Tell Me Not to Go Page 3

  The nerve of that asshat—to assume I’m a mess because I ran into him and his wedding-planning Pinterest wife.

  My lab partner, Marcus, looks over my shoulder. He’s sort of intense, but he’s nice enough. Even though I’m Filipina, I feel more of a kinship with Marcus, who’s Mexican, than I do with the other Asians in the class, who are mostly Chinese, Korean, and Vietnamese. I’ve heard people say that Filipinos are like Latino Asians, and maybe there’s some truth to that.

  “Are we starting this lab, or are you going to text your boyfriend all day?” Marcus asks, with a frown so severe it’s almost comical.

  “What’s got your panties in a twist?”

  “Nothing,” he says, but he’s mumbling to himself under his breath.

  If you want to know how Marcus is feeling, you only need to look at his hair. It’s long and wavy, and he styles it fifteen different ways. I’ve started to chart what each style indicates. Today, it’s in a half ponytail, which means he’s in a serious mood.

  “Denise broke up with me,” he finally admits, halfway through the lab.

  “Aww. That sucks. I’m really sorry.”

  Marcus and I focus on pouring out bleach and dyes, and start determining concentrations with our spectrometer—drowning our sorrows in chemical kinetics. We argue over calculations for a while, until we’re satisfied with the answers.

  My phone buzzes again. Another text from Luke.

  I know that was awkward at the cafe.

  As Mom would say, “Goddessdammit.” My mother—the Filipina ex-Catholic, who married an Italian hippie from Santa Cruz and produced me.

  Actually, it was a lot more awkward to catch you two fucking, I write back.

  Probably should have thought that through a bit more—either ignored Luke or figured out the perfect response. Sadly, I’m not built that way. At the very least, he’ll probably stop texting.

  I see why my parents keep pressuring me to meditate more often. They seem a lot calmer than I am.

  “Seriously?” Marcus asks, pointing to my phone. “We’re almost done.”

  “Sorry. Problems with the ex. As in, I ran into him and the girl he cheated on me with, and now he’s texting me.”

  “Oh. What a dick. Denise wouldn’t tell me why she was breaking up with me, but then I saw her with some guy from one of her classes.”

  “Damn, that’s cold. It’ll get better, I promise. Which doesn’t mean shit now, of course. Keep yourself busy. Meet someone else.”

  “Easier said than done. Girls can get someone anytime they want.” Marcus takes our beakers and other supplies to the cleaning area, apparently done with this topic.

  I don’t blame him. But he’s wrong about one thing: I might be able to get a guy, but that doesn’t mean he’d be one worth keeping. I’m pretty sure I attract cheaters, the way an NBA player attracts skanks.

  On the way out of the lab, I give Marcus a quick slap on the back. “Stay hopeful. Your perfect girl is out there somewhere.”

  I don’t believe that, but it seems like the right thing to say.

  When I walk in the suite, I hear water pitter-pattering in our porcelain bathtub. Since Lizzie’s in class, that leaves Jeff. In the shower. Probably with lots of soap. His jacket is hanging on a hook by the door, and the scent of his cologne fills the air. He’s been here almost a week and the amount of space he takes up keeps multiplying exponentially—or at least that’s how it feels.

  Like I feared, he’s as nice as he pretends to be. The day after he arrived, he fixed our faucet. Next, he bought enough groceries to last us a month. And yesterday, I caught him hanging a picture for our neighbor with the broken arm. He’s like a freaking Good Samaritan. And hot. Which is the problem.

  I listen to Jeff’s shower, wrestling my inner demon as she conjures up images of all that creamy skin. Of him slicking back his wet, blond hair with those strong arms—trails of water tracing patterns on his abs. Does he even have a firm stomach? A smooth chest? Or is it dusted with hair? I need to think about something else, pronto.

  This is like being tortured by a million tiny pinpricks every day. I’ve obviously gone too long without sex. But that’s because the emotionless hookups I’ve had since Luke have left me feeling blah and unimpressed. Maybe even depressed. The hard truth is, for all my parents’ talk about sexual expression and freedom, I’m a one-man girl. But I’m leaving this summer, so that one man will have to wait.

