Easy (7 page)

“That’s so
true
,
you mean?
Look—guys are dogs. Women have known this since the beginning
of time. Guys don’t want to be chased; they chase. So if you’re going to catch
one, you have to know how to make
him
chase
you
.”

I squinted at her.
Archaic, sexist, demeaning
my brain declared, filling in for
aaauugh
,
too late. This viewpoint shouldn’t have surprised me—I’d heard her say these sorts
of things before. I just never considered those off-the-cuff remarks to be part
of a creed.

I chugged half of the
OJ before commenting. “You’re serious about this.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “This is where I
don’t
say ‘as a heart attack,’ right?”

***

Go time.

I took a deep
breath. I had three minutes until class started. Erin said I needed one minute,
no more than two. “But two is pushing it,” she insisted, “because then you look
too
interested. One is better.”

I slid into the
seat next to him, but perched on the edge, making it obvious that I had no
intention of remaining. His eyes snapped to mine immediately, dark brows
disappearing into that messy hair falling over his forehead. His eyes were
almost colorless. I’d never seen anyone with eyes so light.

He was definitely
startled by my appearance next to him. Good, according to Erin and Maggie.

“Hey,” I said, a subtle
smile on my lips, hoping I appeared somewhere between interested and
indifferent. According to Erin and Maggie, that impression was a vital part of
the strategy.

“Hey.” He opened his
econ text, concealing the open sketchbook in front of him. Before he obscured
it, I caught a detailed illustration of the venerated old oak tree in the center
of campus and the ornamental wrought iron fence surrounding it.

I swallowed.
Interested
and indifferent.
“So, it just occurred to me that I don’t remember your
name from the other night. Too many margaritas, I guess.”

He wet his lips
and stared at me a moment before answering, and I blinked, wondering if he was
purposefully making my loosely-sustained
indifference
more challenging
to maintain. “It’s Lucas. And I don’t think I gave it.”

In the next
moment, Dr. Heller entered noisily near the podium, catching his handled case
in the door. An audible, “Dammit,” echoed through the lecture hall, thanks to
the planned acoustics of the room. Lucas and I smiled at each other as our
fellow classmates tittered.

“So… you, um,
called me Jackie, before?” I said, and his head tilted slightly. “I actually go
by Jacqueline. Now.”

His brows drew
down slightly. “Okay.”

I cleared my
throat and stood—surprising him again, judging by his expression. “Nice to meet
you, Lucas.” I smiled again before turning away and darting to my assigned
seat.

Keeping my
attention on the lecture and defying the compulsion to peek over my shoulder was
excruciating. I was sure I felt Lucas’s eyes boring into the back of my head.
Like an out-of-reach itch, the sensation nettled me for fifty minutes straight,
and it took herculean effort to refrain from turning around. Unknowingly, Benji
helped by making distracting observations on Dr. Heller, like tallying the
number of times he said, “Uuummm,” during the lecture with marks at the top of
his notebook, and pointing out the fact that our professor was sporting one
navy and one brown sock.

Instead of
lingering at the end of class to see what Lucas would do (speak to me or ignore
me?), instead of waiting for Kennedy to leave (funny, I’d paid scant attention
to him for the past hour—that was a first), I swung my backpack onto my
shoulder and practically sprinted from the room without looking at either of
them. Emerging from the side door into the crisp fall air, I sucked in a deep
breath. Agenda: Spanish class, lunch, Starbucks.

Erin:  How’d OBBP go?

Me:  Got him to tell me his name. Went back to my seat. Didn’t look at him again.

Erin:  Perfect. Meet you after next class for more strategizing before coffee. ;)

***

When Erin and I joined the line at the Starbucks, I didn’t see Lucas.

“Rats.” She craned
her neck, making sure he wasn’t one of the people behind the counter. “He was
here last Monday, right?”

I shrugged. “Yeah,
but his work schedule is probably unpredictable.”

She elbowed me
lightly. “Not so much. That’s him there, right?”

He came through a
door to the back with an industrial-sized bag of coffee. My physical reaction
to him was unnerving. It was as though my insides all clenched up at the sight
of him, and when they unwound, everything restarted at once—my heart rate
accelerating, lungs pumping air, brainwaves running amok.

