IF GREG WERE A DOG, HE’D BE PEEING ALL OVER THE WAITING
room.
In my twenty-seven years, no one has been happier to see me. He leaps (albeit sluggishly) out of his chair, tries (and fails) to spin me around, effusively compliments my stained “May the Mass Times Acceleration Be with You” shirt, and finally sandwiches my face in his palms and says, “I’m about to blow your mind, Elsie. Did you know that quinoa is not a grain? It’s like, a sprout. Oh my God, let’s do the Harlem Shake!”
Behind the reception counter, the nurse shakes her head and mutters, “High like a hot-air balloon.”
“I—thank you for calling me.” She looks less pissed than she sounded on the phone, but more exhausted. The place smells like mint, potpourri, and that air hygienists blow into the mouth during cleanings.
“Sure. Get this idiot out of my waiting room, please. I gotta go home and feed my own brood of idiots.”
“Of course.” I smile reassuringly at Greg, who’s petting a strand of hair that escaped my bun. “Like I said, I don’t know his home address. Do you have it in your paperwork? Or I could bring him to my place—”
“I’ve got it.”
I turn to the door even though I’m well familiar with the voice—from the past three days of interviewing, from my worst fears, from that weird, intrusive dream I had last night. Greg’s already running to his brother, giving him the same unabashed welcome he gave me.
My first thought is a familiar one: I can’t believe they’re related. If they played siblings in an HBO Max miniseries, I’d call bullshit on the casting director. My second is, of course, Fuck.
Fucking fuck. Why is he here?
I look to the nurse. “Did you . . . did you call both of us to pick Greg up?”
“Yup. Because the first person I called was his mom, who told me she’d be here in fifteen and then canceled because of a mani appointment.” Her lifted eyebrow is 100 percent judgment. I blame her 0 percent. “I decided to hedge my bets.”
“Right,” I say. Greg yaps on about his fantabulous quinoa discovery, and I don’t want to meet Jack’s eyes. I cannot bear for him to see me, not after yesterday’s mess at Monica’s and that last look. “Understandable.” I smile weakly at the nurse. Then I turn, meticulously keeping my eyes on Greg. “Your big bro’s here to take you home, so I’m leaving. I’ll call tomorrow when you’re feeling better, and—”
“Oh, no.” Greg looks at me like I’m pouring liquid glue on a brown pelican. “You can’t leave. That’d be awful!”
“But—”
“You have to come!”
“I suggest you do what he says,” the nurse tells me. “His tooth was abscessing. They pumped him full.”
“Greg, I—”
“Come on, Elsie. I’ll pay the usual rate—”
“No. No, no, I—” Shit. Shit. I chance a look at Jack, expecting to see . . . I don’t know. A sneer of disgust. The usual smirk. A SWAT team barging from behind him to handcuff me for solicitation. But he’s waiting patiently, hands in the pockets of his jeans, the dark blue of his shirt pulling out the
color in his eye. He’s not wearing a coat, because he’s physically unable to feel cold. Born without thermoreceptors—a tragedy. “Sure. I’ll come for a bit. Let’s go, Greg.” I turn to the nurse, whose interest perked up at usual rate. “Is there anything we should know?”
“Here are his meds—starting tomorrow morning. Just put him to bed to sleep the drugs off. And don’t let him make any major life decisions for the next four to six hours—no puppy adoption, no MLMs. Also, I googled it: quinoa’s a seed.”
Greg gasps. “We should get a puppy!”
Jack presses his lips together, but the dimple is right there. “My car’s this way. I’ll drive you to the humane society.”
Buckling Greg up in the back seat of Jack’s hybrid SUV takes so long, I contemplate never having kids. As the other not-under-the-influence adult, I’m probably expected to ride in the passenger seat next to Jack, but . . .
Nope.
“I’ll sit in the back in case Greg needs anything.”
Jack’s look clearly says, I know you’re avoiding me, because of course he does. He knows everything—and what he doesn’t know is his for the taking, because I’m translucent. Fun.
I realize how bad an idea this was twenty seconds into the ride: whatever they gave Greg is messing with his working memory. He’s able to focus only on what’s right in front of his eyes, and catastrophically, 70 percent of his field of view happens to be me.
