4. Bea
4
BEA
W hen I started high school, Seren insisted that I try a sport. “You’re the most talented pianist I’ve ever met,” she said. “But that’s all you do.” She crouched down so we were eye-to-eye, and when someone who’s five-foot-four has to crouch, you know you’re short. “I worry that you’re hiding in that music room.” She pressed a kiss to my forehead.
Then she bought me a pair of running shoes.
The irony was not lost on me—instead of hiding, I should run?
But hiding was easy; I hated running.
In fact, there were very few things I liked less than going outside, tightening the laces on my shiny, new running shoes, and pounding the pavement. But it was a solitary sport—perhaps the most solitary, unless you include swimming where you’re literally underwater the entire time so that you can’t talk.
I liked solitary.
Within a few weeks, the agony in my chest wasn’t quite as acute. The misery of my aching muscles eased, too. A month after Seren forced me to try track, I was actually improving.
At least, it felt like I was.
Until Jake breezed over to join the team as well. Like every single thing he ever tried, he was a true natural. The solitary nature of my runs, the one thing I liked about the activity, disappeared as I was plagued by Jake. . .and his accompanying fan club. It wasn’t surprising, I suppose, that he was followed by at least half a dozen attractive girls everywhere he went, even then. He had the face of a Greek god and the body of a, well, a lean runner. He was also tall, which meant that running next to him made me look even more like a child than I already did.
Running, which I had tolerated because it provided a lot of time for me to think quietly, was now my least favorite part of every day. Physical misery and social torture were all rolled into one. I tried to complain to Jake, but as always, he persisted in misunderstanding my complaints. He yelled at his followers, telling them to leave us alone. They listened, and that worsened the rumors about us, making my non-Jake interactions even more fraught.
After years of those types of things happening, I’ve learned.
My dream guy is basically Jake’s opposite.
Short.
Unattractive.
Socially awkward.
That’s the kind of person who’s likely to accept that I’m small, shy, and quiet without trying to change me. Since I work in a restaurant, which keeps me busy nearly every night of the week, it’s been easy for me to avoid dating anyone like Jake .
Or really, I haven’t been pursued by anyone at all.
Unless you count the sous chef, which I do not. She’s one hundred percent not my type, her gender only one of many reasons I had no interest.
So when Easton asked me out, I was floored.
Why someone like him would be interested in me. . .it makes no sense. My brain rejected the idea before I could even consider it. Our first meeting was disastrous enough, what with the arm-wrestling challenge and Easton’s subsequent embarrassment. I swear, it’s the one consistent theme in my life.
If Jake can cause trouble, he does.
In his defense, I used Jake as a shield at the wedding.
I noticed right after the ceremony that Easton was heading my way. I figured he wanted to somehow smooth over the awkwardness between all of us, but I didn’t want any part of that. There’s no reason for us to see Easton in the future, just because Emerson married his sister. I decided it would be simpler to avoid him entirely. Jake’s always been really good at social situations, so when I mentioned that I’d rather not talk to Easton after the nightmare of the arm wrestling, he stuck by my side for the entire reception.
I had to endure Jake’s gaggles of admirers, but it was fine.
Only now, after spending a bit of time with Easton, I wonder. Was he trying to clear the air? Or could he have been interested in me, even then? What are his intentions?
In the split second I had to respond, all of that shot through my mind, and I decided that none of it mattered. Not really. Easton and I are like hummus and honeydew melon—we may share the same first letter, as in, we have a relation to one another, sort of. But we do not go together, and we never will.
He’s tall, for one, while I am quite the opposite. If we dated, I’d need a stepstool just to kiss him. He’s also rich as sin, whereas I sometimes check the couch cushions for gas money. Jake loses change more often than most people. But the worst problem is that the media is all over Easton, almost as bad as they are with Jake. If I search ‘hot, young, and rich,’ he’s the third hit. Forbes basically painted a target on his back the second his company went public. Elizabeth said it was his life’s dream, making a billion bucks, and he’s well on his way. But there aren’t many hot, rich men who are single and also not fat.
He’s a unicorn.
A lot of girls want someone just like him, but that’s basically the opposite of what I want. With money comes eyes. Scrutiny. The loss of any anonymity.
Hard pass.
I have no idea why I toss and turn for so long before I fall asleep after running home, but I finally drift off. And I do not dream of Easton.
I don’t dream of him eating an ice cream cone—that would be odd.
