“Try not to be too jealous,” I say, pointing to my shirt.
I tend to get stupid and sarcastic when I’m defensive. I hate being looked down upon, and Mr. Fussy Pants is doing just that.
“You’re kind of mouthy for a little girl. What’s your deal, anyway?” He takes his shot and misses. “And for the record, your shirt is hideous.”
I should be royally pissed right now, but I find Jude’s honesty oddly refreshing. People in the Bay Area don’t often say what they mean, and I have to talk in careful circles a lot. With Jude, the gloves are off.
“‘Little girl’?” I straighten up to my full five feet eight inches, so he moves closer and peers down at me from his impossible height.
“How tall are you?” I ask.
“Six four.”
“Of course you are,” I say, shaking my head.
He steps closer and I get the goose bumps. I’ve done enough hunting in my life to know who’s the predator and who’s the prey.
“Why are you asking? You want to get out of here?” He doesn’t sound pleased about this proposition, as though he’s offering himself up begrudgingly.
Something doesn’t add up about this guy. Sure, he’s ridiculously handsome and has the arrogance to prove it. But he carries it like a heavy suit of armor.
“Wow. You must be older than I thought if you already have memory loss. You came here with my friend. Her name is Meg-an,” I say slowly. I gesture over to the table, but Megan is at the bar now, chatting up the bartender.
Jude sinks another ball. I am holding my own here, but barely.
“What didn’t you understand about that? I told you it’s a sometimes thing. And the two of you don’t seem close.” He sets the pool cue down and walks over to me. “Ah, I get it.”
“Get what?”
“You don’t do hookups. You hold on to sex like a prize and make the boys work for it. Like I said: ‘little girl.’”
My cheeks burn hot. Yet another man telling me what type of woman I’m supposed to be—as if I don’t get enough of that at home.
“Wow. How convenient for you. If someone doesn’t want you, it’s because she’s not a real woman. Insecurity issues?” I look him up and down like he did to me.
He leans in, and I smell alcohol and a hint of mint on his breath.
“Didn’t say there was anything wrong with you being choosy, and it’s fine if I don’t do it for you. But at some point, you’re going to want a man to lift you up, wrap your legs around his waist, and fuck you against the wall. The boys you run around with aren’t going to get that done.” He takes a sip of his beer but maintains eye contact with me.
Anger turns to embarrassment, but I decide not to give him the satisfaction. I stare back.
He leans against the table with his legs crossed in a casual pose, beer in one hand—like he doesn’t have a single worry. But then why is he so moody? When you have a veneer as attractive and smooth as Jude’s, no one probably bothers to ask.
The moment stretches, and we give each other time to study one another. So I make full use of the opportunity to take in the details. Jude’s tapping his foot lightly against the floor, over and over in some pattern only he understands. He’s moving one hand to the same rhythm, never at rest. I’m willing to bet he is one of those people who has to pull his phone out and play with it if he’s alone for more than a nanosecond.
He is checking me over with sexual interest, lingering on my boobs. But at some point it starts to feel calculated—like we’re playing a game of chicken. I have no intention of backing down.
And then I’m rewarded for my tenacity. He glances up, and when our eyes meet he looks away to the side, like he’s embarrassed. It’s so fast I almost miss it. But I don’t, and now I know something about him. It’s only a small thread of information, but I have the urge to pull on it and unravel him piece by piece, until I know everything. My curiosity—my need to examine and fix—is a curse. Jude has already fired up my hormones; letting him engage my mind would be a disaster.
I move so I’m standing to his side. It’s easier when I don’t look straight at him. “You talk a really good game, but I’m not buying it.” I bump him with my shoulder, like a buddy, which puts me back on safer ground.
“You are an odd one, Elizabeth,” he says.
“Sometimes. What about you? What’s your deal?”
“What you see is what you get, I guess.”
I laugh. “Such a lie. You, my friend, are a big ball of contradictions.”