The other 30 is, of course, Jack.
“You guys, this is fun. Is it not fun? Just the three of us. No Mom, no Dad, no Uncle Paul.”
“Very fun,” Jack says, navigating out of the lot.
Greg’s head lolls back against the seat. “Jacky, you can ask Elsie all those things you wanted to know. Hey, Elsie.” He attempts to whisper in my ear, though it comes out slurred and very loud. “Jacky has a thing for you. Like, he stares all the time. And he asks so many questions about you.”
“Oh, Greg.” This is mortifying. “That’s . . . really not what’s happening.”
In the front seat, Jack’s silence is quietly, painfully loud.
“Full disclosure, Jacky,” Greg continues with a loopy grin, “I made up all the answers. I dunno if she likes to travel, if she wants kids, if she’s into movies. Like, how’m I s’posed to know?”
Jack’s expression through the rearview mirror is sealed. “She has a thing for Twilight, I’ve discovered.”
Greg is delighted. “The vampire or the wolf—”
“Greg, how was the retreat?” I interrupt him with a smile.
“Sooo mandatory. But then my tooth exploded in my mouth, and I got to leave early. Hey, you know how sometimes there are shoes on the power lines? Who puts them there?”
“Um, not sure. Listen, do you remember if you got a chance to check your texts on your way to the dentist? Or your email? Or listen to your voicemails?”
He stares at me with an intense, solemn expression. I tense with anticipation as his eyes go wide. Then he says, “Oh my God. We should play I Spy!”
I sigh.
Fifteen minutes later, after Greg claims to spy a bear, P. Diddy, and a can of garbanzo beans, we park outside a pretty Roxbury house carved into two apartments.
“Where are your keys, Greg?” I ask.
“I’ve got a spare,” Jack says, finishing in twenty seconds a parallel parking job that would have taken me twenty minutes and my whole dignity. “Just make sure he doesn’t wander into traffic.”
I’d like to think that Greg’s place is what mine and Cece’s would be like if we managed to lift our credenza, could afford non-bedbugged furniture, and were less prone to frolicking in our own filth. It’s simple and cozy, covered in knickknacks that remind me of Greg’s personality and his quirky sense of humor. Jack dwarfs the entrance, but he doesn’t seem out of place. He obviously spends time here, because he knows exactly where to find the light switch, how to raise the thermostat, which shelf to set the mail on.
“Cutlet!” Greg yells, fisting Jack’s shirt. “Cutlet—where is she?”
I look around, expecting to see a cat slinking closer, but it’s just us in the apartment—me idling, Jack relentlessly inching Greg toward a bedroom. “On my desk at work. Let’s go take a nap, G. Sounds nice, right?”
“Did you water her? Has she changed? Does she still remember me?”
“I watered it. Her. She looks the same. Not sure she remembers you, since she’s nonsentient—like most cactuses. How ’bout that nap?”
“Can I have a drink first, please?”
“Elsie, could you get him some water while I put him to bed?” “Milk! Did you know that milk comes from nipples?”
Jack and I exchange a brief Isn’t coparenting fun glance, and I rush into the kitchen. I can’t find the actual glasses, so I pour the milk into a Bonne Maman jar. I’ll bring it to Greg, then leave in an Uber the second they disappear into the bedroom. I have my lecture to prep. Cece doesn’t know where I am. I can’t be alone with Jack. Yes, perfect.
“Here you go,” I tell Greg, who’s being herded to his bedroom while humming “Gangnam Style.” “You only have almond milk—technically not from a nipple.” I hand him the jar and—big mistake. Huge. Because Greg sips none percent of it before spilling the entirety of it on Jack’s shirt.
I gasp. Greg laughs uproariously while yelling something about the milk being back on nipples. Jack gives his brother a patient, ever-suffering-dad smile. “You having fun?”
“Soooo much. Hey, remember when we switched Mom’s yogurt with mayo?”
“I do. It was genius—your idea, of course.” “And Mom puked.”
“She was pissed. Come on, let’s go to bed.”
“I got grounded for a day. But you got grounded for two weeks, because she kind of hates you.”
“Worth it.” Jack smiles, like he doesn’t mind being told that his mom hates him. Greg tries to embrace him, and Jack stops him. “Bud, I’ll get non-nipple milk all over you.”
