Wrong About the Guy(43)

twenty


On Sunday, Mom, Jacob, and Luke left for London. They’d be staying in some super-grand hotel—VIP treatment all the way—but Luke would either be shooting segments or doing publicity most of the time, so Mom wasn’t all that pumped about it.

“I’ll miss you lots,” she said as we hugged good-bye. “Please be nice to your grandmother.” Grandma was coming that afternoon; Mom had arranged for a car to pick her up at the airport.

“I’ll be as nice to her as she is sane to me.”

“Be nicer,” she said. “And get your college application in on time.” She turned to George, who had arrived a few minutes earlier to help me work on my essay. “I’m relying on you to make it happen, since I won’t be here.”

“We’ll be talking every day,” I said. “You can remind me yourself.”

“I don’t trust you when I can’t see you,” she said. “You’ll probably ignore everything I’m saying and text your friends while I’m talking.”

I put my hand to my chest. “I would never.”

“She would,” Mom told George, who nodded in agreement. “Oh, and don’t you think Ellie should consider applying early to an Ivy League instead of Elton? I feel like her scores are good enough for her to aim a little higher. I’d hate for her to sell herself short.”

George opened and closed his mouth, looking a little panicked. “I’m not sure I’m the right person to—”

He was both interrupted and rescued by Luke, who appeared in the doorway.

“Car’s loaded,” he said. “And Jacob’s in his car seat. He knows something’s up—that kid’s no dummy. You’d better get out there.”

Mom’s mouth turned down. “I hope he likes the hotel babysitters, or it’s going to be a very long couple of weeks.” That little line appeared in her forehead. “I’m worried this is a mistake—taking him out of therapy, uprooting him . . .”

“A few weeks without speech therapy isn’t going to change his life, and I want you both with me.” Luke put his hands on her shoulders and steered her toward the hallway. “You worry too much. Come on.” He shoved her gently in the right direction, then came back to me for a quick hug. “Take care of yourself, Ellie. Sorry we’re abandoning you, but we’ll be back before you know it.”

“Right,” I said. “Have fun.”

“Fun? I’ll be working eighteen-hour days. Fun isn’t on the agenda.”

“No one feels sorry for you, you know.”

He flashed the gently roguish grin that made hearts beat faster all over America, told me he’d miss me lots, and left.

I went back to the kitchen, where George was typing on his laptop. He looked up when I entered. “They gone?”

“Yeah.” I threw myself into the chair across from him. “So . . . kegger tonight? You bring the coke.”

“As in cocaine?”

I rolled my eyes. “A-doy.”

“Just checking. Last time you asked me for Coke, it was a whole different thing.”

“Yeah. And you never gave it to me.”

“Are we really going to rehash this? Or are we going to work on your essay?”

“My essay sucks. It’s boring. And clichéd. I don’t like it.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“Complain a lot and whine.”

“You’re doing great!”

My phone dinged with a text. I glanced at it.

“Aaron?” he asked.

“Heather. She wants to know if you’re here and if she should come over to work.”

“Fine with me.”

I texted Heather to come and then looked up again. “Did you go back and get that cute catering girl’s phone number?”

“Did I? I can’t remember.”

“Don’t be a jerk. What’s her name?”

“Ethel? Maybe Gertrude. No—Brunhilde.”

“You’re no fun.” My phone dinged again. “Aaron?” he asked.

“Riley.”

“Don’t you have any friends with gender-normative names?”


I texted her back that I was busy and couldn’t hang out, then looked up. George was watching me. “You want to work?” I asked.

“Only if you’re not too busy,” he said with exaggerated politeness.

“Never too busy for you,” I said genially. My phone dinged again.

“Aaron?” he said.

“Yep.”

“Ha! Guessed right.”

“It’s not a good guess if you’ve made it three times and were wrong the first two.” I read the text then said, “Hey, what time do you think we’ll be done?”

“The usual. Two hours from when we start. Assuming we ever actually start.”

“Hold on.” I sent a text to Aaron, who had asked if I wanted to go see a movie later: Yah. You okay if Heather comes?

The cute blonde? Why wouldn’t I be?

I smiled at my phone, relieved. I had been wondering whether we’d be able to go back to normal after the other night’s weirdness, but he sounded like himself. And also like he didn’t care whether or not we were alone together, which meant he was in no rush to start pushing things forward again.