Right Kind of Wrong Page 8

  “Nothing.” He shakes his head. “Just family drama. That’s all.”

  Irritation courses through my veins at his refusal to confide in me. “Family drama. Okay. Sure. Be vague. That’s cool.”

  He smiles humorlessly. “What, you want to bond now? That’s ironic.”

  My blood pressure rises at what he’s insinuating. “If you have something you want to say, Jack, just say it already. I’m sick of dodging these softballs you keep throwing my way.”

  He glances in the side mirror and switches lanes. “That’s just it, Jenna. It doesn’t matter what I say, you’ll just find a way to step around my words. Because that’s what you do. Dodge.”

  If he wasn’t so totally right, I’d pop him in the jaw.

  Of course I dodge him. If I didn’t dodge him, I’d end up throwing myself at him. And if I thought that would help matters, trust me, I’d do it. But after what happened the last time I let my guard down around Jack and his hot body, I don’t trust myself.

  Why I let him get so close to me, to my heart, I’ll never know. But I’ve been trying for months to undo the emotional connection I inadvertently created that night, and here Jack is, drudging up the past like it’s common conversation for us.

  I can’t risk getting any more attached to him than I already am—or worse, falling in love with him. And the only way I can be sure to avoid such things is by staying away from anything and everything that might suck me in—including conversations about what happened between us.

  But here I am, scrambling to find some sort of comeback that will beat him down and save me from responding at the same time, and I’ve got nothing.

  “You don’t want me to dodge? Fine.” I shrug in frustration. “So we slept together. Once. And it was…” Hot. Erotic. Amazing. Intense. “Different,” I finally say. “It was different.”

  A muscle flexes in his jaw. “It was different.”

  I shrug angrily. “For me, at least. It was probably same ol’ sexy time for you.”

  His eyes dart to mine. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  My temper rises. “It means I’m not going to sit here and debate the right adjectives for what happened between us because I don’t feel like pinning myself to your board of sexual conquests.”

  “You think I consider you a conquest?”

  “It’s fine. Really. You have conquests, I have conquests. It’s all the same thing. That’s just how it goes. I’m not pissed about it. I just don’t feel like chatting about it.”

  He nods darkly. “So you sleeping with me is the same as you sleeping with that lousy bartender—what was his name? Greg? Gary? Some shit like that.”

  “Gee, I don’t know,” I snap. “Am I the same as Angela, or Olivia, or that Heather girl with the purple hair?”

  He scowls. “What, are you keeping tabs on everyone I go to bed with?”

  “Well it’s not hard to do when you’re parading them through the Thirsty Coyote.”

  His eyes flash. “At least I never slept with any of your roommates.”

  I point at him. “I had no idea Tyler was your roommate. That was a complete coincidence.”

  “And what about Davis? Was that a coincidence too?”

  I smile sharply. “Davis was just as much a coincidence as you going home with Bella was.”

  A beat passes. We pretty much just listed off all of our sex partners since the two of us hooked up, and that can’t be normal. Clearly, we have jealousy issues. And the fact that we’re not a couple yet we still have jealously problems is a sure sign we’re completely dysfunctional.

  “This is why us sleeping together was a mistake,” I say, leaning back in my seat. “It changed everything.”

  “It didn’t change anything,” he says. “It just brought the truth to the surface. You’re just too chickenshit to admit it.”

  “Admit what?” I shout, throwing up my hands. “What is this mysterious thing I’m supposed to be admitting, Jack?”

  “The way you feel about me. About us,” he shouts back.

  I roll my eyes. “Not again. I’m not hashing this out again.”

  “You never hashed anything out in the first place. I did,” he says. “You know exactly where I stand, but I have yet to hear a single real thing come out of your mouth as far as you and I are concerned.”

  My heart begins to pound and my eyes burn. “Because you and I aren’t part of my plan!”

