Page 43 of Yes No Maybe

He super-annunciated his words and awkwardly introduced me to his acting buddies. “I told them all about you.”

Then, he introduced the girls they’d met at the bar.

“He’s been talking about you all night,” said one, making me wonder what he says when he describes me.

“Yeah, you’re so pretty,” the other said in a tone that suggested the opposite.

The camera panned to Dean—wide-eyed and grinning, and I thought…this is punishment.This is Dean making sure I suffer over my botched answer.

A familiar uneasiness took hold of me at what I thought I saw hiding behind his eyes—disdain, meanness, anger. I told him to call me tomorrow. He laughed and said, “Yes, no, maybe” before hanging up.

I lay in bed that night, unable to latch on to all those things I love about Dean. Instead of a comfort I long to wrap myself up in, he’s become a chisel, breaking me apart in little pieces.

He didn’t call the next morning, not that I would’ve answered.

With little else to do but feel sorry for myself the last few days, I reread Jack’s book. Twice. This time, I didn’t withhold my annotations, making all the highlights, notes, and stickies my bookish heart desired. AnnotatingThe Other Usfelt like squeezing a stress ball.

Now, in the kitchen, Jack notices the sticky-filled book on the counter. I half-wonder if I’ve offended him—riddling the precious ARC with notes and tabs. But he says nothing.

I grab a leftover platter of grapes, cheeses, and crackers scored from Trader Joe’s that I’d hoped to share with Sara over a movie.Thatdidn’t happen, of course.

We settle into the living room—wine and cheese plate on the coffee table. When Edgar saunters in, stretching from his long afternoon cat nap, I sit on the floor and play with him. Jack copies me, stretching his long legs before him while nibbling the cheddar.

“So, what’s on your mind today?” I prompt as Edgar circles, emanating his sultry purr.

“Why doesn’t Christine believe in love?”

Taken off-guard, wine drizzles awkwardly down my throat, making me cough. “What happened to the cozy questions, huh? Favorite color? Biggest celebrity crush? You know, the easy stuff?”

His brown eyes narrow curiously. “Okay, biggest celebrity crush?”

“It’s a toss-up between Keats and Shelley. Don’t get me started about Shakespeare and his iambic pentameter.”

“You’re such a dork.” Jack’s laugh dwindles fast, though. “Is your mom’s love life a difficult question?”

My hand slides over Edgar’s arched back. “Mom doesn’t date. Not since my injuries. And I don’t talk about that.”

“Never?”

I shake my head, refocusing on Edgar. But it’s a lie. My mac-n-cheese story gets told at least once a year when brave students ask—so Idotalk about it, just not the realit. Even sharing the fake story seems risky with Jack.

“Hmm, what about your no-romance rules? Is that fruit from the same off-limits tree?”

“Um, no. Not exactly. Indirectly.”

“Care to share the reasoning behind them?”

“I have nothing against sweet gestures or romance,theoretically.But at the beginning of a relationship, the goal is to get to know someone. Romantic gifts and the expectations behind them could cloud a person’s judgment—they’ve clouded mine. It’s funny. Parents teach children not to take candy from strangers, and yet, young women not only accept roses, dinners, and drinks from men they don’t know but are impressed with the gesture—as if it’s an epic quest, going to a florist and pulling out a credit card.”

Jack chuckles. “Note to self—never buy Rowan roses.”

“I love flowers,” I say, dreamier than I intend. “I just don’t want them from someone new. I’d much rather have them from someone who knows me and what I like. Not someone trying to impress me… not that men generally try to impress me. Most avoid me.”

“Fuck them. They’re idiots.”

My brow creeps up. “Not all of us are lucky enough to have a contact list full of sex buddies.”

“You consider that lucky?” He leans up, petting Edgar, who has plopped between us.

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