“Ooh, J, he’s got
ink
,
too,” Erin murmured appreciatively. “Just when I didn’t think he could get any
hotter...”

My eyes fell to
his forearms, flexing as he sliced the bag open. Tattooed designs wrapped
around his wrists, contiguous symbols and script running up both arms and
disappearing into the sleeves of the gray knit shirt, which were shoved above
his elbows. I’d never seen him without his sleeves pulled to the wrists. Even
Saturday night, he’d worn long sleeves—a faded black button-down, open over a
white t-shirt.

I’d never been
attracted to guys with tattoos. The notion of needles injecting ink under the skin
and the confidence of making permanent imprints of words and symbols was
foreign to me. Now, I wondered how far the tattoos spread—just the sleeves of
his arms? His back? His chest?

Erin tugged my arm
as the line moved forward. “You’re botching our carefully crafted
indifferent
act, by the way. Not that I can blame you.” She sighed. “Maybe we should bail
now before he—”

I glanced at her
when she fell silent, and watched a devious smile cross her face as she turned
to me.

“Keep looking at
me,” she said, laughing as though we were having an amusing conversation. “He’s
staring at you. And I mean
staring
. That boy is undressing you with his
eyes. Can you feel it?” Her expression was triumphant.

Could I feel his
stare?
I can now, thanks,
I thought. My face heated.

“Oh, my God,
you’re blushing,” she whispered, her dark eyes widening.

“No shit.” My
teeth were clenched, voice tight. “Stop telling me he’s—he’s—”

“Undressing you
with his eyes?” She laughed again and I’d never wanted to kick her more. “Okay,
okay—but J, do
not
worry. You’ve got this. I don’t know what you’ve done
to him, but he’s ready to sit up and beg. Trust me.” She glanced in his
direction. “Okay, he’s starting a new batch of coffee now. You can do your own
staring.”

We stepped closer;
there were only two people in front of us. I watched Lucas replace the filter,
measure out the coffee, and set the controls. His green apron was haphazardly secured
in the back—more of a knot than a bow. The ties drew my eyes to his hips in his
worn, low-slung jeans, one pocket holding a wallet to which a loose chain was
attached. It disappeared under the apron, linking to a front belt loop, no
doubt.

He turned then,
eyes on the second register as he punched buttons and brought it to life. I
wondered if he planned to ignore me as I had him during class. It would serve
me right, playing this game. Just as the guy in front of me began his detailed
drink order to the girl at the first register, Lucas’s gaze swung up to meet
mine. “Next?” The steel gray of his shirt set off the gray in his eyes, the
blue disappearing. “Jacqueline.” He greeted me with a smirk, and I worried that
he could read my mind, and the devious plans Erin had implanted in it. “Americano
today, or something else?”

He remembered my
drink order from a week ago.

I nodded, and he flashed
a barely-there grin at my bemusement, ringing up the order and printing the cup
with a sharpie. Instead of passing it to a coworker, though, he made the drink
himself.

He added a protective
sleeve and a lid and handed me the cup. I couldn’t read his trace of a smile. “Have
a nice day.” Looking over my shoulder, he said, “Next?”

I joined Erin at
the pick-up counter, confused and sulking.

“He made the drink
for you?” She retrieved her drink and followed me to the condiment counter.

“Yeah.” I removed
the lid and added sugar and milk while she shook cinnamon over her latte. “But
he just handed it over like I was any other customer and took the next guy’s
order.” We watched him interact with customers. He didn’t once glance my way.

“I could have
sworn he was so into you he couldn’t see straight,” she mused as we left,
rounding a corner to join the mass of people flowing through the student
center.

“Hey, baby!”
Chaz’s voice pulled both of us from our thoughts. He snatched Erin out of the
flow of people and I followed, laughing at her delighted squeal until I noticed
the guy standing next to him.

My face went hot,
blood pounding in my ears. As our friends kissed hello and began talking about
what time they each got off work tonight, Buck stared down at me, his mouth
turning up on one side. My breath came in pants and I fought to keep the rising
panic and nausea under control. I wanted to turn and run, but I was
immobilized.