  His knuckles turn white as he grips the steering wheel. “Your plan.” He nods angrily. “Because God forbid anything happen outside of your precious plan. God, Jenna.” His jaw clenches. “You’re so obsessed with controlling everything in your life that you can’t even consider that maybe ‘your plan’ isn’t the best thing for you.”

  “My plan is perfect for me—”

  “No. I know your plan.” He shakes his head. “And it’s a fucking dead end for you.” I open my mouth to protest, but he carries on with flared nostrils. “It will drive you to boredom and suck the life out of you until you either die, safe and old and absolutely miserable, or break your own damn rules and live, wild and free, and without any goddamn plan.”

  I fall back in my seat, stunned, and face forward, watching the lines on the road race by in yellow and white blurs. “What do you want me to say, Jack?”

  He visibly swallows. “It’s not about what I want you to say. It’s about the truth, Jenna. That’s what I want.” Glaring at the road, he mutters, “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  Shaking my head, I slowly inhale and try to keep my emotions locked down. Damn Jack and his truth. Damn this whole thing.

  “I don’t know what the truth is,” I say after a few long seconds, “so I guess you’re out of luck.”

  His lips form a thin line as he stares out the window as dozens more yellow and white blurs skate by. When he finally responds, his voice is low and bitter. “I guess so.”

  We don’t speak for the next hundred miles, and a screaming silence hangs between us. And with the silence comes more memories of that night, last year.

  After Jack and I had had sex, I rolled off his body and stretched out beside him in bed. We stared at each other for a moment, both of us breathing heavy, and I tried to get my ridiculously happy heart under control. An impossible task, considering it was hammering away with a contentment I’d never experienced before.

  I traced a finger down his thick bicep, where a fierce-looking hawk clutching a snake in its talons was tattooed against his muscles. Then I glanced at his back where, among a dozen other designs, a mighty eagle soared at me with determination in its eyes.

  “I like your tattoos,” I said softly, trailing a fingertip over the eagle’s spread wings.

  “Mmm,” he murmured as he lightly brushed the shooting-star tattoo on the inside of my thigh. “And I like yours.”

  “Which one was your first?” I smiled. “Your first tattoo.”

  He turned onto his back to show me his chest. “This one,” he said, pointing to a silhouette of a small bird flying against the moon.

  It wasn’t the most detailed ink on his body, but it was captivating in its own simplicity, and a little faded.

  “Why that?” I asked. “Why a midnight bird over your heart?”

  He looked at the bedsheets and smiled sadly. “A midnight bird. I like that.” He pulled his eyes back up. “When I was seventeen and decided to get a tattoo, I wanted something that represented hope, and a bird seemed like the right symbol.”

  “Sixteen?” I scoffed. “What kind of tattoo shop lets a minor get inked?”

  “The kind in my hometown,” he said seriously.

  “Huh.” I stroked my thumb over the midnight bird of hope, memorizing every line and curve of the design. “So you were hoping for something.”

  He nodded.

  I met his eyes. “And did you get it?”

  He smiled. “Yep.”

  I smiled back. “Then I guess it’s a lucky tattoo.”

  “I guess so.” His grin
grew and our gazes locked for a long moment before he suddenly said, “Pancakes.”

  I laughed. “What?”

  “We should make pancakes.”

  My heart danced as I grinned from ear to ear. “We totally should.”

  So we made pancakes, in the middle of the night.

  I wore one of his T-shirts—nothing else—and sat cross-legged on his kitchen counter as he fed me bites of freshly made pancakes. All his forks were dirty, otherwise we might have used utensils instead of our fingers, but it was more fun with our hands anyway. Our hands were sticky with syrup, our bodies were sated from our time in bed together, and I was the most content I’ve probably ever been.

  And then Jack said the worst possible thing.

  “I like you, Jenna.” His eyes were serious and cutting into me like hot blades. “A lot.”

  My first instinct was to say, I like you too. But my next instinct was to shout, No, I love you!

  And then shit got real.

  Because my heart wanted to scream, I want you forever! And that wasn’t a truth I was ready for. I stared down at his oversized shirt and went into complete panic mode. Shaking my head. Denying that I felt anything for him.

