Almost (11 page)

“Look, you're going to have to get over that part about me. The reality of me, not being normal, has landed you the best paying summer job of your life.”

“You really need to stop saying that about yourself. If you're crazy, I'm crazy. Everyone's crazy, Jess. You seem fine enough to me.”

“Let's hope you never have to see the real me, then.”

“Whatever. Bring her on. I'm sure I wouldn't notice a difference. Or care.”

My heart races and I look away. “Well I care. So, write it down. For nine weekends and eight thousand dollars, what's yours is mine including your friends.” I throw in a little sarcastic eye flutter. “We're going to be so head-over-heels-in-love. I can't wait to see how
romantic
you are!”

“Oh no. I refuse to be your kind of
bumper-sticker-romantic
. Don't mistake me for Mr. Darcy.”

I gasp. “You don't know Hunger Games or Forks, Washington, but you know Mr. Darcy? Start talking.”

“Crap! My grandmother's a fan. She's tortured me since birth with Mr. Darcy. Thanks to her DVD collection, I can quote Jane Austen faster than the Elmo song.”

I laugh, surprised again. “Prove it.”

“Elizabeth, daaarling!” He's launched into a breathless English accent. “I
love, love, love
you, and I never want to be parted from you from this day forward. Pardon me, whilst I puke…”

“No way!” I beam. “Let the contract state that I want the Mr. Darcy accent once a week!” I can't help but laugh again because he's shaking his head and laughing back.

“Not happening. No one can know my secrets.” I could swear he finally looks uncomfortable.

“You'll get plenty of revenge when you dump me,” I say.

“Oh. About that. I'm not dumping you.” He scratches out something and writes above it. “I insist that at the end of the contract, you, Jess Jordan, have to dump me, in public. You're required to create a total scene. I'll make it easy on you by doing…something.”

“Something?”

“Yes, something so obviously offensive that everyone will know it's my fault you had to end things.”

“That seems like a lot of work. Isn't it easier and more tragic to be on the dumped side?” I ask. “Being the tragic one will get me points with the parents.”

“Not fair.” He pushes out his bottom lip into his version of a pout and makes his eyes go round like a basset hound puppy. “When it's over, I want to be like poor old Humpty Dumpty. Smashed to bits. Imagine the ladies who'll feel sorry for me. I'll need lots of help to tape my sad, confused, and broken pieces back together again.”

I shake my head. “God. That's disgusting really, but it's the least I can do if it's what you want. Consider me the dumper. I suppose it fits my reputation.” He frowns when I say that, but I'm beaming. Running with the idea. “Either way, while you're licking your wounds, I'll have a solid excuse to retreat back into my room with my own broken heart. That's all I need.”

“Why is that good?” He holds my gaze. “It sounds…”

“Perfect,” I finish. “Our sad ending will free me from what my parents call
normal high school social activities
for the entire semester. I can avoid homecoming, and dress shopping, and pep rallies. By the time I come up for air, my college applications will have been sent and hopefully accepted! Right in time for me to start chatting to my Mom about how college relationships will be better than…my time spent dating immature, terrible, YOU!”

I'm beaming and filled with blissful relief at that thought; but the guy is still frowning at me like a black cloud. “What?”

He flushes and looks at the paper. “You'll have to meet my grandmother. Is that okay?”

“Why?”

“She's eighty. I'm not going to have her worrying. She's really old fashioned, and I will tell her about you some.”

“Oh. Okay. Sure.” The idea of meeting his grandmother makes my stomach do a funny spin.

“I'm adding in a line next to the
Zero Parent Contact
bullet that also includes no real names on your side,” he says, clicking the pen nervously. “That's the plan, right?”

“Yep. That's the plan. My mom's guerilla telephone spy network will get her the information she needs on any name I give her. In less than three phone calls, she'd be knocking on your front door. Plus she and my sister Kika would know it was all fake if they found out I was into some perfectly chiseled super-jock. I'm more of a nerd-lovin' kind of girl.”

“I'll try not to be too insulted.” He shakes his head. “But you should know—prickly, cute, relentless girls with big blue eyes, geeky clothes and great grades are completely my type. If this were real, I mean.”

“Okay. Touché. Thanks for lying, but you suck at it. You have a lot of work to do to make
that
sound convincing.” I laugh, but when I meet his gaze he looks strange. Flustered.

He breaks eye contact with me and taps his pen against the contract. “Look, Jess…I wouldn't be able to sleep tonight if I didn't at least try to convince you not to do this. You've said it yourself. I am the last guy you should date this summer. And it's completely true.”

“Spare me. We've been through the shakedown thing. Just keep writing and stop trying to weasel out of this. I'm not going to back out now. You—we—already got the job. Neither of us wants to back away from Geekstuff.com. I can't wait to work there, and same with you.”

He looks up at me then, and I can't look away. “I want to add one additional requirement onto this.”

“Anything. Please, just don't back out.” I scan deeper into his green-gold gaze wishing I could read his mind.

“If you're going to hang out with me and my friends, you have to be nice.”

“Nice?” I swallow.

“Nice like you're being now. Like you were yesterday—to everyone at the interview.”

I pull a face and prepare to blast him for calling me nice, but he holds up a finger to stop me from speaking as he continues, “If you aren't, no one will believe a second of this. I don't date bitchy girls. And there's my grandmother to consider. As much as I've heard you say I've got a reputation as a player,
you
are rumored to be a huge ‘capital-B’. I'd prefer that word not be part of how I bring you up to Gran—”

“God. Stop yourself.” I swallow. I don't want to admit how much his words hurt. “I'll be
nice
, but you have to be nice back. And—I—I—won't let you blab about this contract—”

“Honestly. Stop yourself this time.” He holds up his hand. “I'm
famous
for not talking about stuff. You've got no worries there. I'm not telling any of my friends about this—about you—about our contract.” He seems to assess me. “If it leaks because of
me
, you can keep the money. How's that?”