“Why don’t I get him into bed?” I take Greg’s arm, pulling him with me. “Go find something clean.”
The bedroom is just a tad messier than the rest of the place, the bed still unmade from Greg’s last night in Boston. He’s narrating a documentary on the environmental toll of almond production, which makes cajoling him into lying down marginally easier. I don’t turn on the lights, and he falls quiet while I’m untying his shoe.
Thank God he’s asleep. I’ll be out of here in a minute and— “I like you, Elsie.”
I look up from Greg’s boot. His eyes are closed. “I like you, too, Greg.” “Remember how you said we could be friends?”
“Yeah.”
“I want to be friends.”
My heart breaks a little. Not when you snap out of it and check your email, you won’t. “Awesome. Let’s be friends.”
“Good. Because I like you. Did I mention it?” “Yup.”
“Not like like you. I don’t know if I can like like people.”
“I know,” I say softly. I pull the boot off and get started on the other. “But you’re cool. Like . . . a Barbie.”
“A Barbie?”
“You’re not blond. But there’s one of you for every occasion.”
Something catches the corner of my eye and I turn. Jack. Standing in the doorframe. Listening to us. His expression is dark, his brow is furrowed, and his chest is . . .
Bare.
He’s taken off his soiled shirt, and for some reason I am physically unable to look anywhere but at his body. Which has me realizing that I was totally wrong about him.
He is . . . well, he is big. And well muscled, very well muscled. And I can see all the . . . all that stuff that people always talk about—the bulk, the mass, the abs, the biceps and the triceps stretching under the ink. But he’s not made the way I thought he’d be. I expected a gym rat body with 0.3 percent body fat and bulging veins, but he’s a little different. He’s real. Imperfectly, usefully strong. There’s something unrefined about him, as
though he stumbled upon all this mass by chance. As though he’s never even thought about taking a mirror selfie in his life.
Something warm and liquid twists behind my navel, and the feeling is so rare for me, so unfamiliar, for a moment I barely recognize it. Then I do, and I flush hotly.
What is wrong with me? Why do I find the idea of someone not going to the gym attractive? Why can’t I stop staring at him, and why is he staring back?
Jack clears his throat. He turns to reach for something to wear in Greg’s dresser, and whatever’s happening between his shoulder blades looks like a religious experience.
“Elsie,” Greg mumbles from the bed. I’m grateful for the reminder to look away. “Is soy milk from a nipple?”
“Oh, um . . . no.” My voice is hoarse. Breathing’s hard, but marginally easier once Jack walks out of the room. “Soy’s a bean.”
“You’re so wise. And full of layers. Like . . .” “An onion?”
“Like a yogurt with the fruit on the bottom.”
I smile and drag a quilt over him. “Let’s play a game. I’ll go in the living room, and we’re both going to count however high we can. Whoever counts highest wins.” I have vague memories of Mom making Lucas and Lance do this. Of course, like everything with Lucas and Lance, it always devolved into them fighting over who could count the highest and waking up the entire house.
“What a shitty game.” Greg yawns. “I’ll kick your ass.”
“I bet.” I close the door between thirteen and fourteen. Jack’s waiting on the green Lawson couch, wearing a too-tight hoodie that’s probably tentlike on Greg. The mysteries of genetics.
He doesn’t look up. He sits motionless, elbows on his knees, staring at one of Greg’s colorful, artsy wall prints with a half-vacant, all-tense expression.
My stomach sinks.
He’s pissed. Really pissed. I’ve seen him amused, curious, annoyed, even angry last night with Austin, but this . . . He’s furious. Because I’m here. Because he thinks I extorted his brother. Because I overfilled the milk jar. There’s going to be a whole messy confrontation, and after the last three days, I’m not even sure I want to avoid it.
“Listen.” I take two steps toward him, one back, two forward. If we have to argue, we might as well be close. Keep the volume down to avoid waking Greg. I run my sweaty palms over the back of my leggings. “I know I haven’t been exactly . . . truthful. And I assume you’re figuring out what’s going on between Greg and me. But this entire shit show is reaching a quantum-entanglement, spontaneous-parametric-down-conversion, decoherent stage. And I’m asking you to wait till Greg feels better to have a frank conversation with him.”
