“Ugh.”
“Penny, from what you’ve said, Jack sounds supportive of your therapy and is willing to take it slow.”
“I know. He’s sweet. And understanding. Add that to the fact he’s hot and funny, and he’s theworst.”
“The worst,” Wendy agrees.
“He is!” I insist. “Because he’sdifferent from any other guy I’ve ever been involved with. And he makesmewant to be different. And I’m trying to be different! Not just for him, but… But I’m also scared out of my mind by all of this. This whole thing is like walking through a terrifying haunted house.” I pause. “A sexy one.”
“You know, Penny.” Wendy’s lips twist. “It’s not a bad thing to have somebody to hold your hand as you walk through a haunted house.”
Gence comes over the next evening and muds both sides of the drywall, caking spackle all over the seams and giving firm instructions not to touch. I try not to take offense that his instructions are mainly directed at me, as if I’m a child who can’t resist poking the thick white wall goo.
Jack stands at my elbow as Gence muds down my apartment, still sporting his eye patch. At one point, I think I feel a finger run down my back, but maybe it’s wishful thinking.
I want to tell Jack that I hate the thought of not hearing him vacuum. I hate not glancing over and seeing him whenever I want. I want to Kool-Aid Man through the wall myself when I think about it. I want a lot of things.
Instead, I say nothing, and Jack makes zero moves to repeat the kissing from yesterday. There is no reference to his theory or taking it slow, nor to anything else. I don’t seek him out that night, and he doesn’t come to me, either. I have to remind myself it wasn’t just another dream.
The next day, Gence is back to sand and mud some more, and after he’s done, Jack brings his vacuum over and takes care of the dust in my apartment. He maneuvers around my living room, his dark head bending every now and again to inspect a renegade speck. I watch him out of the corner of my eye with a mix of thirst and confusion. What the hell was the other night? Has he had a change of heart? I reflexively return his friendly smile when he gathers up his vacuum cord and offer a quick, impersonal “thanks” when I trail him to the door.
I tell myself it’s fine, even though it’s as if Jack pulled all the warmth and color from the room after him, leaving my apartment cold and quiet. And then I realize that he’s already tackling the dust on his side and I can barely make out the sound. I want to lie down and pull my throw blanket over my head. Instead, I bang my hand on the wall for old time’s sake—and pull my hand away covered in spackle.
Shit. Gence is going to kill me.
I grab a spoon, try to smooth out the area, and somehow make it worse. Nothing left for it, I skip into the hall, practically running to seek out Jack’s help. And not because I want to see him, spar with him, be near him. No. It’s just because my apartment is so quiet it might as well be on the moon, and because Gence is really going to kick my ass.
Time to test Anna’s white-knight hypothesis.
He opens his door a second after my insistent knock and immediately takes my breath away. I want to dig my nails into his shoulders like grappling hooks and scale him like Everest. I want to tuck my head onto his shoulder and watch action flicks. I lied. I just want to be near him.
“Missed me already?”
“Never. I need your help. I smooshed the spackle when I hit the wall.”
“I thought I heard knocking. You could hear the vacuuming?”
I shift, uncomfortable, and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Not really. I banged on the wall because I figured… It’s like breaking champagne to christen a new boat. New wall and all.”
Jack sucks his teeth. “Shit. Good luck with Gence.” He starts to close the door and laughs when I push to keep it open. “Let me get my stuff.”
I watch him work, spreading a thick coat of spackle against the area I messed up and then smoothing and skimming away the excess.
“What did Lucas want?” he asks casually.
I grin, remembering his admission that he was jealous. “To whisk me away to Paris?” I say. He turns to slant me a one-eyed glance. “It was what I thought. Don’t say anything to the tabloids. Call his PR folks if anyone approaches, et cetera.”
He nods, continuing his work on the wall. He’s wearing a short-sleeve shirt, and I follow the line of his arms up to his shoulders and down to his back, remembering the look of it without a shirt.
He must catch the heat in my eye because his own darkens, and he stands.
“Want to order in? I—” My phone vibrates.
“Maybe. You going to answer that?”
I duck my head with a smile and pull out my phone, pleased to hear the hint ofsomethingin his voice just then. “It’s probably my mom. I told you she’s been all over me, trying to set me up with some guy I went to high school with… And maybe she saw the tabloid stuff… Oh no.”
“What?”
