Ten minutes.
Ten minutes and I’m done with this crappy class and crappy semester, and hopefully the immensely crappy mood I’ve been in. I can admit when I’m being a monster, and for the last couple of weeks, I’ve been a cranky, snippy nightmare.
But in mere minutes, the cranky snippiness will dissipate because my final exam will be over, Professor Jacobs is going to clap his hands and dismiss us and I will be free for an entire two weeks. Free from this class, and its slightly odd professor that still looks at me funny, forever.
Everyone around me is having the same anticipatory thoughts; the sound of furious writing has dissolved into impatient tapping of pens against desks and huffed breaths and absent-minded doodling. When the bell finally chimes, it’s a stampede. I take my time packing up, mostly because I have no interest in being trampled, a little because I intend on keeping the white boots on my feet tread-mark free. I linger until it’s safe—for me and my shoes—before getting up, slinging my bag over my shoulder as I dig through it to find my phone.
A good luck text from Jackson sits in my inbox, and it makes me smile. He’s put up with me like a trooper. Kept me fed and watered and rested. I’m typing a reply, a handful of steps from freedom, when I get stopped by a hand on my shoulder.
“Sorry,” my professor apologizes when I jolt in surprise, quickly retracting his hand. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s okay.” I force a smile, shifting in place, adjusting my bag just to give myself something to do with my hands. “Did you need something?”
“No. Uh, yes,” Jacobs stutters, neck turning an interesting shade of red. “I just wanted to wish you luck. Next year. Next semester.”
“Oh.” I fight to keep the frown off my face because of all the professors to wish me luck, I wouldn’t have voted for Jacobs. “Okay. Thank you.”
“You’ve been an excellent student,” he continues, and the lie is as laughable as it is confusing. “And an excellent…” His throat bobs as he swallows. “And a good friend to my Penelope.”
And the conversation has officially crossed over to the realm of weird.
“I really enjoyed your class,” is the only response I can think of. “And Pen is great.”
“She is.”
I’ve never been one for awkward silences so when one ensues, I make myself scarce quickly. The waves we offer each other are even more awkward than the silence.
Not quite as bad as the lingering pat he bestows on my shoulder before I make my escape, but still pretty fucking odd.
I barely make it out the door l before I’m sequestered by another member of the Jacobs family. A pair of thin, freckled arms wrap themselves around my middle and squeeze as a head of blonde hair props itself on my shoulder. “LuLu, we’re done!” Pen squeals in my ear, giving me a shake for good measure.
I pat the hands resting on my stomach affectionately, my fake smile brightening to a real one. “How’d you do?”
“Good, I think.” Pen releases me, only for a moment so she can link our arms, and we walk side-by-side toward the courtyard. “Not that it matters. I’ll pull the nepotism card if I need to. What’s the point of being his favorite daughter if I don’t get any benefits?”
“You’re his only daughter.”
“That we know of,” Pen jokes, wriggling her blonde brows.
I roll my eyes as I laugh. “I’m meeting the girls for coffee. You wanna come?”
“As much as I would love to meet the rest of the famous trio, I have to pass.” Pen pulls a face, faking a shiver. “My parents are dragging me to lunch.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“They’re fighting,” she explains. “There’s been a lot of subtle glaring and animosity in the Jacobs household lately.”
“That sucks.” I aim a very loving elbow at her ribs. “I hope it doesn’t ruin your Christmas.”
Pen snorts. “My Christmas will consist of me sitting very still and hoping no one notices me so I don’t get asked about boyfriends or girlfriends or whether I’ve considered changing majors yet.”
I fake a wistful sigh. “The perfect holiday.”
The second I answer my ringing phone, I regret it.
My dear mother, who I only see a handful of times throughout the academic year, begins our first phone call in a whopping two weeks—equally hectic schedules don’t allow much time for chit chat—with a demand. Not even a hello. Just a firm, “Invite him.”
“No,” I reply with as much finality as I can muster.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Hey, I’m the mother here and I’m telling you to invite him.”