Jack opens his mouth, no doubt to unleash his wrath, and then . . . He doesn’t.
Instead he closes it, shakes his head, and covers his eyes with his hands. Oh, fuck. What is this?
“Jack?” No answer. “Jack, I . . .”
I debate what to do for a moment, then go sit next to him. If he starts yelling now . . . well. R.I.P. my eardrum.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Greg’s not sick or anything, I promise. Nothing bad is—”
“He told me.” Jack straightens his back, eyes once again on the print. “I should have known.”
“Known what?”
“When he was . . . I’m not sure. Fifteen? He was still in high school. I came back from college during break.” His throat works. “He took me aside and said that he was worried. That he couldn’t imagine ever wanting to be in a romantic relationship. And I told him he shouldn’t worry. That it was still early and he’d find someone. That it was normal to be nervous before becoming sexually active. That he should just keep an open mind. And then I . . .” Something jumps in Jack’s jaw. He closes his eyes. “And then I asked to watch Battlestar Galactica together. Like a total fucking asshole.”
I never came out to anyone in my family, Greg once told me. I think I tried, once. Kind of. But then I chickened out and . . . I don’t know. It’s better this way.
“Have you ever heard of the ace/aro spectrum?” I ask gently. I’m being gentle to Jack, apparently.
He shakes his head, eyes still closed.
“It’s . . . well, some of it is what Greg told you. But there’s more. Lots of complexities. There are good resources online that you might want to look up before you guys have another talk. And he . . . I think he’s still trying to figure himself out.” Many of us are, I nearly add. But it’s more of myself than I’d rather show.
“Fuck.” Jack turns to me. His expression is . . . Devastated is the only word that comes to mind. If he started slapping himself, I wouldn’t be surprised. “He should have punched me in the face.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Then think, What the hell. “Would it make you feel better if I punched you in the face?”
His eyebrow lifts. “Would it make you feel better?” “Oh, a lot.”
He lets out a silent, wistful laugh, and my heart squeezes for both Smith brothers. “Jack, you were a kid. And ignorant. And an asshole. And . . . okay, you’re still two of these things.” I lift my hand. It hovers for a few seconds by his shoulders while I contemplate the insanity of me voluntarily offering physical and emotional comfort to Dr. Jonathan Smith-Turner. Endothermic hell must be supercooling. “Your apology isn’t mine to accept, but I know Greg cares about you as much as you care about him.” His shoulder is tight and warm under my palm. Solid.
“He was paying you to pretend he was in a relationship. So my family would get off his back?”
I press my lips together and nod. He swears softly.
“If it makes any difference, he wasn’t paying me to . . . Not that there would be anything bad with it, but we didn’t . . .” I flush under his eyes.
“Fuck?”
I flush harder and nod. I’m usually pretty matter-of-fact when it comes to sex. Not sure why Jack brings out the blushing adolescent in me. “It’s a . . . performance of sorts. I do it for lots of men. Like Austin—who, by the way, was by far my worst client. By parsecs. Greg’s the best, of course.” I glance away. I’m babbling, but it’s weird to talk about Faux with someone who’s not directly involved in some capacity. “And Greg and I . . . we became friends. I know it’s unbelievable, given that he paid me and that I made up an entire backstory for myself, but I would have done it for free. For him. If I could afford it. Except that . . .”
“Adjuncting doesn’t pay for shit?” I laugh. “Pretty much.”
Jack sighs and leans against the back of the couch. “Why didn’t you tell me? When we met at the restaurant?”
“It wasn’t my thing to tell, you know? You were going to ask why he’d hired me. And I was going to have to waffle, and . . . We should probably stop talking about this. So you can have the conversation with him. Once he’s not so, um, focused on quinoa and nipples.”
He nods. And then he does something unexpected. Revolutionary.
Gobsmacking. Universe rocking.
He says, “I’m sorry, Elsie.”
It takes me by surprise. So much so that I blurt out a “For what?” “For accusing you of lying to my brother. Over and over.”
“You did, didn’t you?” I cock my head and observe him for a moment.
His strong, handsome face looks pained. “Does it hurt?” “What?”