  I realize too late that the water shut off while I was navel-gazing. The bathroom door opens, and Jeff comes strolling out in a towel. It’s wrapped around him tightly, but low on his hips. Guess that answers the abs question. He has a patch of light hair on his chest, and he’s lean like a jogger. But still, there’s more than enough definition on that body to fuel my imagination for months.

  He jerks to a halt when he sees me. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were here.”

  “I just . . .” I point to the door. Me without words. A rare phenomenon.

  Six long, exhausting days of this dance. Both of us trying to be on our best behavior for Lizzie’s sake; neither of us meaning it in the least. Wanting to like each other but not knowing if we’re allowed. Because we screwed everything up the first time we met—me by being a bitch, him by kissing the stuffing out of me.

  Which made me want him. And I kind of hate him for making me want him. He’s my best friend’s brother, so that’s got to be all kinds of wrong. But also, men like him are the devil. They charm and they smile, and they act so sweet, and then they rip your damn heart out.

  It’s possible I have some issues.

  He starts to move left and I start to move right, and we bump into each other. Jeff instinctively grabs for my shoulders to steady me, and we stand like that for a long moment, water traipsing down his neck, over his chest, and lower where I can’t see it. I’m too busy staring into those intense brown eyes of his.

  I inhale. I don’t mean to—it’s a reflexive respiratory response. I start reciting all the involuntary human actions to myself—sneezing, shivering, stretching—but it’s not working because his hands feel warm and strong on my shoulders.

  “Sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t release me. I’ve felt those hands on me before—only once and over a year ago. But it was a hell of a couple of minutes—filled with gentle lips and soft touches. I wonder if he’s remembering it, too.

  “No, it was my fault.” My voice sounds too high. I step back from him and get myself together. This—fluttering—is annoying.

  He heads into Lizzie’s bedroom, presumably to get dressed, so I focus on making lunch. Except that leaves my mind free to wallow in my memory of the night Jeff and I met.

  I remember how it terrified me that he’d seen through my crap so easily, straight to the sadness swilling around inside me.

  I don’t know if it had been my mood or Jeff’s honesty, but I had wanted to tell him things. Like how Luke was my first love and how, when he cheated on me, I thought I’d never heal. And how even though I was over him I’d never found someone else who made me feel like he did, and I wondered if I ever would. Worst of all, how I’d let Luke make me doubt my own self-worth. The desire to say all this out loud had scared the holy hell out of me.

  But then I made a flippant remark about love, assuming Jeff would agree and move on.

  Instead, Jeff’s eyes had gone all deer-in-the-headlights, and his body had become as still as marble. “I wouldn’t know. About being in love, I mean.”

  “But you’ve had serious girlfriends. Lizzie said so.”

  He shook his head. “That’s not the same thing. What’s it like?”

  I wanted to tell Jeff to leave me alone, but he looked like his heart was dangling right out there for the world to see. He was twenty-six years old and had never been in love. That drew me up short, and I had to really think about it. Because it was a heartfelt question that deserved a genuine answer.

  “I guess it’s more and less than it’s cracked up to be. And you feel like dying
when it ends.”

  He lowered his head, as though he didn’t want me to look at him. “Like I said, I wouldn’t know.”

  The slope of his shoulders made me sad. “Don’t worry, you’ll find out someday. Not sure if I feel envious or sorry for you.”

  I don’t remember how, but Jeff and I both migrated toward the living room, away from our doors—drawn toward each other by shared confidences.

  He pinched his forehead, his mouth in a frown. “I’m not sure I will ever find out.”

  We were close enough that I could see the small worry lines around his eyes.

  “I doubt that,” I said.

  “How do you know? We met today, and I already irritate you.”

  “Eh, so do a lot of people. And you don’t like me either. But I see how you love Lizzie, so obviously you’re capable. You just haven’t found the right person yet.”

  He stepped close enough to touch me. “How will I know when I do?” His voice lowered to a husky whisper, like he was fighting the words that kept flowing.

