The Accidentals(70)

Everything is beautiful until his hand slides down, over my jeans and between my legs. First comes the shock at how good this feels, even through two layers of clothing, my body thrumming beneath his touch.

But as my heart rate accelerates, that thrum turns on me. Tension begins to rise up through my gut and into my chest. We’re very alone, and anything could happen.

I try to calm down, to go on kissing him, but it’s no good. With a gasp, I shove him back, scrambling into a sitting position.

Jake looks up at me, his glasses askew. He doesn’t say a word.

I straighten out my shirt, covering myself, then put my head into my shaking hands. “I’m sorry.”

Jake rights himself slowly, leaning back on the couch. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I grunt. Unfortunately, there have been several of these incidents. I can never explain it to him, because I don’t really understand it myself. Fooling around with Jake is always fabulous, right up until the moment it isn’t anymore.

He looks at his watch. “I should really get going, anyway.”

“You’re mad,” I say.

“I’m not.”

“Just say it! You are,” I hear an edge of hysteria in my voice.

“No.” His voice is low and quiet. “Mad is when somebody did something wrong. This is…confused.” He takes a slow breath. “It’s like playing the fifth level of ‘Real Enemyz,’ when you think you’re going along great, and then the serpent comes out of nowhere and bites your head off. The screen goes black, and it’s game over.” He adjusts his glasses. “It does not, however, dull my enthusiasm for the game.”

“You may have taken the analogy too far.”

“Let a guy cool off a minute.”

I watch, at a loss, as he shoves his laptop into his backpack and stands up. My heart grows heavy as he goes for the door. Before he opens it, he turns around.

“Rachel.” His eyes don’t quite meet mine. “Am I the one you want to be with?”

What? “Of course you are!” I straighten up, indignant.

His hand is on the doorknob. “You know, I’ve had it bad for you since, like, the second email. And I still do. But there are these invisible tripwires. And I’m always stepping on them. If you told me where they are…” He opens the door. “That might help. I’ll see you tomorrow.”





Chapter Twenty-Three





Winter holds on with both hands and both feet, just to prove that it can. I learn—the hard way—how to avoid black ice on the sidewalks. Midterms loom, and I see Frederick exactly once, for brunch. We’re both on our best behavior.

“I’m basically hiding in New Hampshire these days,” he says. “The record label is pushing me to work with younger songwriters for the new album. And they all want to make me sound like Ed Sheeran.”

“Why?” I ask, spreading jam on my toast.

“Demographics,” he grumbles. “My fan base is starting to go gray, but the kids are the ones who spend the most money on music. So they want to make me sound younger.”

“Huh.” I consider this. “Sheeran drops the odd curse word into his lyrics.”

“Fuck, is that what it takes?” His grin is wry. “I can fucking do that.”

I smile in spite of myself. “We’ll have to work on your Yorkshire accent.”

Frederick doesn’t mention his girlfriend at all. And I’m curious whether he straightened things out with her. But it’s really none of my business. And for once, he volunteered something about his work. That seems like progress.

“So what’s up with you these days?” he asks.

That should have made for the perfect opening to mention my upcoming Belle Choir concert, which is only a week away. “Not much,” I say instead.

And—proving myself to be the biggest chicken that ever lived—I don’t call him again until the day of the jam.

“Hi Rachel,” he answers his phone. “What’s shakin’?”

“Where are you?” I ask, almost hoping he’ll say, “At Logan airport, waiting on a flight.” It would serve me right.

“I’m in Norah’s car. Just taking care of a little appointment.”

So they are still together.

“Well…” I swallow. “Sorry for the short notice. But I want to invite you to something. I’m in an a cappella singing group. And the concert is tonight.”

“Reeeeally.” He chuckles. “I guess you’d better tell me where and when.”





Seven hours later, I follow the Belle Choir onstage, regretting all my life choices. This had seemed like a clever way to reveal my favorite hobby. But now it feels gimmicky and desperate.

And it’s too late to change my mind. I have no choice but to stand on this stage and deliver my solo—his own song—knowing he’s out there listening with a songwriter’s ear.

I take my place with the altos, putting one arm on Daria’s shoulder and one on Other Jessica’s. We all watch Jessica in the opposite corner. Our pitch hums a note, which I drop by a fourth and bank in my brain. When Jessica raises her hands, we launch together into Bonnie Raitt’s “Something to Talk About.”