Wrong About the Guy(66)

“Does it matter?”

“My ego says yes.”

“Then for the sake of your ego, let’s go with the charm thing.”

That wasn’t a satisfying response. I picked at the muffin, but it had blueberries in it and I didn’t like blueberries. I should have been more specific, but I’d kind of assumed George would know what I liked.





thirty-two


As we ran the other errands, we talked more about the Jacob situation. When we were in the car, I read bits out loud from the books we’d bought, and then in the stores, we discussed the things that reminded us of Jacob—like the delayed language—and the things that didn’t, like how a lot of these kids avoided being touched, and Jacob loved being in our arms.

Nothing seemed obvious except, we agreed, that it couldn’t hurt for Mom and Luke to bring Jakie to an expert who could evaluate him.

When we were finally heading home, I suddenly felt the full weight of what we were talking about. The books made it all seem very real. “I just want him to be okay,” I said, rolling my head sideways to look at George as he drove.

“He will be,” he said. “He is. He’s smart and adorable and sweet. What’s not okay about that? And your mom is willing to do whatever needs to be done to help him.”

“I’ll try to talk Luke into being more supportive.”

“You’ll succeed,” he said. “You could talk anyone into anything.”

“Not really. I—” My phone buzzed, interrupting me. I glanced at it. “Heather,” I said, and put the phone away without texting back.

“How’s she doing?”

“You don’t know? She said you guys text sometimes.”

He raised his eyebrows. “She did? I think we’ve exchanged one text since you took the SATs. Maybe two.”

“That’s weird. She said it was more.”

He shrugged and I studied his face for some reaction to the mention of Heather. There wasn’t any. I pushed harder, suddenly desperate to know for sure whether he was indifferent or interested in her. “It’s just . . . I think she might kind of like you.” She had told me not to say anything to him but that was when I thought she was talking about Aaron, so it didn’t count, right? “And she seemed to think you might be interested back. Are you?”

“Are you being serious?” he asked warily. “Or just finding a new way to tease me?”

“I’m serious.”


“I think she’s a nice kid,” he said slowly.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, then no. I want to help her with the college stuff but that’s all. I’m sorry if I gave her any other impression.” We were at my house. He punched in the code and we waited for the gate to swing open. “Do you think I need to do anything about it?”

“Nah, you’re good,” I said, suddenly feeling very cheerful. “It’s nothing you did. She gets a lot of crushes on teachers and people like that. She gets over them.” As we pulled into the driveway, I said, “We’re not that much younger than you, you know. Just a few years.”

“I know,” he said. “It’s not necessarily an age thing. It’s more who she is. I just could never see her that way. It’s not like . . .” He stopped talking as he put the car in park. He turned the engine off, avoiding my eagerly curious gaze.

“Not like what?”

“Nothing.” He opened his car door and got out.

I jumped out my side and came around the car, meeting him by the trunk. I put my hand on his arm to keep him from opening it. “Wait. Not like what?”

“Nothing. Don’t forget the books.”

“You were going to say it’s not like the way it is with me, weren’t you?” My heart was thumping wildly in my chest. Leaping and thumping. I felt sick and excited. And suddenly enlightened.

Maybe I hadn’t been jealous of Heather just because George was my tutor. Maybe I had been jealous of Heather because she said he liked her, and I didn’t want him to like anyone—except me.

George opened his mouth and closed it. His beautiful dark-green, dark-gray eyes—they were beautiful, even if I’d never admitted it to myself before—avoided mine as he said, “Ellie—”

My fingers pressed into his arm. “Just admit it. That’s what you were going to say. You know I’m not going to leave you alone until you do.”

“Man, you’re pushy,” he said.

“I know.”

“And conceited.”

“What else?”

He stared at my hand on his arm and said, “And if someone walks into a room that you’re in, he’s not going to notice Heather. Or anyone else, for that matter.” He passed his free hand over his forehead like it ached, then said in one big rush, “Or what time it is or whether there was something he was supposed to be doing in there or where he is or what his name is.”

A thrill of pleasure shot through me. “Someone?” I said. “Meaning anyone? Or someone specific?”

“We need to go inside.” But he didn’t move.

“Not yet.”

“You think you can order people around,” he said. “You’re overbearing and dictatorial.”