Page 47 of Finding Jack
I’d have fastened in some dangly earrings too except I didn’t want Jack to think I was trying too hard. I put in a pair of tiny silver hoops instead. Then I sat. And then I started freaking out about the apartment being on camera too. I’d planned to stay in my room so Ranée wouldn’t get nosy and holler something like “Emily thinks you’re hot,” because truths like that didn’t need to be told aloud, but suddenly my bedroom seemed like a bad idea. Like, “Here I am on my bed.”
Nope.
I figured the living room was safe enough. I fluffed the throw pillows and filled my water bottle in case talking parched me.
I practiced all the ways to ask Jack if I was stringing him along.
So, what are your expectations for this thing we’re doing? Because I’m just killing time.
Do you plan on us ever meeting in real life? Because I don’t.
You know we’re not a thing, right? But can we still just do all this flirting all the time anyway?
None of those seemed…good.
Instead I decided to think about how Jack was going to look. I mean, I knew how he looked from pictures and how he sounded from our European trip. But there was something different about seeing someone’s expression and movement, from picking up the cues they didn’t realize they gave away in their face.
On the phone, he’d seemed shy but not insecure. Insecure guys, they always had that touch of bluster. Sometimes it was arrogance, talking about their cars or their gym routines. Usually it was quieter than that, even. Paul hadn’t bragged about being able to afford a decent apartment in the San Francisco housing market, but he’d find ways to mention compliments from his boss or refer to “his” employees to emphasize that he was successful enough to manage a team. I’d dated other guys who brought up their vegetarianism every so often, like, “Look at my virtue! Do you see me eating this lentil stuff? How about now? And now?”
It was all a way to highlight their best attributes, as if they were afraid I couldn’t figure them out myself. Or maybe because they didn’t want anyone to notice their flaws, so they trotted out their accomplishments like a personality combover.
Shy guys didn’t lean on any of that stuff. They started slower, watching and waiting before they let you see parts of themselves rather than just plunking them down for display. Jack was more that way. How would talking on camera affect that?
My phone buzzed with the FaceTime alert, and I took a deep breath as I pressed “Accept” to find out.
Chapter 18
There he was.
His head and shoulders appeared on camera. I half expected him to be in flannel due to my man bun prejudices, but he was wearing a dark gray thermal.
Here is the thing about men wearing thermals: they are so hot. I do not mean temperature.
How was that even fair? Guys can pull out their comfiest shirt and put it on, and immediately it gives them amazing shoulders and sex appeal. Meanwhile, one internet search on “what to wear on camera” later, and I’m sporting an adequate teal shirt and a FEMA situation in my closet.
His hair was pulled back, but a tendril had escaped and hung by his eye. I wanted to reach through the screen and brush it back. I had underestimated how hard it would be to keep a straight face. Not even a straight face, just not one of those pop-eyed, slack-jawed cartoon faces.
He waved. It was so much cuter than saying hi.
I waved back. Then I realized it was awkward when I did it because now no one had spoken, so I said, “Hi.”
“How’s San Francisco?” he asked.
“Foggy. It’s a good night to be inside playing a board game. How’s the hermit house?”
“Small and Oregony.”
“What does Oregony mean? Is everything made of hemp? Do all the throw pillows get their tassels dreadlocked?”
“No, I think that’s a San Francisco thing. I need to specify that this place is rural Oregony which means it looks like an LL Bean catalog in here, except if it was decorated by two old guys sloshed on Budweiser who dragged in all the furniture their wives wouldn’t let them keep and then shoved it wherever it fit.”
“I’m going to need to see this.”
He reversed the camera, and I cursed myself for making the demand because there couldn’t be anything more interesting in his house than his face. “This is something else,” he said, panning around the room. Faux wood paneling covered the walls, which seemed like an odd choice for a cabin in the actual woods. I spotted an old TV, a tweedy brown sofa, and a kitchenette with avocado green counters. The only modern touch was a large, sleek computer monitor on a card table in the corner that I glimpsed before he flipped the camera again.
“In my defense, I’ve made none of these choices.”
“You’re forgiven. How long have you lived there?”