  He called me on my bullshit and tried his damnedest to yank the truth from my mouth, but I was stubborn. I had every shield up, ready for battle, because I had big goals for myself.

  What if Jack’s goals didn’t cooperate with mine? What then? Which one of us would get to fulfill our dreams? How many compromises would we have to make? Love doesn’t accommodate dreams; it crashes into them. And even though I wasn’t ready to admit it out loud, I knew pursuing something—anything—with Jack would lead to love, if it wasn’t swimming in it already.

  And here he was, asking me to be okay with that. It just wasn’t fair. Jack couldn’t just come in and undo all my best-laid plans. I was protective of those plans for a reason and I couldn’t afford to let my guard down.

  I would not be my mother. Single. Poor. Heartbroken with dusty dreams that will never be achieved. And I wouldn’t be my grandmother either. I saw what loving a man had done to them, and I refused to follow in those footsteps.

  My grandpa left my grandma when she was eight months pregnant for a waitress half her age, and Grams raised my mama in such poverty that she didn’t even know what a ten-dollar bill looked like until she was sixteen years old.

  Mama worked her booty off, saving money so she could go to medical school and become a doctor. She had a dream—a plan. Then she fell in love with a handsome man and got pregnant with me four months later. My father promised her he’d be there. Promised her that she could finish school and accomplish her goals. He said he’d stand by her side and help her.

  And then he woke up one day and told her he’d changed his mind. That being a father was too hard and that his dreams were more important than hers. He left her—he left us—and Mama was completely broken. We never had a secure income so we moved constantly, always getting evicted. Always behind on bills. The electricity would get shut off. The water. I moved from school to school, always having to make new friends and hope they didn’t notice that my clothes were too small for me because we couldn’t buy new ones that fit. That my shoes were worn with holes and muck. That my hair was dirty because sometimes we lived in Mama’s car without a bathroom to shower in.

  I had no control, no certainty. As a child, I vowed to find a way to provide for myself. To make a life for myself where I could fall asleep easily each night without worrying about when I might get to eat again.

  Things got better, eventually. When I was sixteen, Mama got a good job as a medical assistant at the local clinic. It didn’t pay a lot, but it was a steady paycheck with guaranteed health insurance. And as a bonus, it was in the medical field, so Mama was happy about that. I was able to get a job waitressing at a neighborhood café, and with our combined paychecks we were able to make a somewhat stable life for ourselves. Together.

  Soon after, Mama began fostering children and ended up adopting the three most amazing little girls in the whole world.

  Life turned out okay for my mother. But I didn’t want to go through all she did just to get to be “okay.”

  So the moment I felt myself falling into Jack’s eyes, tripping into his heart, I knew I had to shut it down. Too much was at stake.

  He told me he was crazy about me. He told me we were good together. He told me I was everything he ever wanted. He said all the things any girl would appreciate.

  But all I heard were the broken promises of my dad and the betrayal of my grandfather. So I said no. I stopped eating pancakes and left Jack’s apartment with his scent still on my skin and fresh tears running down my cheeks.

  Across the car, I glance at his profile as we cross the Texas border and my heart clenches. I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t know what the truth was, but I wasn’t exactly being honest either.

  What I feel completely contradicts what I want. I feel more attracted to Jack than I do to anyone else, but I don’t want him to be my boyfriend. I feel possessive of Jack when he hooks up with other girls, but I don’t want to be one of the girls he hooks up with. I feel empty when we go a few days without seeing one another, but I don’t want him to be the source of my contentment.

  I have a plan for my life, my future. A good plan. A solid plan.

  I’m going to graduate college. I’m going to sell my sculptures and promote my artwork until I raise enough money to open an art gallery. Then I’m going to showcase artwork until I have enough money to buy myself a home. And a car. And health insurance. And maybe then I’ll get a small pet. Like a black cat or a little pig.

  But Jack doesn’t fit into those plans.

