s my job to keep you safe. I don’t know that guy. How do I know what he might pull out of his bag?”

  “He’s a student! He’s a normal student! He’s not packing heat or something.”

  “You could assume the same thing about anyone, but you’d be wrong about a few of them. Being wrong in something like this can get someone hurt. Why should I risk it?”

  “Because this is my life. It might be your job, but it’s my life. And someone was being nice to me for the first time in ages. And you just ruined it.”

  “If he really wanted to be nice, he wouldn’t have been scared off.” Jack looks annoyed, but I don’t think it’s at me.

  He’s annoyed with Kent, I realize—although I can’t see any good reason for it.

  “A lot of people might be nervous around you. It doesn’t mean they don’t mean well.”

  “If you’re looking for a date, then at least find a man with a backbone.”

  “Would you stop it with that? I’m not looking for a man. I’m on a man-fast.”

  He blinks. “What?”

  “I’m on a man-fast. A fast—except on men instead of food. I’ve found them to be nothing but trouble, so I’m not going to date anyone this year.”

  “You’re on a…”

  “A man-fast.”

  “Right. A man-fast. Got it.” A flicker of amusement flashes on his face.

  Determined not to get distracted by it, I say, “Kent was just being nice. And don’t you dare scare away the very few people who might want to be nice to me.”

  “I think you’re overestimating the degree of niceness found in other people.”

  He’s calm and superior again—the way he normally is. Not hot and intense the way he was behind the building earlier. It’s much easier for me to resist him when he’s like this. I glare at him for good measure, but I’m saved from thinking of a response because we finally reach the car.

  Four

  So I’m trying to write a paper later in the afternoon when Jack comes in with my phone.

  There are very few calls I look forward to anymore, and I’m not exactly jumping with excitement when Jack hands me the phone and mouths, “Your dad.”

  “Hey, Dad,” I say, trying to sound cheerful.

  “Hi, sweetpea. Are you busy?”

  “Working on a paper.”

  “Okay. I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to go over some options with you.”

  “What options?” I’m not liking the sound of this. Not at all.

  “I’ve been talking to people and working out logistics to give you some better options.”

  Just now, I feel like banging my head on the desk the way they do in old cartoons. “Options for what?”

  I know exactly what he’s going to say.

  “Options other than you staying there.”

  “Dad—”

  “Just listen. Don’t say no until you hear the options.”

  I groan but manage not to hang up, which is what I really want to do.

  “I talked to the president of Morgan College. It’s a great school, and it’s just down the road from us. He said you can do your last semester there. All your credits would transfer. You could still graduate in May. And you could live at home or in the dorm or we could get you an apartment—whatever you’d prefer.”

  Now, I’m spoiled, but I’m not spoiled rotten. I know very well that thousands of girls would kill for their parents to offer them what my parents have been able to offer me.

  But the fact that he’s offering this just proves that he doesn’t understand me. At all. “Dad, you know I don’t want to do that.”

  “I know you say that, but I don’t understand why. Nothing would need to change about your life plans. You could still go to grad school with no delays. But you’d be safe. And you’d be far away from all that mess there.”

  “We’ve talked about this. I don’t want to run away.”

  “I know that, sweetpea, but what does staying accomplish except making you miserable?”

  It’s actually a very good question—one I don’t really have an answer for. I can’t really explain why it’s so important for me to stay here. I just know I have to do it.

  When I don’t answer, my dad goes on, in his business-like voice. “Okay, I have another option for you too.”

  “Dad—”

  “Let me tell you what it is before you reject it.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I’ve been talking to a couple of guys I know in Paris, and they made some calls to the Louvre. We’ve worked it out that you can have an internship at the Louvre all next semester.”

  My heart does a weird little leap. “What?”

  “An internship. At the Louvre. I don’t have to tell you how hard these are to get. They basically set this up just for you. I worked it out with the dean that you can get academic credit for the internship to finish up your major. So you could still graduate on time, and you won’t have to go back to Stonegate after Christmas. I found you a flat in Paris. It’s in a great neighborhood and in walking distance of everything you’d need.”

  “What?” This time, the word is more of a gasp.

  “Just think. You could live in Paris all spring, intern at the Louvre. It would be a once in a lifetime experience. Isn’t that your dream?”

  Of course, it’s my dream. I have no idea what kinds of strings my dad had to pull to get me this deal, but I’m not a complete idiot. I know he must have used up a truckload of favors and behind-the-scene handshakes to get it for me. He probably now owes people big and will have to pay up eventually.

  He loves me. He doesn’t want me to be hurt. He doesn’t want me around people who hate me.

  “What do you think, sweetpea?” he asks, sounding hopeful. “Doesn’t it sound great? You’ll never be able to match the experience for your resume, and you’ve always said that Paris should be your home. You can get away from everything and start fresh.”

  “I don’t know.” My voice is wavering, exactly like my whole body feels. “It still seems like a surrender.”

  “But, Chloe, this is not a battle you need to fight.”

  I feel weak. I feel so tempted. I want nothing more than to leave this town, this college, this world behind me and never look back.

  But I don’t want these people to see me be weak. And I just don’t think it can be so easy.

  “Let me think about it,” I say at last, knowing I have to say something.
>
  “Of course. I’ll send you all the information on the internship and the apartment. Wait until you see the pictures. You’re going to love this place.”

  I probably will. “Okay. Thanks, Dad.”

  I should be mad at him for interfering, when I’ve told him over and over again not to interfere. But he’s all torn up because of my decisions, and this is his way of coping.

  I’m sometimes clueless, but I know enough to realize that.

  “You’re welcome, sweetpea. I’ll talk to you later. I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  There’s absolutely no good reason for my voice to crack on the last word, but it does.

  When I disconnect the call, I sit and stare at an empty spot in the air, trying to get my mind to work.

  Jack has been lurking in the entryway, trying to pretend to vanish into thin air, not to hear my side of the conversation.

  He comes back in and reaches out for the phone. I hand it to him without speaking.

  He stands there, next to my chair, my phone in his hand. “He wants you to leave?”

  “Yeah. He got me this internship in Paris for next semester.”

  Something changes on his expression, but I can’t focus enough to recognize what it is. “Sounds right up your alley.”

  “I guess.”

  “Why aren’t you excited about it?”

  I close my eyes and lean my head back. “I don’t know.”

  “I do.”

  My eyes pop open. “What are you talking about?”

  He lowers himself into the other chair at the table. “I know why you aren’t jumping at the chance.”

  I don’t like people acting like they know what I’m thinking. I don’t like people assuming they understand me—when half the time I don’t understand myself. “And what profound insight are you about to share now?”

  “You’re punishing yourself.”

  My back stiffens, exactly as it did earlier in the day when he told me I’m not tough enough. “What?”

  He gives a little shrug, as if he’s just making casual conversation. “I’ve thought about it a lot, and I don’t know of any reason why you’d stay here and go through so much crap unless part of you thinks you deserve it.”