“Do you think I'm going to be the one that blows our cover?”

He shrugs. “Trust me, and I'll trust you. It's as easy as that.”

I have to work to get some steady sounding words to come out. Instead of layering on a snide comment, I look him in the eye and hit him with the absolute truth: “I'll trust you. But know that I hate, down to my core that I have to do that. I hate trusting anyone but myself.”

I look away, but I can feel him staring.

“
Jess.
” His voice is whisper low. “You have my word. I won't let anyone—anything hurt you. This will work out. It will.”

I risk a glance at him, feeling almost consumed by the concern I'd heard in his voice. For once I'm sure I've read him right. He cares. He means what he's just said. I can only nod and rub the creases in my jeans flat over my knees. My throat is dry, and my eyes are heavy with exhaustion and unshed tears. I'm suddenly hot, then too cold.

I glance up again to find him still staring. “What are you waiting for? Write that all down so we can sign it,” I manage, blinking.

He scrawls his name across the bottom of the paper and hands it over with a half-smile. “Your turn.”

I sign my name next to his and hand it back. It's all I can do not to scream:
AWKWARD.
If only I could—but my voice seems to no longer exist.

Gray heads out from behind the curtain, and I stay put so I can get myself together. When I follow him out, he's turning on Mr. Williams' old-school printer/copier machine.

“I'm sure good ol' Coach won't mind lending us his personal paper stash. Not for this,” he mutters. After a couple of false starts and stops, he figures out how to make it work, and hands me a copy.

“Well. That's it,
girlfriend
.” He grins, folding his copy of the contract and stuffing it into his back pocket.

“Mmmh.” I nod. I'm still completely unable to form a sentence. I turn to grab my messenger bag and carefully place my contract inside. I don't want to wrinkle it in case I decide to frame it and hang it next to my future college diploma.

When I turn back, Gray's got his phone out. It's lit up like he's checking texts. His eyes are gleaming. “Let's exchange numbers. I'll text you at 7PM sharp.” He tosses me another one of those perfect, heart-stopping, winks and raises his eyebrows up high. “I'd hate for your parents to miss my charming message.”

My face is so stiff from holding the same expression in place that my cheeks actually hurt. I wonder if I've cracked a molar.

God. Seriously? Gray Porter, my hired boyfriend wants my phone number so he can text me tonight. HA…

I shrug like this is no big thing and pull out my iPhone. “You first,
boyfriend
.” I shoot him a wink of my own, doubled with a huge glare.

I'll call this new look the ‘winking-scorn-glare.’

The result: Gray laughs like I'm hilarious.

Obviously, I need to practice this look in the mirror.

Or fire him immediately.

Chapter Ten

Jess

It's now exactly
7:01PM
.

So far no text. None. I'm hoping Gray's chickened out.

My eyes have bored holes into everything in this kitchen besides the location of my iPhone. I've plugged it into the charger next to the table. The whole family has iPhones, and we are all pretty territorial over our charging areas. The antique cherry sideboard station is where my dad, a university geology professor at the Colorado School of Mines, usually plugs in when he gets home from work.

Tonight, I'd distracted him from his usual pattern: walk in, drop laptop bag in front hall, wander into kitchen to deposit mail, plug in phone, and look for Mom (or tortilla chips). I was lurking at the sideboard. Took the mail out of his hands, and attacked him with a few cheerful and earnest
sedimentary rock
questions.

BINGO.

He'd been unable to resist. Within seconds I had him in his office and at his computer, looking up websites to show me what he said were, “some great photos”. I thought the photos were just okay, but my dad is so cute when he's excited about geology, I'd never tell him.

Over dinner, thanks to all of our research, we shared our findings. We had a very nice, extended review of the area's ‘Fountain Formation’. It's these cool red sandstone rocks that are the remainder of an ancient river that was once the size of the Nile. This formation covers huge parts of Colorado with red, diagonally angled rocks. It even makes up Red Rocks Amphitheater. Dad never tires of this topic. Rocks are his life. The Fountain Formation is like his personal church. And Red Rocks is the coolest place in the world to see a concert.

I lingered over Mom's dinner, one she'd made special to celebrate my new job. Now both parents and my sister are sitting around, waiting patiently for me to finish cutting two pints of strawberries for shortcake. I'd used the words “please” and “family-time” in the same sentence to stick them to their seats and wait for me while I make dessert.

While I wait for Gray to text me in front of them all.

7:03

Dad's glasses slide down his long, straight nose. His head is propped on a hand that's buried in his wavy, gray hair. Because of geology-bonding session, the poor guy hasn't even changed yet. I can tell he's getting antsy. He looks overheated in his usual rumpled, tweedy-wool professor blazer. Mom hates Dad's blazers because he wears them every season. They're supposed to only be for winter.

Mom's a freelance nutritionist for large hospitals—a class act, and very into fashion. Because she travels a lot she's taken to only wearing black, white and gray. She looks like she's always stepping off some plane from Paris. Always. Her dark-brown hair is never messy. She wears it shoulder length, but it is endlessly pulled back into a fancy clip. Her other trademark accessories: round gold earrings, one matching gold choker, and one wide gold bangle. Her only color splash includes some type of seasonal scarf in an appropriate fabric to set it all off.

7:04

Now Dad's checking his email. A sure signal he's ready to head to his den, or worse, set his phone on the charger.