Chapter 22 Jason
Chapter 22
Whoops, it’s probably time to say something.
Jason
“LET’S TAKE A break,” I beg from where I’m sprawled out on Emmy’s yoga mat on the patio. “I think the triangle may have broken me.”
“I can’t believe you’ve never done yoga before, Jason Connor. What’s wrong with you?” Emmy stands over me, tapping away on her phone. The wind is grabbing at her hair, blowing it in front of her face. She bats at it and huffs it out of her mouth. Amanda is right. I can’t keep my eyes off her.
I only pretended I couldn’t do the yoga. It was fun having her hold me up.
“Okay, that one’s uploaded. I guess I can give you a break.”
I loll on the ground. “What time is it? Midnight?”
She glances at the smartwatch I got her. “It’s four fifty-seven in the afternoon.”
Leah has Mattie in the pool. It feels so good just lying here, listening to the sounds of splashing water and his giggles. Emmy drops down cross-legged beside me on the mat. I squint up at her, and she scoots until her head blocks the sun for me.
“That’s so much better, thank you.” The pavers under me are warm, and my body relaxes, sleepy and content. I risk putting a hand on Emmy’s bare knee. It’s warm, too.
“We’re getting good engagement.” She swipes her finger across the surface of her phone like a madwoman and pretends not to notice my hand. “Lots of positive responses. And the How Not to Break Up hashtag is settling down, too.”
“You’re so good at this.” I pat her knee because somehow I’m thinking that’s less intimate than just letting my hand sit there. “I bet you’re good at everything. Sing me something.”
“Oh, I don’t sing.” She laughs.
I open one squinting eye. “What do you mean you don’t sing? Everybody sings.”
“I do sing, during shower concerts. And in the car. But I do it very badly.”
“Shower concerts?” I lift up on my elbows. “How much is a ticket?”
Her phone goes face down on the yoga mat. “That’s not happening.” She starts to stand up, but I grab her hand, stopping her.
“No, don’t go. Let’s just sit here for a few minutes. I won’t make you sing. I promise.”
Our fingers are tangled together, and neither of us pulls them back. The wind has picked up, and the Pacific Ocean sighs a little louder than it did when we first came out here. Meanwhile, Mattie and Leah are chattering away in the pool, accompanied by a cacophony of seagulls.
I sing the opening line to the first song that pops in my head, “Hopelessly Devoted to You” from Grease . It’s part of Andrew’s typical repertoire. She laughs at my wah-wah-wah-wah-wahhhhh rendition of a steel guitar and slips her hand free. I miss it already.
“So you’re not a singer. What else aren’t you good at?” I ask.
She thinks for a moment. “Making cakes in round pans. They always stick.”
I sit up all the way. “There’s a trick to that. You’ve got to grease them with butter and flour. Or use Baker’s Joy spray. It has flour in it.”
“Interesting.” She pulls the rubber band out of her hair and re-tames her messy bun. She put on yoga clothes for our Random Yoga Poses shoot, and they accentuate every slope and curve of her body. “What about you?” she asks. “What are you bad at?”
“IQ tests.”
She snorts.
I keep going. “Cold fusion. Keeping plants alive…”
“Anything on Pinterest,” she interrupts.
“Girl, same ,” I say. “You’re bad at disciplining dolphins.”
“You suck at sweet nothings.”
Oooh, sharp turn! “I thought we were past that.”
“What made you think that?”
I deserve her mini-attack and am prepared to take the damage. “I’m sorry. They were going to be epic, by the way, my sweet nothings.”
“Well, maybe you could try again later.”
Whoa, sharp turn again! My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Does this mean she’s forgiven me? Are we doing this?
She gazes out at the pool. “Dating.”
“Wh-what?” Is she reading my mind?
“You just did a meme.” She grins. “I meant I’m terrible at dating.”
“I’m terrible at dating, too.”
“We should do a Venn diagram.”
“I’m terrible at knowing what a Venn diagram is.”
“It’s circles that overlap when you share the same answers.” Her eyes light up. “Oh my gosh, that would be a great vlog post! A Venn diagram of things we suck at. People could compare it to themselves and post in the comments.”
“How did you suddenly make this about work?”
“I’m good at making things about work.”
“You’re good at being cute.”
“You’re good at being cute, too.”
“We could put that in the Ben diagram,” I say.
“Venn,” she corrects. “And, yes, we could.”
Her golden eyes lock on mine, and this is getting a little insane. All the appropriate pheromones are swirling around us like hairspray particles, but I’m a statue, and she doesn’t move, either. It’s a standoff. An impasse. A deadlock. I think about Amanda womansplaining me yesterday. Is Emmy hoping for a great story to tell her friends? Or is she hoping for something more? Because I can see in her eyes that she’s hoping for something.
Honestly, I am, too. My insides are alive with excitement and hope and maybe even dragonflies. Being with Emmy feels easy and warm, like the stones under me. I don’t have to be “on” or constantly apologize or worry that everything I do will be scrutinized. I can be myself.
Plus, Emmy’s funny. I love that she’s funny. And beautiful. And sexy. And has the hands of an Egyptian goddess… Whoops, it’s probably time to say something.
“So, what’s happening with your dolphin fortune-telling vlog while you’re here?”
She takes a deep breath and visibly switches gears. “It’s chaos. Millions of people, or seventeen at least, have no idea what’s going to happen in their lives.”
I suppress a chuckle and go for the straight man. “How do you live with yourself?”
She shrugs. “I applied for a clone, but I was denied. I don’t know why. I promised to let her do fun things, too.”
Did I mention how much I love the fact that she’s funny? It makes me want to kiss that naughty little smile even more. I’m fully astride the disaster motorcycle now. Also, I’m pretty convinced Emmy isn’t just hoping for a story she can brag about later—her cues are too subtle for that. And if she was just using me, she wouldn’t be helping me clean up my image. Which means maybe she wants more. But what kind of more? She leaves tomorrow night on the red-eye. We won’t see each other for months. She has a kid to think about, just like I do… but let’s be honest here, we’re both adults, and with all the sparks flying between us, there’s no way this show isn’t ending with an R rating.
God, I’m a terrible person, aren’t I?
Although, if I like her, too, does that change things? Is there a way to be with Emmy that doesn’t make me look like an oversexed opportunist and tank my career? And career aside, there’s another big question here: If there is a way for us to be more than just a blip on each other’s radars, have I got the chops? Or will I, as usual, end up disappointing everyone involved?
I don’t care if I disappoint myself, but I don’t want to hurt Emmy. I don’t want to find out at her expense that I’m this broken thing that can never be fixed. I want to make her feel the way she makes me feel.
Emmy stands up, shattering my train of thought, which is probably for the best. “Come on. Let’s go inside and do our Venn diagram. Do you have a whiteboard?”
I hold a hand out for her to pull me to my feet. I resist the urge to reverse it and yank her down on top of me. Besides, she’s pretty strong for a wiry, little thing. Maybe she is one of those mermaids that drag sailors to the bottom of the sea and drown them.
Seeing her butt in those yoga pants as I follow her inside, I gotta admit, it wouldn’t be a bad way to go.