The Truth About Jack (Entangled Crush) (12 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Dakota

Saturday I force myself to stay away from the mailbox. I can’t resist wandering down to Dad’s around noon though, just to see if there’s anything interesting in the pile of mail stacked on his kitchen table. Nothing. It’s been almost two weeks since I sent my letter. I have to get a grip here. I’m seventeen years old and my dating history includes one long-distance-boyfriend-turned-best-friend’s-boyfriend. Now I’m carrying on a fantasy relationship with someone who only exists in letters and only writes when he feels like it. Pathetic! No more pining.

I also can’t help wondering about Jack, the mysterious scone-eater. I had fun going to the junkyard with him that day, though I probably made a fool of myself. I can’t believe I blurted out that thing about getting dumped. They say homeschooled kids don’t get “socialized,” that we’re terminally awkward misfits. I’ve always considered this an offensive myth, but once in a while I say something so cringe-worthy I have to consider the possibility that I fit the stereotype. Apparently my socially inept commentary drove Jack away; just like every other boy who piques my interest, he’s vanished. He hasn’t shown up again at Café Vida, and he didn’t ask for my number—not all that surprising, given my “relationship apocalypse” speech. I think of his brooding expression in the café that day and the light in his eyes when he spotted me. His shy smile as he handed me that delicate, perfect little sprocket. Those strong, slender fingers.

I try not to care that he’s obviously beat a hasty retreat. Artists don’t concern themselves with trivial encounters. They live in the moment. They hunker down and do the work.

Just as I’m setting out my sculpting tools and making myself a cup of chai, somebody knocks at the door of my yurt. I’m surprised to find Tomo and Miles standing there. It’s foggy out, and Tomo’s wearing a wrinkled old trench coat that would make him look like a child molester if he didn’t have such a sweet, innocent smile. Miles, on the other hand, wears a nice sweater and expensive-looking jeans. His hair, as usual, has been sculpted into a perfect pompadour; I wonder how long it takes him to get it that way.

“Come on,” Miles says without preamble. “We’re going to town for lunch. You look hungry.”

I almost say no—my hands are itching to get back to my sculpture—but then I reconsider. If I have been socially scarred by my Luna Cove lifestyle, I definitely need to remedy that. I don’t want to be the reclusive weirdo when I finally do go off to college. If I travel for a year it’s even more necessary I learn to be gregarious. Tooling around Europe sounds pretty empty if I don’t have the people skills to connect with other travelers. Something about Miles’s decisive, no-arguments invitation makes it easy to say yes.

“Okay,” I say. “Why not?”

Miles’s slow grin seems to say,
I knew you wanted me all along.

I try to ignore it. He’s way too cocky for his own good.

Five minutes later we’re roaring toward town in Tomo’s ancient VW bus. Miles talks over the reggae blaring from the stereo, regaling me with tales of their morning adventures. Apparently they went surfing at dawn. He offers to teach me sometime. I tell him I’m a little too terrified of sharks to be much of a surfer.

“I wouldn’t let a shark eat a hottie like you.” He twists around in the front seat and treats me to another grin. I can’t decide if that knowing leer is sexy or creepy. I tell myself not to blush, but it’s no use.

Miles suggests we go to Café Vida, since he can score us free food. When we walk in, the place is bustling. A table full of moms with toddlers wrangle their tiny charges into highchairs; a group of old hippies eat falafels amidst stacks of papers and books; an old woman in a purple track suit lectures a sullen girl as she sucks a smoothie through a straw. There are hardly any tables and the noise level is about ten decibels higher than usual.

Miles orders our food, joking with the girl behind the counter. Some ladies in yoga clothes vacate a table against the wall and we grab it. Our food arrives quickly and we dig in. Tomo and Miles eat like ravenous dogs, polishing off everything on their plates in minutes. I eat more slowly, amused by their unabashed feeding frenzy. Tomo offers to get dessert, and Miles tells him he wants a chocolate peanut butter milkshake. As Tomo trots off to order, Miles turns to me, his expression playful.

“So, Dakota, tell me…” His arm touches mine in a way that could be accidental but might not be. “Do you have a boyfriend? Tomo wasn’t sure.”

I will myself not to choke on my lemonade. “No. Not anymore.”

“Not anymore? What happened?”