“Well, he’s my boyfriend and I’m saying no.”
Ma makes a little excited squealing sound, the same one she makes every time I drop the b-word. I thought the poor woman was going to lose her voice the day I revealed the big news. Immediately, she pounced on the prospect of Jackson coming home with me for Christmas, completely oblivious to the fact that he technically came home with me for Thanksgiving. The same as I’m doing now, I turned her down, for more than one reason.
First of all, my mother will no doubt scare him away before he even sets foot in the door. I love her but she’s an acquired taste. Like herbal tea.
Secondly, if my mother doesn’t succeed in sending him packing, Eva and Bea will. I can picture it now; cornering us unexpectedly and regaling him with tales of my whoring ways. I wouldn’t put it past them to have a slideshow prepared. Maybe even a song.
Thirdly, I really don’t want to incur the wrath of the Jackson sisters again. I know they were pissed about the whole Thanksgiving thing, despite his claims that his absence didn’t matter because they don’t celebrate Thanksgiving. But I know that if I had a sibling, I too would hate the girl who interrupted our short, precious time together.
And finally; if I did ask him and he said no—which he would because that boy loves his sisters—I would have a very hard time hiding my disappointment. And my embarrassment.
Which is why, for the millionth time, I let my mom know that, “I’m not inviting Jackson.”
“You’re not inviting me where?”
My surprised yelp echoes around Greenies’ smoking area as I jump and twist awkwardly in my seat to find Jackson lurking in the doorway, stifling a laugh. “What the fuck? You scared the shit out of me!”
“Language, Luna!” Ma shrieks before making that godawful squealing noise again. “Is that Jackson? Can I speak to him? If you won’t invite him, I’ll do it.”
“I’m hanging up now.” Whatever protest Ma has is cut off by me doing just that, and promptly turning my phone off so she doesn’t blow the thing up.
Us Evans women are nothing if not persistent.
The rusty metal chair I’m perched on creaks as Jackson hooks a hand around the back, dragging it until there’s a big enough gap between me and the table for him to squeeze into. His knees knock against mine as he rests his ass on the edge, hands cupping my cheeks as he kisses me briefly. “Where are you inviting me?”
“Nowhere.”
Up goes the corner of his mouth. “Sounds fun.”
I shrug a non-answer, keeping my gaze carefully averted as I lean around him to grab my lunch. Mac ‘n’ cheese, an Amelia special, straight from a blue box but as long as it’s not fried diner food, I couldn’t care less. I’m stabbing at a hefty portion of noodles when my fork gets abruptly snatched away from me. “Hey!”
Jackson hides my lunch behind his back, body-blocking me when I try to steal it back. “Lu.”
“What?” It comes out more whine than question.
“Spit it out.”
Sighing, I fold like a cheap lawn chair. “My mom wants you to come for Christmas. I already told her no, so don’t freak out.”
“Why’d you say no?” Jackson surprises me by frowning. “You don’t want me to come?”
“No, I do, I just…” I trail off with a shrug. “I didn’t think you’d want to.”
A sound between a snort and a scoff rumbles in Jackson’s throat. “You’re kidding, right?”
The shake of my head only serves to deepen his confusion. “I came to New York when I wasn’t invited. Why wouldn’t I come when I actually am?”
I open my mouth to argue, closing it when I realize… well, there isn’t one. It’s a valid point. One someone more versed in relationship probably would’ve come to easily but hey, he can’t hold it against me. He knew what he was signing up for. “You really wanna come?”
Not a moment passes before Jackson replies, nothing but sincere. “I’d love to.”
“Your sisters won’t be mad?”
“Oh, they will be.” Mischief glints in his eyes as I groan. “But I know just how to soften the blow.”
God, I’m not sure I like his tone. “How?”
Grinning wide, he leans forward, surrounding me with an arm on each side of my chair. “How do you feel about a road trip up north in the new year?”
Shopping for a boy is fucking impossible.
I’ve never done it before. I’ve never had to. I’ve lived a beautiful man-and-boy free life up until this point, and never have I resented that until now.