“And you know this how?”
“Well, let’s see. . . .”
I lean down and take a shot, even though we’ve forgotten about our game now. I know I shouldn’t get into this with Jude, but I can’t help myself. I don’t think he’s actually attracted to me, so I figure maybe I’m safe.
“You’re Mr. Casual Sex and wall-banging, but you get embarrassed when you’re caught checking out my breasts. So someone taught you to know better. I’m guessing that was your mom. Good for her. Also, your voice is really calm. But you look angry and your posture says you’re annoyed. Why not be honest?”
His lips are tense and his body is completely rigid. “Is this the part where I get to analyze you?”
“Give it a shot,” I say. I can’t help but delight in the spark I’ve put in his eye.
“You’re a tall woman with a curvy, tight body, but you dress like a teenage stoner. You obviously don’t take your sexuality seriously, and you try to act like one of the guys to deflect attention. And you think I’m shallow, but you’re eyeing me like you want to take a big ol’ bite. Doesn’t that make you just as superficial?”
I should be embarrassed that he knows I’m attracted to him. Then again, everyone is probably attracted to him. Instead, I consider what he’s said and decide most of it is accurate. But there’s one point I need to correct him on.
“So if I’m interested in you, it’s because of your looks? How do you know I want to ‘take a big ol’ bite’ only because you’re pretty?”
This seems to stump him for a second. “We just met.”
“Yes. But if I were interested—and I’m not saying I am—maybe it’s your honesty that gets me hot, or your sense of humor. Jeez. What kind of girls have you been hanging out with?”
“What kind of guys let you get away with pretending you’re a boy?”
He crowds me with his body against the table. I’m not afraid of him, but I’m annoyed with myself. Why did I go and wave a red flag in front of this particular bull?
“You can’t intimidate me with your size.”
“Can’t I?” He leans in closer. “It’s better than the alternative.”
“Which is?”
He tugs gently on the bottom of my shirt, and I feel it to my toes. “You can’t even imagine.”
And he’s right. Because I know Jude has a deep well of feelings waiting to surface, but something weighs heavy on him. And his intensity isn’t something I can take on.
Time to concede.
“Thanks for the game,” I say, setting my pool cue down.
And then I ignore him the rest of the night. Doesn’t stop me from thinking about him, though.
CHAPTER 2
Ryan
It’s been five days since I agreed to tutor Lizzie. My anticipation made it feel longer.
I spot her immediately, even though the café is overflowing with people on laptops and phones. She looks good enough to eat, but that’s nothing new.
I’ve paid plenty of attention to Lizzie in class. She has the long, golden hair of a California girl, but everything else about her tells a different story—her ultra-laid-back style, her quirkiness, her positivity. I know she’s from Utah, so I’m assuming she comes by her niceness honestly. She’s also direct, which I like, and the fact that she overlooks my stutter is irresistible.
“Hi,” she says as I approach the table. She licks her lips, which are full and moist.
And, yes, she’s hot. I knew she wa
s curvy in all the right places, but I didn’t know until just now that she’s got a sexy freckle to the left of her nose. So, she’s totally out of my league but doesn’t seem aware of it.
I probably ought to rein in these thoughts. The girl only asked me to be her tutor, not father her children. Still, I can’t pretend I wasn’t flattered. In fact, if I can get through this without making an ass of myself, it will be a damn miracle.
“Thanks again for tutoring me. I would have sat next to you in class today, but I got there late,” Lizzie says as she takes her books out.
“Yeah, I g-got that when Stephens said, ‘Thank you for joining us, Miss Price.’”
“I know. Embarrassing. I don’t blame him for being frustrated with me. I basically butcher the subject of his life’s work every time I turn in a paper.”
She’s funny, too. I’m done for.
“It c-c-can’t be that b-bad.” And here comes the increased stutter, right on cue. “Want me to g-g-get you something to drink?” I’m praying she says yes so I can get my shit together.
