The Truth About Jack (Entangled Crush) (9 page)

Chapter Twelve

Dakota

The tall, dark-eyed guy who took my raspberry scone recommendation yesterday sits in the same corner today. My gaze slides over him, then returns, caught by the eerie intensity in his face. His high, sharply defined cheekbones and his well-defined jaw make him look like the hero from a gothic novel. I notice he’s got a half-eaten raspberry scone sitting before him, which makes me smile. The tension in his jaw tells me he’s not enjoying it much, though. He’s brooding. There’s just no other word for it. He’s sitting there, staring into his coffee like he expects some sinister message to emerge from the steam
.
He’s got no phone, no computer, not even a book to distract him, unlike everyone else in the place. He just sits there with his hands wrapped around his cup, staring into the inky black coffee.

Last winter, Fran and I read
Wuthering Heights
together as part of my homeschooling. I fell madly in love with Heathcliff, a seriously hot bad boy brooder. We spent hours talking about his dark magnetism, which I doubt they do in regular English classes, but hey, we do things Luna Cove–style. Right now this guy looks so pensive and moody he would give Heathcliff a run for his money.

He glances up and catches my eye. Something flickers there, behind the lone wolf frown, something lightning-quick and bright as fireworks. Before I can respond, though, he ducks his head, his gaze falling into his coffee again. It’s like he’s determined to hide that rogue impulse, that raw, little boy happiness.

Is it possible that seeing me sparked that?
Come on, Dakota, get a grip. Delusions of grandeur much?

I’m in a slightly delusional mood, though, feeling feisty and inspired. I spent all morning arranging objects on my corkboard, planning out my geisha sculpture. Now the board is groaning with origami cranes in every hue, scraps of Japanese floral silks, bright red rope tied into elaborate obi knots. My geisha will be five feet tall. Her body will be chicken wire covered with a patchwork kimono I plan to stitch from thrift store blouses, skirts, and tablecloths. Her face, hands, and feet will be made of rusty mechanical parts—clockwork, springs, rivets, maybe a few gears. I have that delicious, bubbly feeling inside me, the champagne fizz of inspiration.

This always happens at the beginning of a new project. I can see the finished sculpture with my mind’s eye, and it’s a work of genius. Later, when I’ve been slaving over it for ten days straight and nothing’s right—it’s ugly and impossible and I’m the biggest wannabe ever—I’ll have to close my eyes and remember this feeling. I’ll have to summon the original vision, bask in its effervescence like a vat of warm champagne. Then I’ll hunker down and try again. Because that’s how it works. As Fran says, the first draft is just a lump of shit; it’s revision that spins it into gold.

A quick scan of the counter staff tells me Miles isn’t working today. I’m glad. I order my chai and, while the barista’s making it, sneak another glance at Brooding Man. My glance catches on his. It’s the tiniest micro-second of eye contact, but it’s enough. Before I lose my nerve, I march straight over to his table. He looks up, surprise making his face utterly blank.

I nod at the remaining half of his scone. “I probably should have warned you, they’re habit forming.”

“Worse than crack. I hold you responsible.” The grin tugging at the corner of his mouth is practically jaunty, not brooding at all. Who knew the guy exchanging black looks with his coffee just moments ago had such a flirty grin inside him?

I reach into my white paper bag and show him my own scone. “Addiction loves company.”

“Except you’ve got yours to go. Heading someplace good?”

“The junkyard.” I realize how weird that sounds, and laugh.

“Really?”

“For supplies.”

He looks puzzled. He really does have the darkest, most soulful eyes. I stare at him too long, and suddenly I can feel my cheeks burning. I know I should say something chatty and light to wrap up this conversation before I embarrass myself further, but nothing comes to me.

“Supplies for what, exactly?” When I just stare at him blankly he adds, “You said you’re getting supplies at the junkyard?”

“Oh, right. Raw material. I make sculptures out of recycled junk.”

To my relief, his eyebrow arches with intrigue rather than repulsion. Usually, when I tell people about my art, they either look mystified or disgusted. Maybe I explain it wrong. I don’t know. Fran’s always telling me I need to practice talking about my work, make people want to see it. She says successful artists learn this skill as much as they learn to create the art itself.