I’m at a complete and utter loss. Except for the drawing I did of him; I framed it even though it’s silly and ugly and absolute dirt compared to his artwork but his face while I was doing it? When I asked him if he could? When he saw the completed sketch and quietly traced the lines with a smile that made my chest hurt? I don’t know, I just figured he’d like a copy. If only so he could look at it during times of artistic self-doubt and feel better about himself.
But I’m pretty sure a shitty drawing in a two-dollar frame isn’t a present.
“Just buy yourself lingerie and call it a present for him,” Kate had suggested on my way out of the door, ready for a frantic last-minute shopping session.
I’d snorted; obviously, that was my first idea. The new light pink set is already in my suitcase. Except I can’t call it a present for him when it will most definitely end up being a present for me, especially because said present will more than likely get ripped to shreds and the ripper in question will insist on buying a replacement. Probably a much more expensive replacement made of diamonds or cashmere or fucking gold.
God, I’m dreading finding out what Jackson got me. Amelia joked that it’s probably a key to his house. Kate said an engagement ring.
Both are terrifying.
I tried to wrangle it out of him. I used all my best persuasion techniques, most of which involve me on my knees or naked or both.
None worked.
The knowledge that he’s going to buy me some perfect, expensive present that will somehow be exactly what I need or want just makes getting him something even harder. I would ask my mom for help, but I doubt she’d know either. I can’t ask Nick because he’s probably railing Amelia on a plane right now, and Cass is on the same plane completely oblivious to it. And I know Ben well enough to guess he’d more than likely make the same suggestion as Kate.
“Think, Lu, think,” I mutter to myself. I know Jackson. I do, I know I do. I might be a little self-absorbed and selfish but I do listen to him.
He likes art. Horses. His sisters. The ranch. Grapefruit Crush. Me.
I know the things he doesn’t like too, but I don’t think I quite have the skills to pull off an assassination attempt on the eldest members of the Jackson family.
If I was rich like him, I’d say fuck it and fly his sisters out to spend Christmas with us, but alas, I barely have enough money to buy myself a ticket home. The horse thing seems pretty useless too, and the ranch. A six-pack of grapefruit Crush is my panic present. Which leaves me with art.
I let out a disappointed sigh, feeling like a fraud as I whip out my phone and quickly Google ‘what to buy your artist boyfriend.’ An iPad is crossed off the list immediately; I can’t afford it, and he prefers to draw on paper. A picture of a Bob Ross mug makes me snort, and I’m clicking the link to purchase when my perusing is interrupted by a phone call.
“Ma,” I groan upon answering. “I can’t talk right now, I’m in a crisis.”
“Let me guess,” laughter rings in my ear, “shopping for the boy?”
She knows me so well. “This is impossible.”
“You can’t find anything?”
“Nothing good,” I grumble, briefly distracted by a hoodie that maybe Jackson would like.
“Elaborate, hun.”
“A shitty framed picture and an arguably not shitty Bob Ross mug that is apparently available in three Targets near me.”
“Hun, that sounds fine.”
“You know, you’re not supposed to lie to your children.”
Ma snickers. “I’m not lying. It sounds great.”
I huff, still not convinced. “It just feels so… inadequate. Like none of it is good enough.“
“Luna, is it…“ Mom pauses, clearing her throat. “Is it the money thing?”
The money thing. Aka my boyfriend being rich. Disgustingly rich. Maybe a millionaire. Or a billionaire. We didn’t iron out the details but it’s got to be rich-rich if he can drop a couple of thousand dollars on a dress. Rich enough that anything I buy him will look pitiful compared to whatever he gets me, or whatever he could get himself.
“He’s not going to care how much you spent,” Ma says gently. “And if he does, he’s a piece of shit.”
“He’s not. He won’t care.” But I do. For some reason. I don’t know, I just want to do something nice for him, for once. Something equally as nice as everything he does for me.
“You shouldn’t either.”
I know I shouldn’t. I know I’m being silly. But I care.
A lot.