“This apology.” He glares at me, and I laugh. “Was it your first? Did I pop your apology cherry?”
“Apology retracted.” His expression shifts into something inward. Like he’s finally processing an important, crucial, weighty piece of information. Like something’s shifting in his worldview, and the universe around him needs to be adjusted for it. I wonder what that might be till he focuses back on me and says, “You and Greg never dated. He doesn’t . . .” There is
something hesitant to it, like he needs to hear me confirm it. To make sure it’s true, sculpted into stone.
“Nope. He’s not into me, never has been.” I nearly roll my eyes. “You happy?”
“Yes.” His tone is dead serious, and I snort, standing up. Time to leave. “Shall we Grubhub champagne and cupcakes? Celebrate that I won’t be
polluting the shades of the Smith estate?”
He gives me an odd, long look. “You think that’s the reason I’m happy?”
“What else?”
He shakes his head but doesn’t elaborate. Instead he stands, too, following me to the coatrack by the entrance. “Did Greg ever tell you I was a physicist?”
“Nope. Well, yes, but it didn’t register, because projectile vomiting was involved—don’t ask. He also didn’t know I was a physicist, because we’re usually stingy with personal details. Fake last names, fake professions. An extra layer of protection, you know?”
“We?”
“There are several of us. Fake daters, that is. We work for this app, Faux. Available for Apple and Android—Android version’s so buggy, though.” I need to stop babbling. Jack’s looking at me like I’m a Higgs boson about to give him a lap dance.
“Is that how Austin found you?”
“Sadly, yeah.” I bite my lower lip. “Do you think he told Monica about my alternative academic career yet?”
“He won’t.”
“How can you be sure?”
“After you left, I . . . followed up with him.” Jack’s features are a bland mask. Unreadable as ever. “You’ll be fine.”
“How do you know?” “Trust me.”
I have no idea what that means. I want to ask, but his tone sounds final, and anyway . . . “Shouldn’t you want Austin to tell Monica? So George will
get the job? And you guys can bro out in the MIT restroom? Do aromatherapy together and discuss who has the biggest Hadron Collider?”
“George will get the job anyway. And we won’t be doing that.” A wild dimple appears.
“Everyone knows yours is larger, anyway.” His eyebrow cocks and I turn to the coatrack. Shit, did I say that out loud? “I can’t believe your mom refused to pick Greg up for a mani. What a jerk.”
“She’s not.”
“She totally is a jerk. Come on, who—”
“I meant, she’s not my mother. And she wouldn’t appreciate you saying otherwise.”
“Okay, edgelord. That’s a bit dramatic. We all have issues with our parents, but—”
“Caroline is not my mother. Not biologically, nor in any other way.” I turn back to him. “What?”
“My mother is dead. Greg is my half brother.”
I stare at him for a long stretch. Then I close my eyes. “Fuck.” “Fuck?”
“Fuck.” I scratch my head. “I just hate it when I act like an asshole without even wanting to.”
He laughs. “Don’t worry. Like you said, she’s a jerk. Dad’s no better.” “Still, I’m sorry about your mom. I didn’t know.”
“I’m not surprised.” He shrugs in his impossibly tight Suffolk hoodie. “No one talks about her.”
“That explains it, though.” “Explains what?”
“Why Greg’s such a sweetheart and you . . .” Dimple: on. “And me?”
I look away, flushing. “Nothing. Anyway.” I rummage in my coat pockets for my phone. “Greg’s settled down, so I’m going to call an Uber
—”
“So,” Jack asks conversationally, “what came first?” I look up. “Uh?”
“The fake-girlfriend enterprise?” He sounds genuinely curious. “Or the myriad of different Elsies you impersonate? Was it on-the-job training, or had you been . . . modifying yourself before?”
“I don’t—” Oh, there’s no point in arguing with him. Not when he’s not even wrong. “Listen, now that we’ve ascertained that I’m not some gold digger threatening the Smith gene pool, could you stop?”
“Stop . . . ?”
“This weird”—I gesticulate between us—“anthropological character study of me. Fine, you got me. I want people to like me, and I give them the me they want. I enjoy getting along with others. Gasp. Report me to the authenticity police for aiding and abetting.”