“No, you’re tutoring me,” she says, getting up. “It’s on me. What do you want?”
I manage to stammer out my order, and I sit while she waits in line. I take a deep breath, comforted by the smell of coffee, and try to calm down. I must like this girl more than I thought, because my stutter hasn’t broken out of its cage like this in a long time.
I always had a slight stammer as a kid—I’d elongate my “m”s or repeat my “p”s—but the school said I would grow out of it. Then my mom died and it got so bad I could barely get a sentence out. After years of speech therapy—and some of the regular kind, too—it improved. Still, it’s always there, like a virus that lies dormant. Until I’m stressed or too tired or nervous, and then it becomes a full-blown pandemic. It wasn’t a lot of fun, especially in elementary school, where you’re like a lamb to the slaughter. Even as an adult, you can see the impatience in people’s eyes when you can’t get your words out fast enough, so you start to speak only when necessary. The worst part is, when you don’t talk a lot, people assume you don’t have much to say.
By the time Lizzie gets back with a huge mocha thing for her and a coffee for me, I am confident I can keep it together.
“So, if you read a lot, how come Shakespeare’s so d-difficult for you?”
She sips her drink and thinks about it as I stare at her mouth. I want to ask her a thousand questions about everything and nothing—why she’s here, why she’s talking to me—but I don’t.
“I aced advanced biology last semester, so go figure. Maybe it’s the language barrier, because I’m not always sure what Shakespeare’s trying to say. But according to Stephens, my real problem is that I don’t ‘dig deep enough’ into the characters. Why they do what they do, how they feel about things. I get that Hamlet’s angry. He hates his uncle for killing his father. It’s interesting, but I don’t connect to it for some reason.”
I slide closer to her until I’m peering over her shoulder at her book. She smells like raspberries. “It’s m-more about helplessness. Hamlet can’t take action, and he feels weak. And these guys aren’t used to feeling p-powerless.”
“No kidding. They bottle everything up, and then when things don’t go their way, they explode. Othello is the worst. I want Desdemona to hop out of bed and kick him in the balls.”
I laugh. “And Ophelia. She lets herself drown.”
Lizzie clamps her mouth shut and goes stiff, like she turned to marble. She drinks her mocha, and whatever was bothering her seems to pass.
“There has to have been a t-time when you felt helpless. When you resented being out of control like they did,” I say.
She is averting her gaze, but I can tell she’s considering what I’ve said.
“Of course.” Her eyes come back into focus, and she takes another sip of her drink. “Like when I get lots of bad comments on my paper.” Her frown turns into a smile, but it feels like a deflection.
“If it makes you feel any better, I had this writing t-teacher last year. He said that I had good ideas but I’ll never be a g-great writer because I don’t believe they’re worth anything.” Way to sell yourself, dummy.
“Ouch. Well, he was probably full of it.”
“Yeah.” I look down at my coffee. “So what made you leave Utah?”
“How did you know I’m from there?” She seems curious but not scared like she thinks I’m a stalker. So that’s positive.
I overheard her in class one day. Okay I was eavesdropping, but I can’t tell her that. I point to her keys, which are sitting on the table and have a keychain that says UTAH in big puffy letters.
“I have four brothers—yes, I said four—and they send me tchotchkes from home. It’s sweet. But it’s also why I left,” she says.
“Why is that? Sounds p-pretty cool to me.”
“I could have never been anything else there, other than what I already was.”
Her life is a mirror image of mine. Lizzie is craving change. I just want the rug not to be pulled out from under me.
“What about you?” she asks.
This is the problem with conversation. I wanted to know something about Lizzie, but now she wants to know something in return. Then it will devolve into the “poor Ryan the orphan” thing.
“I only have one brother, but he’s my best friend. No p-parents, though.” She doesn’t say anything, and this is a surprisingly effective trick to drawing me out, because I have to continue talking. “My mom died when I was eleven. I never knew m-my father.”