I don’t dream of him swimming, pushing up out of the pool, shoulder and chest muscles rippling.
I don’t dream of him walking beside me on a city street, arms swinging, eyes sparkling.
I definitely don’t dream of him sitting on the couch next to me, stuffing his face with popcorn and then offering me some, like he’s my boyfriend.
Because I don’t like Easton Moorland.
Not one bit.
But when I lace up my shoes and set the activity on my watch to “run,” his stupidly handsome face does flash through my mind. I smack the side of my head once to clear it, but all I get for that is a headache. I doggedly turn my playlist on and head for the door.
“Hey, wait.”
I’ve barely made it six steps when Jake’s plaintive voice penetrates the singing of Tim McGraw. I grit my teeth and stop, turning to look over my shoulder. “What?”
I must have spoken too loud, because he motions for me to take out my earphones.
I groan, but I do it. “What?”
“Wait two minutes and I’ll come with. I just have to lace up my shoes.”
I shove my earphones back in and take off.
I hear him swearing behind me, but that just widens my smile. It’s hilarious, annoying Jake, one of my favorite things to do. I speed up a little.
By the time he catches up to me, he’s really puffing. His shoelaces aren’t tied, and he’s scowling. Anyone else would have fallen on their face, but the sheen of sweat just amplifies his ridiculous good looks. It’s obnoxious.
So of course I pretend that I don’t see him.
“Bea,” he shouts like I’m hard of hearing. “Slow up.”
I speed up a little more, which is really silly, because my legs are short and his are long. There’s no way I can outpace him once he’s caught me, no matter how hard I try.
“What’s going on with you?” Jake grabs my arm.
I shake him off.
The second time he grabs me, I spin around and glare. “You want me to mace you? I’ll do it.”
He rolls his eyes. “Who lit a fire under you?”
Who? Why’s he asking who ? “What did you hear? ”
His jaw drops. “Wait, no way.” He shakes his head. “Is there. . .a guy?”
I take off jogging again.
“You have got to tell me what happened.”
“I do not,” I mutter, bumping the volume on my music up a little higher. Long-term hearing loss is a problem for tomorrow-me.
Unfortunately, Jake’s well equipped to outrun me. He runs way more, firstly, and also, he’s six-foot-three, so his strides decimate mine. After we reach the park, I finally surrender, collapsing on a bench.
“Six miles.” Jake whistles. “Whoever upset you really upset you.”
The park is three point two miles from our apartment. He always calls it a six-mile run. To me, that’s seven miles. I round up with physical activity, always. “No one upset me.” I lean back and close my eyes, tucking my headphones in my pocket. “Except you.”
“Oh, come on, Hornet. I haven’t really upset you.” He bumps me with his shoulder. “If I had, you’d have stung.” He’s always called me that—he thinks it’s hilarious that my name, Be a , is so close to bee. But there’s no way to highlight the connection because they sound the exact same.
Hence, hornet.
“Who was it? I’ve been doing a lot of boxing to get ready for the next Miller film. I’ll go pay them a visit.” He does that weird head toss thing guys do when they’re saying hello to another male.
It makes me snort, at least. “Not necessary.”
“I’ll decide that, once you tell me who it is and what happened.”
“Nothing at all,” I say. “Happens to you a dozen times a day. Someone asked me out, and I said no. ”
He frowns. “Who asked you out?” He scratches his nose. “And why’d you say no?”
I put my headphones back in, hit play, and close my eyes.
“Oh, come on. You’ve told me the worst part. Just give me the details.” He pulls a water bottle out of his little running belt and rips the top off.
“We’re not in high school.”
Suddenly, Jake’s right in front of me, his hands gently taking my headphones out. “Softly, Hornet,” he whispers. “You’re yelling, and now everyone’s looking.”
I peer around his shoulder and notice a few people looking my way. He’s blaming my volume, but that happens every single time I go anywhere with him. It’s probably his fault, so I refuse to apologize.
“Now, who was it? Not the sous chef again?” He drops back onto the seat next to me. “Tomorrow, I’ll show up at work, right after you get there, snog you good, and then you can tell everyone we’re secretly dating.”
That’s an idea so ridiculous it makes me laugh.
“So that’s a no to the semi-public make out?” He takes a huge swig of the water.
“That’s a heck no,” I say. “But it wasn’t her. She’s given up. I think she’s dating the wine supplier, actually.”
