Chapter 23 Freezing Point
FREEZING POINT
Would look great in Jell-O.
I smile. Reply I’m thinking cherry and then make my way through UMass’s Physics Department.
JACK: I forgot that every first Monday of the month we do this thing at George’s. Want to come? Or I can pick you up, and we can make scientifically accurate grilled cheese and watch the Cullen family featurette at my place.
I’m grinning so hard, I almost run into the water fountain.
ELSIE: I need to grade twelve bajillion essays
JACK: Do what I do. Give them all As.
ELSIE: Do you really?
JACK: I sprinkle in four Bs and two Cs and call it a curve.
This time I do walk into the water fountain. A different one.
ELSIE: No wonder they kiss your ass so hard. Does the thing at George’s have a dress code?
JACK: If it does, I plan to ignore it.
ELSIE: Henley?
JACK: What’s a Henley?
ELSIE: It’s the name of the shirts you wear every single day.
JACK: They have a name?
Wow. Men.
ELSIE: Text me George’s address. I’ll meet you there when I’m done.
· · ·
George’s door opens to a round young woman with a knockout smile who hugs me warmly and welcomes me into the largest, most beautiful apartment I’ve ever seen.
“They’re in the living room,” she tells me over the chatter coming from down the hallway. There is a slight accent, and I remember George mentioning that her wife is a Greek finance guru. “I’m going upstairs to have an edible and listen to Bach with noise-canceling headphones. Have fun.”
The first person I find is Andrea. She’s in the kitchen when I walk by, transferring tortilla chips into a big bowl.
“Oh.” She looks up at me. “You’re . . . here.” Her smile is surprised. Vaguely tense.
“Hi.” I decide to step inside, hoping to project This doesn’t need to be awkward vibes. “How are you?”
“Good.” She crumples the empty chip bag. “It’s cool that you’re okay with being at George’s place, considering.”
“Oh.” I flush. So much for not awkward. “Yeah. I—”
“Andy,” someone behind me interrupts, “George wants to know if—” It’s Jack, of course.
Who stops midsentence just like I did, as if completely losing track of the rest of the world.
“Dr. Hannaway. You’re late.” He says it like he’s been waiting for me.
Like he spent our time apart thinking about the moment he could tease me again, like I’m the first thing on his mind and the last thing he lets go of, and before I even know it, I’m matching his step forward, I’m pushing up on my toes, I’m pressing my lips to his, I’m smiling against his mouth.
It’s such a small kiss, but my heart pounds, and so does Jack’s when I lay my palm flat against his chest. I pull back, less than an inch, to look at his eyes.
It’s like the weekend changed something about the people we are.
Something fundamental in the shape of my brain and his, too.
His lashes are fanning down: he’s staring at my mouth and angling his head again, and—
“What did George want to know, Jack?”
Shit.
I fall back onto my heels and turn to Andrea, mortified. I glance at Jack, expecting to find his usual unbothered self, but he’s still staring at me, looking a little shaken, like I’m his magnetic north.
He clears his throat. “What wine you want.”
“What are the options?”
He seems confused. “Ah, red. And . . .” He shrugs, one arm wrapping around my shoulders, like being in my space is second nature. It feels right.
“Let me guess.” Andrea rolls her eyes. “White?”
“Sounds right.”
She huffs, picks up the tortilla chip bowl, then steps right between us to march out of the kitchen. We watch her walk away, all blond waves and excellent posture, and then—Jack steps closer again. Very close. Maybe too close. He leans down to kiss my forehead.
“Hi.”
I can’t look away from his eyes. “Hi.”
We stay like that, silent, for what’s probably too long. I can smell his clean skin, his woodsy shampoo, the red flannel I chose this morning from his closet. I don’t feel like saying anything, so I don’t, not for a long time, not until he asks, “You ready to play?”
“Oh. Play . . . what?”
“You’ll see.” His smile makes my heart vibrate. “You’ll love it, too.”
He’s right. Even if for a moment, after Jack’s friend Diego has explained Blitz Go to me—“Usual rules, but ten seconds per move”—I consider asking to be left out of the tournament.
“That’s very little time.” I chew on my lip. “Maybe I shouldn’t—”
“Just go with your instincts,” Jack whispers in my ear.
He can, because he’s right behind me. Or maybe it’s vice versa: I’m the one who’s sitting between his open legs, because I’ve counted eighteen people in here, and not nearly enough seats.
“She can sit here with me while I play my first match,” he tells Diego. “To learn.”