  So when he asks me for the truth, and I’m caught between my need to explain why I don’t want him and my desire to rip his clothes off, it messes with my head.

  If only I were a stronger person, I’d stay away from Jack completely. But I can’t. I don’t want to. Cutting him out of my life, at least right now, isn’t an option. He’s too important to me—even if he’s being kind of weird about his family situation.

  My phone rings and I glance at the screen. Speaking of family…

  “Hey, Mom,” I answer, lifting the phone to my ear.

  Jack glances at me for the first time in at least an hour then looks back at the road, where endless miles of dry, empty desert surround us on all sides. There is literally nothing out here in nowhere, Texas. No trees. No signs. Nothing.

  “Hey, sugar.” The sound of my mother’s cheery voice makes me suddenly eager to get home. “How you doing?”

  “Doing good,” I say. “How’s Grams?”

  “Oh, she’s hanging in there. But she’s sure looking forward to seeing you. How’s the trip going?”

  Staring out the window, I blow out my cheeks. “Long? Boring? Dry? Pick one.”

  “That good, huh?”

  “That good,” I repeat blandly.

  “Well at least you’re not alone,” she says. “Your cousins flew in today and informed me that you left with a passenger. They weren’t sure how long he’d last, but since you answered your actual phone instead of putting me on your car’s speakerphone I’m assuming you still have your travel companion.”

  My mom prides herself on her powers of deduction. When I was a teenager, I used to call her Sherrylock Holmes because I could never pull one over on her. The woman was just too damn intuitive, and she always knew when I was lying. It made sneaking out at night and other getting-up-to-no-good shenanigans rather difficult, but I managed.

  “Yes, Mama, I do have a travel companion,” I mock. “What are you, seventy? Why are you talking like Andy Griffith? Ner-dy.”

  She huffs. “Mm-hmm. Who’s more of a nerd, the forty-five-year-old woman who says ‘travel companion’ or the twenty-one-year-old girl who knows who Andy Griffith is?”

  A small smile pulls up my mouth. “Touché.”

  “So are you bringing Jack home with you or what?”


  I frown. “What makes you think my travel companion is Jack?”

  Jack looks at me again, his gray eyes curious as they scan my face. Feeling my skin grow hot, I turn away from his gaze.

  “Because he’s the only guy I ever hear you mention by name so I figured he’d be the only guy you’d tolerate on a road trip,” she says.

  A beat passes where my heart completely flips out, shifting into full-on panic mode as I try to come to terms with my mother’s words.

  Do I talk about Jack that much? Am I one of those silly girls that calls home and blabs about the boy she likes? AM I?

  “Your cousins also might have mentioned that it was Jack they saw in your car,” she adds, instantly relieving me of the code red protocol my body was preparing for. “So should I be expecting both of you later this week?”

  I let out a small breath. “Uh, no. Jack’s family lives in Little Vail so I’m just dropping him off on my way home.”

  “Mm-hmm,” she says, clearly not believing me. “Well I’m just glad you’re not alone. I hope your day on the road goes smoothly. Call me tomorrow?”

  I nod, even though she can’t see me. “I will. Love you, Mama.”

  “Love you too, baby.”

  Our call ends and I put my phone away, wondering if an hour of tense silence qualifies as “going smoothly.” It’s certainly better than an hour of fighting or having sex… okay, it’s not better than an hour of sex. But really, what is better than an hour of sex? Nothing, that’s what. Except maybe two hours of sex. And wow, I need to start thinking about something else.

  “How’s your grandma?” Jack asks.

  “She’s doing good,” I say, pulling my hair back and stacking it on my head. After my shower last night, I let it air-dry so now it’s a mess of thick black waves that insist on sticking to my skin. “She’s glad that I’m coming home.”

  He nods. “It’s been a while since you’ve been back.”

  “Yeah. Almost a year and half.” The breeze from the air conditioner pleasantly cools the back of my neck. “But you’ve been gone even longer than me. You were in Arizona way before I was so you haven’t been home for at least…” I do the math in my head. “Two years?”