“Good for her,” Jake says. “So who do I need to kiss you in front of, then?”
“Jake.”
“What?” he asks. “You’re not really my sister, you know. It would probably fix the problem, once I know where and in front of who to lay one on you.”
“It was Easton Moorland,” I say, expecting him to have no idea who I’m talking about. “That’s Emerson’s wife’s brother, who we met at the video game launch party. You challenged him?—”
“I know who it is.” He downs the end of the water, crushes his water bottle, and tosses it into the trash can next to us. It goes right in, as always. Everything for Jake is like that. Effortless. Charmed. He stands up, tosses his head back and forth, and then starts to jog in place. “Let’s go. Long way back.”
Not for him, but to me? Three miles sounds like absolute torture.
“Are you okay?” Jake frowns, tilting his head. “I can jog back, grab my car and come get you.”
That’s why I let him get away with so much crap. At the end of the day, Jake really is a pretty good brother.
“It’s fine.” I drag myself to my feet. “I won’t die of a little exercise.” A few dozen strides in, and he still hasn’t said a word about Easton. I find it strange. “What? You no longer care about fixing my problem?”
He shrugs. “Like you said, it’s no big deal. You told him no.”
It’s not like Jake to let things go, but he does. It’s. . .bizarre.
About a mile later, when my thighs are cursing me for my stupid burst of energy earlier, and my lungs are screaming that September’s still too hot for running outside in New York, I need a distraction, so I poke the bear. “Tell me why you stopped badgering me when you found out it was Easton Moorland.”
“I didn’t.” Unfortunately for him, I know Jake’s practiced scoff.
“You’re lying,” I say. “I’m probably the only person who can tell.”
“It’s just that.” He stops. “That guy’s a jerk.” His eyes are wide, his expression earnest. For him, that’s rare .
“Whoa. Did you hear me? I told him no.”
“But when did you even see him?” he asks. “Why’d he think you might say yes?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think he did.”
“Guys don’t ask unless they think the girl will say yes.” He narrows his eyes. “Where did he ask you?”
“He came into the restaurant last night.”
Jake throws his hands into the air and jogs around me in an outraged circle. “See? That’s my point. What kind of guy asks a girl out while he’s on a date?”
“I didn’t say he was,” I hedge.
He blinks. “So, wait. He went into your restaurant on a Friday night for what? A business dinner?”
“It was a date,” I admit, “but his date was a nightmare. They got set up by some kind of matchmaking thing, and she left in a huff.”
Jake’s shaking his head, but he starts jogging again, and I have to scramble to catch up.
“I mean it,” I say. “It wasn’t gross, okay?”
“Did he tip you a ton of money before he asked?”
I frown, wiping at a bead of sweat rolling down the side of my face. “No. I mean, he asked me out before he paid.”
“But he did tip you well?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. “I left early.”
Jake huffs. “See? He’s gross.”
“He’s not, though,” I say.
“Well, if he’s so great, then why did you say no?” Jake’s voice is uncharacteristically soft.
“He’s not the right guy for me.”
He throws his hands up in the air. “That’s what I said, but then you jumped in to defend him like he just won the Nobel Peace Prize.” Jake’s always so melodramatic .
“I just wanted to go for a run, because?—”
“Because he was gross, and it upset you that he stalked you at your work to ask you out.”
“He didn’t even know I worked there. Seeing me once, months after the wedding, is hardly stalking me.” I swear, one of these days, I’m going to punch him. Hard. “Just. Whatever.” I wish I had longer legs. I’d love to leave him in a cloud of cartoon dust as I sped away. Maybe I should start carrying a rolled-up newspaper. Then I could bop him on the nose like a puppy peeing on the rug whenever he’s out of line.
He’d probably throw a big fit about how the ink from the paper left a stain that would ruin his pre-film photoshoot or something.
Jake thrives on drama.
He used to get his fill from Emerson. Those two clashed all the time. But now that Emerson’s gone, he’s been picking at me more. I’m usually hard to irritate, but apparently not today.
My feet are throbbing and my t-shirt’s drenched when we finally get back to the apartment. “Look.” Jake spins around in front of the door, blocking my entry. “If he calls or comes by again, you need to tell me.”
“Why?” I lift my eyebrows. “So you can go practice your boxing on him? Or did you plan to challenge him to another arm wrestle?”
He rolls his eyes. “I mean it.”