  “You know that impulse, when you see the coils on your stove turning red, and you want to touch them?”

  He nods. “You know it will burn your fingers, but you want to do it anyway.”

  “Exactly. It’s like that.” It’s possible I tilted toward him.

  “That sounds terrifying.”

  “It is.”

  He raised his hand slowly, as though he didn’t realize he was doing it. When it touched my cheek, my whole face tingled. “How in the world did we end up talking about this? We don’t even like each other.”

  I tipped my face into his palm. “Absolutely. We don’t.”

  And then his lips touched mine—feather light, and more tender than any kiss I’d known.

  I put my fingers to my lips now, which drags me out of the past. I’m glad Jeff’s still in Lizzie’s room, because it gives me time to shake off the memory of our kiss.

  When he comes out, Jeff looks almost as cute as he did in the towel—hands tucked in the pockets of his faded jeans, a soft T-shirt over that wide chest. His golden hair is wet, but he’s run a comb through it.

  Two more weeks of living with him. I can keep it together that long. Totally.

  “So are we officially in a truce now? Am I allowed to speak to you?” He approaches me like a guy going to the gas chamber.

  “What a drama queen. I’m not that scary. And you were holding your own.”

  “Yeah, I guess I was,” he says, like he’s proud of himself.

  I see him eyeing the sandwich I’m making. “Want one?”

  He grabs two pieces of bread. “You working tonight?”

  “Yeah. I’m headed to the hospital in an hour.”

  “You work a lot for being in school.” Jeff spreads mayo on his bread like it’s going out of style.

  “There’s a lot of fat in that, you know.”

  He dips his butter knife back in the jar, gets another dollop of mayo on it, and proceeds to lick the knife clean.

  “You’re like a toddler,” I say, laughing.

  He cracks up and puts his hand over his mouth, almost like he’s surprised by the noise. It could get addicting, trying to help Jeff have fun.

  “I’m guessing you didn’t eat this kind of crap growing up.”

  I shake my head. “My parents are vegans. They cheat sometimes, though. Especially when Mom’s cooking Filipino.”

  “Whereas my dad and I used to make deer jerky.”

  “Gack. I eat meat, but that sounds nasty.” I cut our sandwiches in half and plate them.

  Before I can move to the table, Jeff starts to eat at the counter.

  I cock my head. “You have something against sitting down?”

  “I’ve been living alone too long, I guess.”

  “None of the girlfriends ever moved in?” I take his cue and dive in to my sandwich.

  “No. We would have been expected to get married.”

  I freeze with the sandwich midway to my mouth. “Are your parents aware it’s the twenty-first century?”

  He smiles. “They have different standards, and that is never going to change. I did come close with the last girlfriend, though.”

  “What stopped you?”

  He closes one eye and peers at me with the other. Makes him look like Clint Eastwood’s hot son. “Wait, I thought you didn’t like me. Why should I tell you?”

  I fake a long-suffering sigh. “I guess you’re okay.”

  This lights him up. “Just okay?”

  “Yeah, you know.” I wave my hands up and down in his direction. “You’re nice for an uptight white guy.”

  “That is so wrong,” he says, shaking his head and making me laugh. “But I’ll take it.”

  “So why didn’t you marry the last girl?”

  “She was sweet. Pretty. Smart.”

  “Yeah. She sounds like a real terror. Glad you avoided that mess.” I smile at him, but he sets his food down suddenly.

  “Something was missing.” His voice is hushed, as though he’s about to tell a secret. “It was all so agreeable. Our relationship, our dates—hell, even our fighting.”

  He’s staring at me intently, but I’m not getting it.

  “And?” Now I’ve got to know. Why is it that every time he and I are alone, we act like we’re in a priest’s confessional?

  He runs his hands through his hair, frustrated. “I don’t want my relationship to be purely an intellectual decision. Like columns on a spreadsheet that add up.”

  “You want . . . passion.”

  “Yes.”

  His eyes—they’re killing me. “I warned you before. It hurts like hell when you get burned.”

