His shitty teenage years had been far from perfect. Nothing comparable to what she’d endured, but he could offer her a part of himself he’d never offered anyone.
“I went through a rough time in high school,” he said. He wouldn’t describe his worst moment, what he’d done to land in jail, but sharing his vulnerability might help her share hers.
She released a stilted laugh and raised her eyebrows. “Did I miss the segue into this conversation?”
He smirked. “Kissing beautiful women messes with my head.”
She eyed his crotch. “Is that what it does to you?”
“I plead the fifth. But I would like to talk.”
Her shirt now covered the scar, but her eyes darted there. She nibbled her lip. “About the situation in your pants?”
Always evading. “About me, yes. But not the very large situation in my pants.”
Amusement sparked in her eyes. “How modest of you, Jack.”
“I do excel at modesty,” he said, matching her sarcasm. “But this topic’s embarrassing, not ego building. My model airplanes and favorite yo-yo might have you fooled, but I wasn’t the hippest kid in high school. Some experiences changed me.”
Her delight faded. “You don’t have to say.”
He settled himself against his headboard and beckoned her to follow. She crawled over and cuddled into his side, turned her face into his neck.
“I don’t have to tell you,” he said, “but I want to.”
It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen him at his most awkward, and she would see him confident and bold between the sheets, if he had anything to say about it. But he knew what he was like during sex: controlling, demanding. It suddenly seemed important she know what had shaped him.
“When I was fifteen,” he said, closing his eyes as those unpleasant memories resurfaced, “I was a mess when it came to girls.”
15
Jack had been more than a mess with girls. He’d been fifteen with braces, acne, and a stutter, and he’d been in love with Charlotte Aaron. Even in science, one of Jack’s favorite classes, he’d watched her instead of scribbling notes as Mrs. Eschenbaum expounded on seed germination rates. Normally a fascinating subject.
All Jack could hear was the beating of his heart as Charlotte passed a note to Stella, both girls suppressing laughter. Stella was pretty enough. Boys in the locker room, when not picking on him, often made rude remarks about her big breasts and full lips. She was magazine pretty.
Charlotte was fairy-tale pretty.
If Cinderella took human form, she’d be Charlotte Aaron. The sun refracted through the classroom windows, blinking off her blonde hair. Her rosy cheeks looked like ripe apples, her eyes so large and blue his often-misfiring tongue would shrivel and dry around her.
Mrs. Eschenbaum turned to write on the board. Stella took advantage of the lack of supervision and leaned toward Charlotte. She whispered in her ear. Both girls giggled. Then looked at him.
Crap.
He’d been caught staring. Again. Mortification swamped him. The state of his erection was even worse. His body had a mind of its own these days, a girl’s laugh or smile acting like his own personal magnetic field. When Charlotte looked at him? His penis strained like it was pumped full of iron, reaching for her magnetic force. He crossed his hands over his lap.
The girls giggled harder.
Marco poked him from behind. “The archery stand’s almost done. Come over Friday. We’ll put up pictures of the D Squad and shoot their faces.”
The D Squad, aka the Douche Squad, encompassed the three Ds: Derek, Darrin, and Dale—all assholes who tripped Jack and Marco in the cafeteria, knocked books out of their hands, and there was that time they held Jack down in the Phys-ed locker room while Derek farted on Jack’s face. Their female entourage was a different kind of mean. They used dramatic coughs to barely disguise insults like loser and gross when passing Jack’s locker, a subtler brand of nasty.
All but Charlotte. Charlotte would glance back after Stella or Meredith cough-shamed him, an apologetic smile on her beautiful lips.
Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte. Dammit. He was staring again. His groin throbbed.
Another giggle from the girls. Another poke from Marco.
“Yeah, okay,” Jack told Marco. “Archery s-s-sounds cool.” Anything away from the D squad and Charlotte’s penis mind control.
He focused the rest of the class, got his body under control. He packed his books methodically, careful not to damage the Elvis record his granddad had given him. He planned to use the school’s music room to record the classic songs as they were meant to be heard. Scratchy. Raw. Load them on his iPod so he could sing along while riding his bike. He sang daily now, morning and night, and hummed in between. His stutter was getting better, and he couldn’t get enough. When he sang, his tongue was loose and fluid, not skittish and uncooperative.
Backpack on, he pushed his glasses up his nose. Marco fell into stride with him. Marco may have been a pitcher who’d have scouts salivating before high school was done, but he drifted in Jack’s orbit, inhabiting the outer rim of Planet Cool. Marco’s single eyebrow and mullet drew a hefty amount of cough-shaming, too. But where Jack would hunch and try to disappear around the D Squad, Marco would lift his chin and tell them to fuck a duck.
They moved with the student flood toward their next class. The hallways looked like a candy store had exploded, colorful streamers and balloons fighting for space with empty candy boxes—next week’s Candyland dance theme in full force. The artsy kids were working on Double Bubble papier-mâché sculptures and fake Hershey bars. Girls were making jewelry and hair clips with excess candy wrappers. Guys joked about wearing candy ties. When Jack overheard boys asking girls to be their dates, envy burned through him worse than a sip of his dad’s Scotch.
Jack ignored the decorations and trudged toward math class.
Marco hopped as he walked, always a bounce to his step. “My mom got me a new fishing rod. You keen to boat this weekend?”
“Yeah.”
“And we’re due for another Star Wars-athon. Thinking the night of the dance. Do something fun while these asshats step on each other’s feet.”
“Okay.” But he wouldn’t mind if Charlotte stepped on his feet. He also kept his answers short. No stuttering with those words. Marco got it, never ragged on him to show more enthusiasm or use a whole sentence. He wanted to. Man, did he want to tell him about the model X-wing fighter he’d built and how they should act out the scenes while watching Star Wars. Totally geek out together, but whatever. It was something to look forward to, besides wondering how much fun everyone else was having at the dance.
Charlotte was ahead of them, her blonde waves springing with her steps. A weird sigh-groan escaped him. Marco snickered. When she tipped her head back and laughed, Jack’s body zinged liked he’d inhaled all the candy from the empty boxes.
Marco prattled on about his archery setup.
Jack dropped his hands. Erection barricade.
Charlotte moved to the side and waved her friends along. She swung her backpack forward and opened it to get at something. Jack diverted his eyes. He tried to think of Mrs. Eschenbaum’s hairy mole and tuna-tainted breath.