“He slept with my best friend.” It just kind of pops out. When it comes to this topic, I seem to be developing a mild form of Tourette’s. Quickly, I backpedal. “Well, actually, I haven’t confirmed that they
slept
together, but they’re ‘seeing each other,’ whatever that means.”

He nods sympathetically. “It means he slept with her.”

“So yeah,” I say quickly, annoyed at the tiny prickle of tears I feel at the back of my eyes. “That’s my sad story. But it probably wouldn’t have worked out anyway.” I think of Cody, with his knit hats and his obsession with indie music and the beautiful whale print he gave me for Christmas.

“What an idiot,” Miles says, shaking his head. “I mean, that’s just unforgivably stupid.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know your best friend, but she’d have to be crazy beautiful to make a guy choose her over you.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, unsure of where to look.

I feel a draft against the side of my neck and turn to see the door swinging open. Three guys tumble inside, two of them practically pushing the third in front of them. With a little jolt of surprise, I recognize the one being pushed; it’s Jack. He looks flustered. As his eyes meet mine, he turns away. Guess he really does think I’m a freak after our junkyard day. Ouch.

Miles follows my gaze. As he spots Jack, he makes a rude, dismissive sound. “Oh, man, not that guy again.”

“You know him?” I turn back to Miles, trying to hide my confusion about Jack not even offering a wave.

“We went to school together. Until he dropped out.”

“Dropped out?”

“Dude’s psycho. Tried to kill me once.”

I can’t hide my skepticism. “Really?”

“Serious anger management issues. His friend ODed and he went insane. I tried to be nice and he totally went off on me. I guess they were both tweakers.” A condescending smirk brackets the corners of his mouth with tiny lines. “After that, he dropped out. I’m surprised he’s still alive, tell you the truth.”

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

He shoots me an incredulous look. “You ever known someone seriously into meth?”

I shake my head.

“They don’t live long. Especially when they’re batshit crazy.”

“Wow.” I sneak another look at Jack. I wandered around a junkyard with a psychotic tweaker? Is my judgment really that flawed? I try to reconcile Miles’s account with the gentle, shy Heathcliff who handed me that tiny sprocket. He does have a brooding, bad boy look to him. But meth? I don’t know any tweakers, but somehow this guy doesn’t fit the stereotype.

“They keep looking at you,” Miles observes.

I watch Jack and his two friends huddled near the counter, their heads bent together in some sort of conference. Jack looks mortified while the other two look determined. All three of them cast quick, furtive glances in my direction every few seconds. Weird.

Automatically, my hand reaches up to smooth my hair. “Wonder what’s up.”

“Sauvage likes blondes,” Miles teases. “Watch, I’ll bet he hits on you.”

“Yeah, right.” I roll my eyes.

Tomo returns with a milkshake for Miles, a big slice of cheesecake for himself, and a chocolate chip cookie for me, even though I told him I didn’t want dessert. Tomo’s sweet. I thank him and nibble on the cookie, pushing the dregs of my salad aside.

“You know those guys, Dakota?” Tomo asks, nodding at the newcomers.

Miles and I laugh.

“We were just talking about them,” I say.

Tomo raises his eyebrows at me pointedly. “They sure seem interested in you.”

I try to act casual as I glance at them again. By now they’ve placed their order, and have staked out a table near the door. His friends don’t look anything like him—a Hispanic dude with a cocky swagger, and a stocky, balding guy about thirty with fierce gray eyes. Quite the motley crew. Could Miles be telling the truth? Are they tweakers? None of them have that gaunt, hollow-eyed look meth heads are supposed to have. They all seem to have teeth.

Why is Jack alternately avoiding me and staring at me? And why are they—oh God—heading over to our table, Jack in front, looking like he’s walking the plank?

…

Jack

I seriously think I’m going to puke. That will make a stellar impression. Just walk right up and hurl all over her chocolate chip cookie.
Way to dazzle her, Sauvage.

I can’t escape, though. When I spotted her sitting next to Miles, I whispered, “Abort!” under my breath and tried to head for the door. Miles Asher, of all people. Does she really have such wretched taste? All I wanted to do the second I saw her with him was get the hell out. Joaquin doesn’t give up that easily, unfortunately. Once he’s got a plan he won’t be diverted, no matter how misguided said plan might be.

Which brings me to another problem: with every step, I’m getting closer to Dakota, and I have absolutely no idea what I plan to say when I get there. My mind’s blank. If someone asked me my name right now, I wouldn’t know the answer.