“That must have been . . . well actually, I don’t know what that must have been like.”
“Scary. S-sad. Hard.”
“Sorry if I seemed like a jerk, complaining about my family.” She is fidgeting with her pen—twirling it from finger to finger.
“Just because b-bad things have happened to me doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get to complain about your own problems.”
I’m mildly irritated by her apology, maybe because I hate having my life viewed as inferior by others. Every time I tell people about my family, I get the sympathy-face, or full-on pity. Either way, it’s another method people use to set you apart from themselves.
“You know what? You’re right. My family still annoys the heck out of me.” She grins, and just like that, the moment is saved. I’m not irritated anymore.
We decide that next week we’ll talk about As You Like It, before she has to write her paper. By this point, I am so drawn to her, it’s hard to concentrate. I want to run my fingers over the top of her hand and across her wrist. All the way up to her shoulders, so I can twist her long hair around my forefinger. I think she senses something, because she turns to me and smiles. She hasn’t flirted with me at all during this meeting, so I’ve been thinking she really only wants a tutor. But this smile implies something different, because her eyes are half closed, and her mouth is open and soft.
We sit like that for a second, and I wonder, on a scale of one to ten, how much trouble this girl is going to be. Then her smile widens, and I know it’s an eleven.
When I get home, I smell garlic and onions. Jude is here—cooking something amazing as usual. He must have gotten here recently, because his coat and tie are slung over a chair in the kitchen. He never leaves anything lying around for too long.
Jude is better than I am at everything—except school. There’s the obvious “he could be a male model” difference. He’s dated dozens of girls; I’ve dated two. I’ve worked my ass off to be good at basketball, while he’s naturally good at every sport he plays. It’s surprising I don’t hate him, actually.
But I don’t, because I am the beneficiary of Jude’s awesomeness. He’s more than my brother: He’s taken care of me in some way or another all of my life. So his being good at damn near everything has come in handy. Plus, I know Jude’s weak spots, and he knows mine. We’ve spent most of our lives defending them against the world rather than competing with each other. That’s why I sti
ll live with him, even though I could be in student housing.
I lean against the counter. “Chicken tonight?”
“Marsala. It’s going to be good, too.”
“Need help?”
He turns around and fixes me with that wary blue stare of his. “Touch anything in my kitchen and you die.”
I grab a soda from the fridge and head out to the living room.
Our house is small but decent. We live on the edge of downtown San Jose, in what used to be our Uncle Rob’s house. Rob took custody of us after Mom passed, but five years later, he died of a heart attack and left the house to Jude.
Jude brings two plates of food into the room, and we dig in.
“Seems like you’d be t-tired of cooking for me by now.”
He stares at me for a second. “No. Why—does our setup not work for you anymore?” His tone is casual, but I can see his jaw tightening.
“Nah. I l-like things how they are.”
“Yeah, me too,” he says. Relief is evident in his voice.
“Why aren’t you out tonight?” he asks, like he always does.
“I have some s-studying to do.”
“You working tomorrow?” While he was at SJSU, Jude worked almost full-time and got me through high school. I know that’s why he doesn’t want me to miss out and why he only lets me work part-time. But it’s irritating.
“I’d be working tonight, if you’d l-let me.” Only whipping up lattes, but still. Jude ignores that comment, as usual.
“Go ahead and eat the rest of what’s left,” Jude says when he sees my plate is empty. “I’ll cue up The Walking Dead.”
I polish off the chicken and clear the plates. Looks like another night in for the two of us.
It’s not like I never have friends over, but I can tell Jude is trying to keep this house our home—not some glorified frat house. I’m not sure if he is aware of it or if he is following some invisible footprint left by our mom.
“I’m t-tutoring someone in Shakespeare,” I say as I sit back down.
“Yeah? Why? Is she cute?”
I don’t say anything, and Jude mutes the TV.
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