“Medium soy chai for Dakota!” the barista calls as she pushes my to-go cup across the tiled counter. Here’s my chance for a speedy, seamless escape. For some reason, though, I don’t want to escape. I want to linger.

Then again, I’m not ready for a full on flirtation with someone so soon after getting burned by Cody. My heart’s still a bombed-out war zone, unfit for anything more than pen-pal fantasies, apparently. It wouldn’t be fair to send
ask me out
messages to this guy if I don’t actually mean it.

He looks thoughtful. “So, do you go with a shopping list?”

“What do you mean?” It catches me off guard. He really does look interested, which is kind of endearing. It’s not every day you meet someone fascinated by the prospect of pawing through garbage.

“Do you know what you’re looking for, or do you just kind of walk around and hope to get inspired?”

“A little of both. It depends. Today I’m hunting for sprockets.”

“Sounds like a cool band name—Hunting for Sprockets.”

I laugh. He watches my mouth, and out of nowhere this totally hot image seizes control of my brain. I picture him backing me up against the baked goods and kissing me with epic intensity. Whoa, where did that come from? I hope this random daydream doesn’t register on my face.

“I—uh, I’ve never been,” he says. “To a junkyard, I mean.”

“Yeah, most people don’t consider it a hot place to hang out.” Why did I say hot? Did it sound like I was suggesting something sexual? Our imaginary kiss lingers in my brain like a stubborn pop-up ad you can’t get rid of.

“Do you want company?” he asks, hope lighting up his face.

Oh God, he knows what I’ve been picturing. Maybe he’s psychic, or—and this is way more likely—maybe my expression is just that transparent.

Seeing my hesitation, he backpedals. “I don’t want to impose. Sorry, that was kind of—sorry.”

“Medium soy chai for Dakota,” the barista repeats, sounding cranky this time.

I got so caught up in this strange conversation I totally forgot about my chai. I squeak with surprise and scoot over to the counter to grab it. All the while, I’m desperately trying to decide whether to bolt for the door or take him up on his offer. It’s one thing to strike up a conversation with a stranger in a café; it’s something else entirely to go out with him. Then again, it’s not a date or anything. It’s just two people with a mutual love of raspberry scones picking through a junkyard. Technically, I’m perfectly free to go on spontaneous outings with handsome brooding strangers, since I’m no longer with Cody. I just don’t want to give him the wrong impression. I’m too messed up right now to think clearly, let alone start a relationship.

As usual, I’m getting way ahead of myself. I don’t even know this guy’s name, and I’m worried about our relationship potential.

He’s exceptionally cute. Maybe that’s why I’m being such a freak. It obviously wasn’t easy for him to suggest he tag along; I can tell he’s sort of shy, which only makes him more adorable. He’s got Liam Hemsworth intensity and Zac Efron charm. He couldn’t be more different from Cody, who’s geeky and sweet but never brooding. I glance back and catch him watching me. Something about him looks so vulnerable, I feel a pang of empathy. He’s putting himself out there. He’s taking chances. The last thing I want to do is stomp on that.

I secure the lid on my chai and walk back over to his table. “It’s called Sonoma County Salvage. You have a car?”

“Yeah.” For some inexplicable reason this question seems to embarrass him. Maybe he drives a total beater, like me.

“Do you want to follow? I’m parked outside.”

“Great.” As he stands, he knocks the wobbly table and spills his coffee. It forms a dark amoeba on the wooden tabletop. He looks mortified, paralyzed with horror. I grab some napkins and toss them down, which seems to wake him from his trance. He cleans the mess up quickly.

I notice he has beautiful hands, long fingers, slender but strong.

…

Jack

“What is this place?” Attila surveys the dank lot with a curled lip.

“It’s called a junkyard.”

“And this is where you go with pretty girls? You really know how to romance her.”

“Shut up.” We’re at the far end of the parking lot, motor still purring. I need to get out of the car before she spots me. Riding around in an antique Rolls with a chauffeur is bad enough, but here my self-consciousness swells to epic proportions. Surveying the tractor corpses, the towering piles of twisted metal, breathing in the grease that seems to cling to everything, I feel ridiculously clean and starched in my blindingly white shirt.

“You cool here?” I check my hair in the rearview mirror, hoping Attila won’t notice me primping.