Why do I suck so hard when it comes to girls?

“I can’t do this,” I mumble.

I feel Attila nudging me forward.

“Stay calm,” Joaquin reminds me through clenched teeth. “You’re a lady killer. She can’t resist.”

During the drive here, Joaquin coached me relentlessly on the art of confidence. He insists that’s all chicks really care about; you might sound like a moron and look like a demented baboon, but if you walk with a bounce in your step and a boom in your voice, they’ll swarm.

“Yeah, but what if you’re not feeling it?”

He shook his head as if disgusted by my inability to grasp such a simple concept. “That’s the whole idea—fake it and you’ll feel it, eventually.”

“How do we know where she’ll be?” Attila asked from the front seat.

“Try Café Vida. She’s usually there or at the herb shop.” Secretly, though, I hoped she’d prove impossible to find. I had a bad feeling about this mission.

“Faking confidence is like investing money you’ve borrowed,” Joaquin explained patiently. “If you make the right investments, pretty soon you’ve got authentic cockiness of your own to work with.”

I’d gone along with him, unwilling to alienate him when all he wanted to do was help. Now that I’m faced with Dakota flanked by Miles and some stranger, though, I know this is a tragic mistake. I try to psych myself up because I can see these guys aren’t letting me off the hook, but inside I feel myself recoiling.
Play big or go home. Fake it till you make it. Work your mojo, Sauvage.

As we approach their table, all three of them stare at us quizzically. Dakota’s blue eyes are full of questions. Miles and the other guy size us up warily. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

After an unbearably awkward silence, Joaquin steps forward. “How’s it going?”

“Okay,” Miles says, his face rigid as stone.

“We were just admiring your T-shirt,” Joaquin says to Dakota. “What is that? A bluebird?”

She looks down at her shirt. “Um, yeah. It is.”

“Awesome.”

Another awkward pause. Joaquin jabs me with his elbow. Apparently this is his idea of a brilliant icebreaker. I begin to wonder about my coach’s credentials in the lady-killing department.

“How’s your cookie?” I manage to choke out.

“Good.” She’s obviously uncomfortable. Who can blame her?

“No hunting for sprockets today?”

This earns me a smile. “You should see where those sprockets are now. I doubt you’d even recognize them anymore.”

“So the sculpture’s going well?” Hope ignites inside me, a little brush fire crackling to life. Maybe this won’t be a disaster. Joaquin might be right. I’m probably making this way more complicated than it needs to be.

Miles, unwilling to let me edge in on his date, leans forward, inserting himself into the conversation. He nods at Attila. “This your babysitter?”

“What did you say?” I feel rage oozing in, drowning out everything else.

“I heard your mom hired some guy to make sure you don’t go off the deep end. This him?” He looks smug, gleeful, like a sadistic kid getting ready to yank the wings off a fly.

I can feel Attila bristling beside me. Miles and I lock eyes. “You’ve got a real gift, Miles.”

He scoffs and shoots a sideways glance at Dakota. She looks scared now, her gaze darting back and forth between us.

“I am pretty gifted,” Miles says, all arrogant and sarcastic. “I’m touched you noticed.”

“You always say just the right thing to piss me off.”

He raises his eyebrows at Dakota. “What did I tell you? Dude’s psycho.”

“Hey now.” Joaquin tries to step between us. “Let’s keep it civil.”

Miles leans sideways and fixes me with a spiteful glare. His eyes glitter. He’s enjoying this. “He’s just like his crazy little friend Will.”

Blood pounds in my ears, white noise rushing up to meet me like a wave crashing in my head. Memories of Miles taunting Will, taunting other kids who didn’t meet his criteria of cool, flash before me like a movie montage. He never knew Will, not really. He never saw how punchy he could get when it was four in the morning and we’d been up all night watching bad horror. He never knew how much fun it was going on adventures together as kids, pretending we were exploring distant planets or medieval villages. He couldn’t remember building forts with Will and making shadow puppets on the walls with flashlights.

Will wasn’t crazy. He was sad—sadder than I ever realized, and lonely, and maybe some of that was my fault, because I’d been too caught up in Lucy to pay as much attention as I should have. But one thing I know for sure is that Miles Asher has no place passing judgment on him when Will had more personality in his little finger than Miles can ever hope to obtain.