“Yes, sir.” I salute, and then I duck under his arm and type in our door code—Emerson’s birthday—and squeeze through the door. He’s too fast for me to slam it on him, but I make a token effort before sprinting to my room. I take such a long shower that I’m shocked when I finally emerge to find Jake in a towel. He’s drinking orange juice straight from the carton, standing in front of the fridge.
“You’re not filming a commercial.” I throw a hand towel at him. “Put some clothes on.”
“You know, most girls would kill to be in this room right now.” He bobs his head.
I groan and point. “Go get dressed. Now.”
He listens, but he’s never in a hurry about it, which is irritating. I’m a little sick of living in an apartment that feels even more like a frat house now that Emerson’s gone, but Jake took over Emerson’s portion of the rent and utilities when he left, and I can’t afford to look any gift horses in the mouth.
Not until I find a more lucrative job, anyway.
Which is why, now that I’m clean, I work on my submission for the Jello Jingle competition that’s due tonight at midnight. Most people probably think it sounds lame, but if I win, I’ll have my first jingle credit—and also a paid job—to put in my portfolio, and I’ll have my foot in the door at the agency that set it all up.
I’ve got the melody worked out; that’s always a snap for me. Now I’m just agonizing over the words. In reality, someone else at the songwriting firms often handles lyrics, but for your first jobs, you have to do it all. It helps that the product’s an easy one to work with. Jello rhymes with everything.
In some ways, that also makes it harder. Standing out is the key, but when any idiotic first-year musical studies major can bang out a rhyming verse for a product, the songs all start to blur.
Mine needs to shine.
I’ve just scribbled out the entire thing, balled it up, and chucked it at the trash when Jake’s body gets in the way. My sad little paperball ricochets off his calf and rolls under the sofa.
“Easy there, Babe Ruth.”
“I think you mean Nolan Ryan,” I say. “Babe Ruth was a famous batter.”
“Yeah, well, Nolan Ryan didn’t get a candy bar.” Jake plops on the sofa, popping his ankle up on his knee. “Angry about a text from Lover Boy?”
“As if.” I sigh, my shoulders slumping. “I hate Jello.”
“Not this again.” Jake leans forward. “Just let me call my agent. I can get you some jingle work, and?—”
I shake my head. “No thank you.”
“You are so stubborn.”
“They’d only be giving me a job to try and make you happy. I do not need my boss sucking up to me so you’ll consider their movie or their commercial or whatever. I want my songs to be chosen?—”
“Because they’re good.” He sighs. “Same song, different verse.”
“No, same song, same verse.” I let Jake call in a favor for me once. He sang a song I’d written on the one album he ever released, before he transitioned to doing blockbuster movies and was still sort of exploring the various options in the entertainment world. The album did fine, but my song was the worst seller on the album. . .until the media did an article about how he’d only included it for his poor, pathetic foster sister. It blew up, and those twice-yearly royalties still float me for most of the year.
I should be grateful.
But it was the most embarrassing month of my life. A few times, some crazy pop-culture weirdos actually recognized me. When they tried to take photos with me and wanted my signature, I wanted to die. The only reason that story disappeared is that my very angry grandfather made it go away. It didn’t make him look good, that I had a ‘foster brother.’ Any way you look at it, the last thing I need is more strings connecting me to one of the hottest new actors in America.
When Jake won’t let it go, I wave him over. “I don’t want a referral, but I will take your input on my ideas.” I play the melody for him.
“That’s really good.” I wish he didn’t sound so surprised.
“Of course it is. That’s like telling an ant he’s good at carrying heavy things. A bright and clear melodic line is kind of my thing.”
Jake nods. “Then show me your lyrics.”
“Keep in mind, I’m jingling a jiggly dessert no one eats anymore.”
“I’m aware, believe me. Go ahead.”
“I’m not singing it.” I point. “You.”
“No way. The only reason I agreed to this was so I could hear you sing it.” But he’s smiling, so I know he’s kidding. No one needs to hear me sing.
Not ever.
I’m not off key, not after years and years of music, but my voice is scratchy, always, probably from years of secondhand smoke from my mom. Who knows? “Okay. Start.”
I play the lead in, and Jake comes in flawlessly. After spending more than five years in choir together, musical stuff is the one place where we always harmonize. Forty minutes later, when it’s time for me to get ready for work, I’ve come up with a winner.
Or at least, I hope I have .
After another few moments of agonizing, I upload the file, and then I click submit.
“You’ll win,” Jake says.
