Tell Me Three Things(35)

“Did you get some sleep or something?” I ask.

He looks up at me, startled. “Huh?” He runs his hands through his hair, his fingers raking the pieces into a perfect mess. I want to touch his hair, tousle it like Gem did. The color is so dark, it looks like it bleeds.

“I dunno. It’s just, you usually seem tired. Today you’re more awake.”

“That obvious?” He nudges me with his shoulder.

“Honestly? It’s like Jekyll and Hyde.” I grin at him to show I mean no harm.

“Six hours. In a row.” He says it proudly, like he just won an award. “I’m what you’d call sleep challenged. ‘I read, much of the night, / and go south in the winter.’?”

“What?”

“Sorry. Quoting ‘The Waste Land.’ I do read much of the night, but I don’t go anywhere come winter, except sometimes Tahoe to snowboard. So, have you read it?”

“?‘The Waste Land’?” Why can’t I keep up with him? I’m a smart girl. I get at least seven and a half hours a night. And can he touch my shoulder again, please?

“The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”

“Nope.”

“You should. It’s pretty interesting. It’s about a guy with a split personality.”

“I’m sure you relate,” I say.

“Ha,” he says.

“So how about Tubilicious?” I ask. This is all easier than it should be.

“Tubilicious it is, Jessie.” He stops, and then I wait for it. “Holmes.”

—

Later, we find ourselves at a Starbucks, though not the one with the weird barista. Ethan buys me a vanilla latte and waves my hand away when I offer some cash. Does that make this a date? Or does everyone know that I’m economically challenged, at least by Wood Valley standards? Then again, it’s just a latte, and he seems like the chivalrous type. He memorizes poetry and holds the door, and he hasn’t taken his phone out even once to text. Let’s be real here: Ethan probably has a girlfriend—someone who has an entire Parisian-like sexual history, open and comfortable and varied. I should ask Dri, but I’m embarrassed. Liking Ethan feels too cliché.

“I assume you aren’t going to Gem’s party on Saturday night,” he says, and blows on his coffee. I’m not sure if I should be insulted by his assumption that I won’t be anywhere near the most popular kids in the junior and senior classes on a Saturday night. And why does he always have to bring up the wonder twins? It’s embarrassing.

“Actually, I think I am.” I shrug, do my best to project a screw ’em vibe. So they don’t like my laptop and my jeans and anything else about me. That won’t keep me home.

“Really?” he asks. “Cool.”

“A friend of mine is playing with his band, so…” It’s reaching to call Liam a friend, but I want Ethan to stop thinking of me as Gem’s victim. As a big fat loser.

“You mean Oville?”

“Yeah.”

“Who do you know?” he asks. His tone is borderline belligerent, like it’s preposterous that someone like me should know someone in the band. What the hell is his problem?

“A guy named Liam. Why?”

“I’m in Oville.” Of course. Of course he is. Crap. He and Liam are probably best friends, and now Liam will hear that I dropped his name, like he’s a celebrity or like we’re besties or something. Thank God I didn’t call it Oville. This is mortifying.

“Seriously? I keep forgetting how small this school is. Everyone knows everyone and everything except me.”

“Knowing everyone here is overrated,” Ethan says.

“What do you play?” I ask.

“Electric guitar, and I sing a little, though Liam really fronts us.”

“He’s good,” I say. “I bet the band is too.”

“You’ve heard him?” That tone again. Is it really that hard to believe that I’m friends with Liam?

“Um, yeah. Just practicing, you know.”

“Liam’s okay,” Ethan says, takes a sip of coffee and then another. Reconsiders. Softens. “No, you’re right. He’s good.”

“And you?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood, which feels heavy. It’s two steps forward, one step back with this guy.

“I’m not too shabby myself,” Ethan says, and there it is again, his sudden goofy smile. So bright and beautiful, it’s like staring straight into the sun.

—

At home under the food dome: miso cod, a fancy salad with edamame and candied walnuts, sticky coconut rice. Gloria knows how to cook Japanese food? Too bad I’m anti–food porn, because this meal is Instagram-worthy. Again, the house is dark, though Theo sits at the kitchen counter nursing a glass of red wine, like he’s forty and has had a tough day at work. It’s only been three years since he had braces. I’ve seen the pictures.

“Upshot? Not talking. Still married,” Theo says, and pours me my own glass without my asking. I take a sip, breathe through my nose, like Scarlett taught me. It’s not half bad.

“Where are they?” I ask.

“Who knows? Couples therapy? A work dinner? My mom never used to go out this much.”