He makes a guttural, Slavic sound that seems to say,
What choice do I have?

I hike across the parking lot. When I turn the corner and catch sight of her leaning against her faded blue Volvo, scowling at a piece of paper, my breath catches. She’s so radiant. Luminous. The milky sky is gloomy and washed out, the blacktop dotted with dirty cars. Against that backdrop her faded jeans, violet hoodie, and bright blond hair make her look like a wildflower in a charred wasteland.

“You made it,” she says as I approach.

“Of course.”

“Was that you in that big old car?” I don’t think she’s taunting me, though there’s a distinct note of glee in her voice. “It didn’t look like you behind the wheel.”

I feel a stab of the old panic, the
I’m not like everyone else
paranoia. My tongue goes limp inside my mouth. I long to say something funny, something that will turn my ridiculously over-protective mother into an amusing anecdote, but my mind goes blank. White static. Roaring silence in my ears.

She shoves me a little, playful and forgiving. “You look so serious. Come on. I’ll show you around my private kingdom.”

As we pass through the oversized gates, a portly guy with long, frizzy hair poking out of a stained bandanna waves at us. Dakota waves back and I nod.

“How’s it going, Danny?” she calls.

“Can’t complain.” He darts a suspicious glance at me, and once again I feel out of place. Why did I wear a white button-down shirt? I try to school my expression into something casual, but I know I probably look as self-conscious as I feel.

“Danny” yanks an even greasier looking bandanna from his back pocket and runs it down the length of his sweaty face. “Looking for something in particular?”

“Sprockets and gears, mostly.”

“You know where those are, right?”

She nods. “I’ll come find you if I have questions.”

She touches my elbow, steering me through the maze of surprisingly organized junk. I try not to obsess over the warmth of her fingers through my shirt, try not to mourn when she shoves her hand back into her pocket. We pass a tower of massive steel beams, rows and rows of galvanized pipes, rusty valves that look like they came from the
Titanic
. Finally we reach a series of bins. One overflows with gears of all shapes and sizes. Another holds a treasure trove of sprockets. Dakota digs in greedily, her face suddenly very still with concentration.

“So, what are you making?”

She looks up, startled, as if she’d forgotten me. “This probably sounds weird, but I don’t talk about my sculptures until they’re done.”

“So it’s a secret.”

She tilts her head to the side. “Kind of. Otherwise it’s like letting all the air out, you know?”

I do know. I never play a song I’m writing in front of anyone until I’m sure I’ve got it right. I stand next to her, watching idly while she pores over the gears, scrutinizing each one like a jeweler examining diamonds. There are questions I want to ask, but I’m afraid I’ll interrupt her creative process.

As if reading my mind, she suddenly breaks into a bright smile. “I sort of zone out when I look for stuff. Sorry. Oh my God! I just realized something. I never even told you my name. I’m Dakota.”

I start to say “I know” but stop myself just in time. “I’m Jack.”

“You think this place is gross, huh?” She wrinkles her nose, an adorable, apologetic expression.

“No. It’s fascinating.”

“It is, right?” She can’t hide her enthusiasm.

I decide to risk a general question, though I don’t want to pry. “When did you first start making sculptures?”

“Couple years ago. My mom’s into printmaking, my dad’s a musician. Guess I’ve always been around art. I started out painting and then I saw this incredible sculpture in San Francisco a few years ago. Have you ever heard of Karen Cusolito?”

I shake my head.

“She makes these huge, gorgeous sculptures. The one I saw was like thirty feet tall, made out of scrap metal. Weighs at least ten tons. It’s just this woman, leaning back, her face tilted toward the sky. It’s call ‘Ecstasy.’” She scans the air, remembering. Her tiny hands move around while she talks, tracing the invisible sculpture, trying to make me see it.

I feel like I could stand here forever, watching the symphony of different moods play across the delicate planes of her face. She’s obviously passionate about art, which is so refreshing. I remember hanging out with Lucy, struggling to find something to talk about. Seemed like all she cared about was celebrity gossip and climbing the Saint Mary’s social ladder. Now it seems ridiculous that I considered myself in love.

“I’d love to see it,” I say about the sculpture she just described.

She frowns. “It was a temporary exhibit. They took it down. She went to RISD. That’s where I’m going.”