I’m almost to my door, but I pivot and point. “You will not call anyone. Swear.”
He rolls his eyes so hard that a preteen girl would be jealous. “You think I have connections to Jello ? I’m not Bill Cosby.”
“That’s not a promise.”
He leans against the wall, the set of his jaw so familiar I could draw it with my eyes closed. “I swear, Hornet, that I won’t mention your submission to a soul, not even to Seren and Dave.”
“Alright, then.”
He’s gone by the time I come out, ready for work. That’s typical Jake, too. He’s not big on hellos and goodbyes. I think he’s still broken from his dad. Eventually that guy will get out of prison again, and then things will get ugly, I’m sure.
But for now, I just have to accept that I’ll never know where Jake is without microchipping him. Mom and Dad talked about doing it a lot. Seren and Dave, I mentally correct myself. Making a mistake in front of my birth mom or my grandfather always results in a lot of drama, so for years, I’ve tried my best not to call my real parents ‘mom and dad’ where anyone can hear.
As a bonus, it makes Jake feel easier that he’s not the only one calling them by their first names. We all know they’re Mom and Dad to him too, but some of us can’t always say it. The great thing about Seren and Dave is they just take us as we are, damage and all. They always have, from the first time I split Seren’s meaty lasagna with Dave .
I’m almost to work when Kiki-the-sous-chef calls.
“Hey,” I say. “I’m almost there, but I’m not late. Is everything okay?”
“I forgot you do that,” Kiki says.
“What?”
“You’re always on the defensive. You’re not late.”
“Then what’s up?”
“There’s a super hot guy here waiting for you,” she whispers. “He said not to tell you, but he asked if you’re working.”
My heart races. “What does he look like?”
“Tall. Dark hair. Striking blue eyes. I mean, he wouldn’t turn me straight, but it would be a close call. You know those Jude Law lookalikes do it every time.”
It’s Easton. It has to be.
Until she said it, I didn’t realize how much he looks like Jude Law. Why is he there?
“How busy is it tonight?” Maybe I can call in sick. I mean, I kind of need the tips from a Saturday night, but some things aren’t worth the trouble.
“Don’t even think about calling in.” She snorts. “Harv would lose it.”
“Fine. Thanks for the warning.”
“Sunglasses and a scarf?” she says. Then she hangs up.
Like I have a scarf that would cover my whole face. I’m not a 1950s housewife, a bank robber, or a rancher in Montana. Besides, even if I do cover my face, how many other waiters are five foot tall with long black hair? He’d realize it was me and it would be even stranger because I’d tried to sneak past him.
I opt for walking really fast, but it’s not a great plan. I’ve barely squeaked through the door when Harv stops me. “There’s a VIP in there asking for you. ”
He’s flipped my own people.
“He said you were the best waitress he’s ever had,” Harv says. “And he wants to set up his weekly board meetings here at our restaurant.” He’s beaming.
“Oh.” So, wait. Am I a total narcissist? Maybe this isn’t even about me. “Was he asking for me? Kiki said?—”
“He wants you to wait on the board for their meetings, but they do them during the day and you usually take nights. You’d only have to switch to days on Tuesday, and you get Sunday and Monday off already, so I thought?—”
“I’ll do it,” I say.
Making Harvey happy? That’s a no-brainer. So what if I have to wait on a bunch of stuffy business people? It’s not like he’s asking me out. He was impressed with the restaurant , not me. I’m an idiot.
“Oh,” Harv says. “And he was hoping you would wait on him tonight, too.”
Well, crap.
“Chop chop,” he says. “We have a VIP to impress.”
Only, when I approach his table, Easton doesn’t look like a VIP businessman. With the smile on his wickedly curved mouth, he looks a lot more like Dickie Greenleaf—Jude Law’s most epic role.
“Bea,” he says, smiling as he stands.
He’s acting like he’d been waiting just for me, which has the other waiters looking and pointing.
“Easton,” I hiss as I shake my head slightly.
He sits, thankfully.
I hand him a menu.
“I’m not sure I should really be waiting on you again today.” I point at the empty chair across from him. “I ran off your last date, and even with your millions, they couldn’t match you with a better one? ”
“Your boss didn’t tell you?” He lifts his eyebrows. “I told him I’d pay all the revenue you usually make for all the tables you usually wait on. Then you can eat with me.” He jumps up and pulls out the seat across from him. “This one’s yours.”