“It’s easier like that, isn’t it?” “What is?”
“Never showing anyone who you really are.” He watches me calmly. Patiently. In the soft light of the apartment, his eyes are dark all around. Sometimes I hear a car running, but the traffic here is not nearly as loud as at my own apartment. “That way if something goes wrong, if someone rejects you, then it’s not about you, is it? When you’re yourself, that’s when you’re exposed. Vulnerable. But if you hold back . . . Losing a game’s always painful, but knowing that you haven’t played your best hand makes it bearable.”
I hide my fist behind my back, clenching it tight at the unsolicited psychoanalysis. My nails bite into my palm. “Bold of you to assume that the real me is my best hand.”
That stupid, crooked half smile is back. “Foolish of you to think it isn’t.”
“Come, now.” I force myself to smile sweetly. “We both know you’re only mad because I’ve never been the Elsie you wanted.”
“Is that so?” He looks like he was put on this stringed plane of reality as an omniscient entity. I’m angry, and he needs to stop talking like he understands.
“It’s your own damn fault, Jack.” “Why?”
“Because you”—I point my finger in his face—“don’t give me anything. Everyone else does. Something to latch on to, something I can use to be the person they want. But you’re not putting out signals. And that’s why you’re not getting the VIP treatment like everyone else. So quit whining, please.”
“I see.” His hand, warm and calloused, closes around my wrist and pulls my index finger from his face down to his chest. He covers the back of my hand with his palm, and what the hell is he—?
“Have you considered that maybe you’re already the way I want you to be? That maybe there are no signals because nothing needs to be changed?” I scoff. Here he is, the Jack I’ve come to know and loathe. “Right.
Sure.”
“Once again,” he says, tone oddly gentle, “what happened to you, Elsie?”
“Seriously? What happened to—” My hand is still under his. I lift my chin, bringing our faces that much closer. “This is what happened to me, Jack: a little over six months ago, I go meet my date’s family for the first time. And maybe we aren’t really together, but you know what? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that since the very start, my date’s brother is an absolute prick. He keeps staring at me like I’m Ginger Spice crashing the royal wedding. He asks his brother questions about me because he thinks I’m inferior and unworthy. He acts unfriendly and suspicious whenever I’m around. I think we can both agree that given the opportunity, he’d want to change the shit out of me.”
The last part comes out more aggressively than I meant, but—whatever. I’m mad now, growing exponentially madder as I watch Jack nod slowly, as though considering my words. “Well, that’s an interpretation.” Heat radiates through me from his grip. It warms my belly, licks up my spine, reminds me how close we’ve somehow gravitated.
“It’s facts,” I hiss.
“You’re a physicist, Elsie. You should know better than to throw around the word fact when quantum mechanics exists.”
“What’s your interpretation, then?”
He says nothing for a long moment, as if collecting his thoughts or deciding whether I’m worth his words. Then something shifts. The air in the room becomes thicker. His Adam’s apple bobs, his eyes fix on mine, and he starts talking.
“A little over six months ago, I go to a family birthday expecting the usual night of misery. I’m only there for my brother, because I can count on two fingers the relatives I care about, and he’s one of them. We usually stick together, but this dinner is different. My brother brings a date. A woman he’s never spoken about—weird, since we talk nearly every day. The family, especially his mom, are thrilled.” Jack’s grip on my hand shifts. Softens. My fingers are still on his chest, half-pressed against his heart. My own has begun to thump in a hesitant, bracing way.
“She’s beautiful, the girl. Really beautiful. There are lots of beautiful women in the world, and if you can believe it, it’s not something I usually notice, but I’m paying more attention to her than I otherwise would. Someone pulls Greg away before he has a chance to introduce me yet. But I watch her touch my grandmother’s Go board and pick up one of the stones the traditional way, index and middle finger. I watch her sneak a bite of cheese. At some point, I’m almost sure she says something that no one but me understands as a Heisenberg principle joke. And then, when my brother comes back . . . that’s when it starts for me. Because I watch her run interference between him and my family in a way I’ve never managed—and believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve spent thirty years of my life trying to protect him from their bullshit, and this girl. She just does it better. I’ve never seen him so . . . happy’s not the right word, but he seems at ease. And as the night goes on, I can’t stop looking at her, and I realize something: she’s hypervigilant. Constantly thinking two steps ahead. Anticipating others’ needs, like people are equations that need to be solved in real time. It’s subtle, but it’s there, and . . .” He shrugs, free hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck. Like he’s still puzzled. My chest is getting heavy, the air in my lungs suddenly leaden.