He couldn’t touch
me here. He couldn’t hurt me here.

“Hey, Jackie.” His
piercing gaze roamed over me and my skin crawled. “Lookin’ good, as always.”
His words gushed flirtation, but all I felt was the threat underneath, intended
or not.

The bruises had
faded from his face, but weren’t entirely gone. One yellowish streak ringed his
left eye, and another brushed along the right side of his nose like a pale
smear. Lucas had given him those, and only the three of us knew it. I stared
back, mute, the coffee clutched in my hand. I’d once thought this boy handsome
and charming—the all-American veneer he wore fooling me as thoroughly as it
fooled everyone else.

I raised my chin, ignoring
my physical reaction to him, and the fear causing it. “It’s Jacqueline.”

He cocked one
eyebrow, confused. “Huh?”

Erin grabbed my
elbow. “Come on, hot stuff. Don’t you have art history in like five minutes?”

I stumbled
slightly as I turned and followed her, and he issued a soft, taunting laugh as
I passed him. “See you around,
Jacqueline
,” he teased.

My name in his
mouth sent a tremor through me, and I trailed behind Erin into the sea of
students. Once I could move, I couldn’t get away from him fast enough.

Chapter 6

Erin:  Do you still have your coffee cup?

Me:  Yes?

Erin:  Take the sleeve off

Me:  OMG

Erin:  His phone number?

Me:  How did you know???

Erin:  I’m Erin. I know all. ;)

Erin:  Actually, I just wondered why he wrote on your cup if he was going to make your drink.

If Erin hadn’t texted me during class, that cup, and his number, would have been pitched into the hallway wastebasket.

So… Lucas wasn’t writing an unnecessary drink order onto my cup, he was giving me his phone
number. I entered it into my phone, wondering what I was meant to do with it.
Call him? Text him?

I thought about
what I knew of him: He’d come out of nowhere the night of the party. After
putting a stop to the attack, some further protective trait had obliged him to
see me safely back to the dorm. He’d somehow known my name that night—my
nickname—but I’d never noticed him before.

He sat in the back
row in economics, sketching or staring at me instead of paying attention to the
lecture. Saturday night, the firm touch of his hands as we danced made my head
swim, before he disappeared without explanation. He’d undressed me with his
eyes, Erin said, in the middle of Starbucks—where he worked. He was cocky and
self-sure. Tattooed and too hot for words. He looked and acted like the Bad Boy
Erin and Maggie believed him to be.

And now, his
number was programmed into my phone. It was as though he knew all about
Operation Bad Boy Phase, and he was as willing and eager to fill that role as
my friends believed he’d be.

But I didn’t know
him. I didn’t know what he thought of me. If he thought of me. The girl talking
to him after class last week wanted him. In the club, girls had openly stared
as he passed, some of them turning around in his wake to assess him further. He
could have danced with any of them, probably gone home with most of them. Why
me?

***

Landon,

I’ve
attached an outline of my research paper. If you have a chance, could you make
sure it’s not too broad, or too focused? I’m not sure how many economies
outside the US to include. Also, the J-curve is a little confusing. I get that
we can see it after the fact, but isn’t economics based on prediction, like the
weather? I mean, who cares if we can only see what happened after the fact - if
the weather guy can’t predict what’s going to happen tomorrow, he’s probably going
to get fired, right?

I did the worksheets, too. Sorry I’m sending you so much at once, and on a
Monday. I should have sent it earlier, but I went out with some friends
Saturday and didn’t get it done.

JW

Jacqueline,

No problem. I’m either working, studying, or in class practically every waking
hour. I hardly notice what day it is. I hope you enjoyed your night out.

I
know I initially said I didn’t need details of your breakup (if that was rude,
I didn’t mean it that way); it must have been bad to make you ditch class for
two weeks. I can tell skipping is atypical for you.

I’ve
attached a WSJ article that explains the J-curve better than the text. You’re exactly
right, without the ability to predict, economics isn’t economics, it’s history.
And while history has its place in the predictable probabilities of both
economics and meteorology (clever analogy, btw), it’s hardly useful if you need
to know whether or not to invest in foreign currency or bring your umbrella to
school.