Everybody can see how Jack’s hand slides under my shirt and flattens against my abdomen, a solid, pleasant weight against my skin. The way he forgets to move because he’s busy staring at me. “Dude,” Diego calls him out the second time it happens.
“Right,” Jack says, unruffled, and I spend the next two turns blushing and fidgeting in his lap, till his grip tightens on me and his words in my ear are a distracted “Be good.”
Something scalding and liquid blooms inside me.
Jack still wins. And I must get the hang of it, because I win mine, too.
I win a practice match against George, who bought four types of cheese because Jack told her it’s all I eat.
I win against Sunny. I win against another person whose name I don’t recall.
I win against Andrea in just a handful of moves.
“Easy to advance when you’re the only sober person in the room,” she mutters, some teeth behind it, but when I say “You’re not wrong,” she bursts into laughter and tips her glass at me, and I’m sure I imagined the hostility.
There’s wine, beer, shots, academic horror stories, a whiteboard in front of George’s fireplace with the brackets written on it, and somewhere around midnight Blitz Go becomes my favorite thing in the world.
I’m having fun. Genuinely having lots of fun.
When Sunny announces the final match, her words are slurred.
A frame with George’s wedding photo is poorly balanced on her head.
“The two people who haven’t lost a game yet are .
. . Jack, of course—fuck you, Jack, for making our lives so boring, you periodic-motion poster child—and, drumroll please .
. . Elsie! Elsie, please, at least once in my life I want the opportunity to see this smug-ass face lose at something. ”
“I lost at number of urine sample jars on my desk,” he points out.
The frame drops softly into the carpet. Sunny grasps my hand. “Avenge me, Elsie. Please.”
I nod solemnly, taking a seat on the side of the black. Jack picks up a stone and leans back in the chair, eyes glued on me, the blue as bright as the sea, a small smile on his lips.
“And so we meet again,” he says, loud enough for everyone, and I tune out the way his friends whistle and cheer for me, how they fall silent as we squeeze every last second from each turn.
Whenever I look up, Jack’s already looking at me.
I remember the first time we played, at Millicent’s house, and wonder if it was the first of many.
Wonder if Jack owns a board. Wonder if he keeps it in his study.
Wonder why, when he looks at me, I forget how scared I am to be seen.
Wonder why when I win, he seems as happy as I feel.
“Well played,” he says, ignoring the way everyone is ribbing him for breaking his eight-month streak.
I nod. Suddenly, again, I’m all heartbeat.
I duck inside the bathroom, high on victory. When I slip out, George is right there, scaring the shit out of me. “Jesus.”
“I fully own that I followed you,” she says, leaning casually against the wall.
“Were you listening to me pee?”
“No. Well, yes. But it wasn’t the primary purpose. Just a pleasant bonus.” She grins. “I thought I’d harass you about the job offer.”
“Oh.” I clear my throat. “I don’t have an answer yet. Sorry.”
Her eyes narrow. “Is Jack trying to influence you one way or the other? Because I will use the cattle prod on him. Oh, who am I kidding? Of course he’d try to convince you to take the job.
I’m reasonably sure that ninety percent of his spank bank is fantasies of driving you to work and buying you a latte on the way. ”
“I’m sure he doesn’t—”
“What are your thoughts?”
I swallow. Then I glance around the hallway, as though George’s niece’s macaroni art might hold the key to my academic future.
It does not.
“I . . .” I take a deep breath. “I would love to say yes.”
George blinks. Then smiles. Then repeats, “Yes?”
“But”—I force myself to continue past her face-splitting grin—“I can’t formally accept until I talk with my advisor.
Don’t worry, though,” I add quickly, because her smile is fading fast. “I’m sure I’ll get his approval next week!
I’ll explain how much I want to take the job, and he’ll agree that it’s the best choice. ”
George stares for a second, looking considerably less excited.
“Okay.” She nods. And when I’m about to leave, she adds, “For the record, I’d love to continue being your friend.
Even if you end up not accepting.” Her smile is a little strained.
“Now peace out. I gotta pee, and no, you can’t listen, you weirdo. ”
I’m making my way back to the living room, wondering why it feels like George just resigned herself to me not taking the job, when I overhear it.
“. . . slumming it with the theorists now?”
It’s Andrea’s voice from the kitchen, and I stop in the hallway.
I can see only about half of Jack: broad back, light hair curling on his neck, large hands storing dirty dishes in the dishwasher.
I should go in and help clean up, but something tells me to skulk around like I’m corporate-espionaging in a Bond movie.
“Excuse me?” he says, confused.
“So, does she know?”
“Who?”