  “But there’s nothing like it, is there?”

  I shake my head. “No. I don’t think so.” I barely get the words out. My lungs feel too big, like they’re going to squeeze my other organs out through my throat.

  “I want to know,” he says, his voice filled with scratchy reeds and thorns.

  “No, you don’t,” I whisper.

  And how do we keep getting ourselves in this position? If I lean forward a millimeter—a breath, really—I could feel his mouth on mine. Again. It seems like it would be the most natural thing in the world to let that happen.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, startling me. I lean way back, making the world come back into focus.

  Jeff and I stare at each other for a moment until I pull my phone out.

  I never meant to hurt you, Luke’s text says.

  I shove my phone back into my pocket. Of course he didn’t mean to. Do they ever?

  “What’s wrong?” Jeff asks.

  “I need to get to work.”

  “Sam . . .”

  “See you later.” I scurry to my room like someone’s shooting at my feet.

  It’s going to be a long two weeks.

  Chapter 4: Jeff

  I wake up after dreaming of dark eyes and long lashes, like I have frequently in the past seven days—since I almost kissed Sam again. Doesn’t seem to matter that she’s avoiding me. Or that, between her hours at school and the hospital and all the stuff I’ve had to do for the move, we’ve been busy. My nights are still free.

  Even worse, Lizzie’s been staying with Jude so that I can have her bedroom. So every evening when I hear Sam come in, I know it’s only me and her in this suite. And all the quick peeks I’ve gotten of her as she sprints to and from the bathroom—a flash of leg here, a bare shoulder there—are branded on my brain. And, of course, that near-kiss.

  It’s not just the physical, though. There’s something freeing about Sam. She has no expectations of how I should or shouldn’t act. And when we’re not fighting, it feels like we’ve been friends for a long time. Friends with lots of sexual tension that we can’t do anything about because of Lizzie, and because we’re moving in opposite directions.

  I grab a coffee on the way to work and get my head in the game. First days are always scary, but I’ve met all the partner
s at the firm, and I know what they expect from me. Since we’re an early-stage venture capital firm, I’ll be meeting a lot of people and doing a ton of research in the hopes of finding that diamond-in-the-rough company that’s worth recommending to the partners.

  I step into the building—all wood and glass and money—and try to shake off my sense of inferiority. I didn’t go to Harvard or Stanford like eighty percent of the associates here. Instead, I got my MBA from BYU and networked my way in. But I’m low man on the totem pole, and I know the climb up will be long and ball-breaking. Still, this is the opportunity of a lifetime.

  My mentor, Tyler, is one of the partners here. I met him at a BYU student–alumni mixer, where he kept referring to me as Jerry. When I finally corrected him forcefully, he said he was impressed I spoke up for myself and spent the rest of the night talking to me about his life in Silicon Valley. To say he opened my eyes to possibilities is an understatement.

  Tyler’s assistant—who introduces herself as Jan—greets me when I walk in and leads me away from the receptionist and through another door. Jan looks forty-five, but is probably ten years older than that. Even with a quick look around, it’s obvious she is one of the oldest people at this firm, apart from the partners. I’m guessing everyone here is young and eager. But Jan handles me with a ruthless efficiency that makes it clear why she is where she is.

  “Here’s the paperwork you need to complete, and then I’ll give you a quick tour,” she says, handing me a yellow folder.

  “Thank you. Is Tyler around today?”

  “He had me schedule you for a 9 A.M. tomorrow.” Jan brushes her long dark hair back over her shoulder. There’s one purposeful streak of silver in it. “Make sure he gives you a rundown of the people—not just the work. If he doesn’t, come ask me.”

  Jan and I walk through a large, open space, with glass conference rooms lining the side. In the middle of the office are work areas peppered with black desks and bright red chairs. But the best part is the large kitchen stocked with food and drinks.

  “I really appreciate the tour,” I say.

  That garners a big smile from Jan, which makes her look striking. “I’m so happy you have manners. We could use more of that around here. Get settled in, and let me know if you need anything.”