“That night I get home. Go to bed. Cannot sleep till I admit to myself that I’m jealous. Or envious. A mix. My brother’s settling down, keeping
secrets, and we’re close, so I’m not used to it. And the girl . . . Maybe it’s how good she is with the person I care about the most. Maybe I have a type, and she just happens to embody it. But . . . well, I’m reacting to her more than I can remember ever doing. With anyone. I’m having some . . . complicated feelings, but I force myself to get over them. Push them out of my head. I am, briefly, successful. Then there’s Labor Day.
“She passes out in my arms. No explanation. She acts like nothing happened, and goes back to that personality twisting of hers. She does beg me not to tell Greg, though, and it has me wondering if this is not a solid relationship.” His voice is getting lower, deeper, and his eyes move into the middle distance, like he’s taking a step backward inside himself. Our hands must have shifted, because my palm is flat under his. I wonder whether he’s aware. I wonder why I don’t pull free. “And that’s when I realize how much of a piece of shit I am. Because she’s obviously good for my brother, but I am relieved that their relationship might not go anywhere. And I’d love to lie to myself and come up with a valid excuse, but the truth is, it’s because I’m a shithead. It’s because I want her for myself. I want to . . . I don’t even fucking know. I want to take her to dinner, make sure she’s relaxed, make sure she doesn’t feel like she needs to think two steps ahead. I want to know why she can hold a Go stone. And I really, really want to . . . well. I’ll spare you the graphic details. I’m sure you can imagine.”
His smile is small and rueful. My stomach is tight, tied in a million knots, and I’m hot. Hot all over.
“Avoiding her is the best course of action. I don’t mind skipping family functions, and my brother never talks about her. It’s like he forgets that she exists, which is weird, because I can’t stop thinking about her. I ask questions, even though I shouldn’t. I have a couple of really wrong, really messy dreams—about my brother’s girlfriend. When I see her again after a while, at my grandmother’s birthday, it’s not any better. It’s worse—but I’m never going to act on it. It’ll go away, I know it. When I find out that she’s not who she said she is, I’m mad—really mad, because Greg’s the best person I know and does not deserve this shit. But I’m also a little relieved.” He looks at me again. “You know why, Elsie?”
There’s something disarmingly, devastatingly self-confident about Jack. About the way he laid out all these facts without hesitating, as though owning his feelings is first and second nature. I study the glint of the lamp hitting his golden hair and wonder why this man would even bother thinking of me. He’s figured out my entire game. I came to him empty handed.
My muscles feel numb. I shake my head with difficulty.
“I’m relieved because whatever thing I have for her, it’ll go away. It won’t survive knowing that she lied. Except that I didn’t account for having to watch her talk about physics, or read her work. I didn’t account for having to spend two days with her and finding out that she is . . .” He smiles at me. Gentle. Resigned. “Spectacular.”
There is a loud noise, but neither of us looks that way. We’re locked too tight into each other, bound to whatever this thick, starved, voracious moment between us is.
Until we hear, “Guys, why does pee smell bad after you eat asparagus?” I glance at Greg, who is—
“Naked!” I yelp, twisting my neck to turn away.
“Dude.” Jack’s voice is hoarse. He’s shaking his head. “Where the hell are your clothes?”
“Lost them. Hey, remember when we tried to see who could piss the farthest away?”
Jack winces and takes a step away from me. His hand holds on to mine for just a second longer, and then, all of a sudden, the room is cold and drafty.
“I should probably . . .” I start.
He gives me a weighty look. “Go home.”
“Yup.” I find my phone while Jack whispers “Let’s take this to the bathroom, buddy?” and I slip out as I hear something about “asparapee.”
No, thank you.
The second the front door closes behind me, I slump against it. I take a deep breath and stare for a long, long time at the glow of Christmas lights the neighbors forgot to take down.
