Professor Feelgood (Page 44)

I don’t, but some sick part of me enjoys seeing Jake become uptight about his brother. They always had a fierce rivalry, and when Jeremy and I started dating, it only got worse.

“I’m vaguely interested.”

In a second, all of Jake’s vulnerability is gone. He stands and walks over to the milk crate storage unit, his movements sharp. “You seriously want to discuss my stepbrother? We had a pact to never talk about him again.”

“We’re not discussing him. I’m just wondering if you two ever mended your relationship.”

“No, but that’s because he’s a garbage human, something that was reinforced to us both on prom night. Or did you block out the part where we found him fucking my girlfriend? Your friend.”

My stomach tightens. Just one of the many memories I’ve blocked out.

I never did find out exactly how long Jeremy had been cheating on me with Shelley, but part of me didn’t want to know. I felt stupid enough not realizing they were jumping each other right under my nose. Under Jake’s nose, too.

Jake was even more furious than I was. He and Shelley had been dating for a few months, and even though I never got the impression she was the love of his life, I know he had real feelings for her. I wasn’t surprised when Jeremy came to school with two black eyes and a broken nose the next day. In fact, I got sick satisfaction from it. Jake also had his fair share of cuts and bruises, but if you stood him and his brother side by side, you could tell Jake came out on top.

“Is he still in New York?” I ask. “Or did he and his mom move back to Michigan?”

He shoves the collection of pictures back into their box. “I’m not talking about Jeremy with you.” He stops and fixes me with a challenging stare. “Are we done here?” The set of his jaw makes me turn away and change the subject.

“I guess. Did you finish the writing exercise?”

He walks back to the living room and slumps into his chair. “Yes. If you consider finishing as having come up with a bunch of crap.”

I walk over to the couch. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think.” From everything I’ve seen so far, he’s incapable of writing trash.

I pick up the notebook and read his paragraph aloud. “Once upon a time, a bossy queen tortured a sweet, innocent prince by forcing him to dredge up painful memories from his past. The prince tried to do as he was told, but every word felt like his pen was made of razor blades, and he was slicing the bitter truth straight into his heart. In the end, the prince gave up his excruciating self-evaluation and went and made himself a sandwich. The end.”

I lower the notebook. “Really?”

He shrugs. “I’m hungry. It’s a swing and a miss.”

I rub my temples. Another headache is brewing, and this time it has nothing to do with my injury.

FOURTEEN

____________________

Snark and Smart-Assery

I STRIKE MY RED PEN through the tenth consecutive page of Jake’s half-hearted ramblings and throw the notebook onto the coffee table. “Dammit, Jake, stop screwing around! I don’t want snark and smart-assery! I need you to focus and get in touch with whatever well of awesomeness you usually tap into when you write.”

“I don’t usually have a fucking audience, and I only do it when the mood hits me! Right now, you’re expecting me to get a literary boner with a penis-eating Rottweiler standing over me.”

I stand and put my hands on my hips. “Don’t call me a dog!”

He stands, too. “Then stop barking at me!”

Our voices ring loudly in the empty space, and I take a breath to calm myself. We’re both feeling the pressure of uncharted waters, but I’m the one who’s supposed to be steering this ship. Right now, I’m aiming us at a giant iceberg.

“Okay,” I say, as I take my seat and try to shed some tension. “Let’s both just take a break.” I flip to a fresh page and put the notebook back on the table. “Would it help you concentrate if I left the apartment?”

Jake rubs his eyes and sits on the edge of his chair. “I don’t know. Maybe.” He looks over at me, frustrated. “This writing-on-command thing isn’t easy, you know. Have you ever tried it?”

“No,” I say, “but I’m not the writer here. You are.”

“Bullshit. You’ve written more words than I ever have.”

A mental image of the notebooks in my closet flits through my mind. “Why do you say that?”

“Did you think I never saw you scribbling away during study hall or in classes when you’d breezed through all the work and had time to spare? I always wondered what you were writing about.”

I feel creeping discomfort knowing my secret writing habit hadn’t been so secret after all. “Nothing. Juvenile stuff.” At the time, it had seemed important and big. If I didn’t purge how I was feeling into those pages, I felt like I’d explode. I guess it’s similar to what Jake said yesterday about his emotions choking him. Writing it down helped. I just never considered posting my stuff online like he did.

“Having you watch over me is the problem,” Jake says. “What if we both tried to write something? We could set a time limit, get as many words down as possible, and then check out each other’s work, quid pro quo style.”

I get simultaneous shivers of excitement and dread. This is a wonderfully terrible idea. “Once again, this is the part where I remind you I’m not a writer.”

“Then you have nothing to lose. Just think of it as a technique for motivating your author. Slap some words on a page in an attempt to show me how it’s done.”

I must admit, the idea of challenging myself around Jake is enticing. Right now, I feel like all the respect in our relationship is tipped in his favor. It might make it easier to whip him if he respects the hand holding the leather.

“Okay,” I say, becoming excited about limbering up my creative muscles. “You’re on. Give me a prompt.”

“How about the day we met?” He seems sincere, but I know there must be more to this. Nothing is ever that simple with Jake.

“Wouldn’t that be boring reading considering you were there?”

“True, but I want to see how you remember it. If your truth stacks up to mine.”

And there it is. He’s testing me.

“You’re so sure that your version of our history is the right one,” he says, making the challenge clearer. “Prove it. Put it in writing.”

I know very well this is a trap, but I’m also aware I can’t refuse without him calling me out. So, despite my better judgment, I hold out my hand.

“Deal.” He looks at my hand for a second before reaching out and clasping it. We both seem shocked by the contact. Yesterday, we shook hands in the meeting because it was required. This time, it’s voluntary and it feels alien and confronting. When we pull back, we glance away.

“Time limit?” I swallow and open a new document.

“Ten minutes.” He pulls the notebook off the table and props it up on his thigh. “Prepare to have your ass beaten.”

“Title of your sex tape,” I say, quoting my favorite comedy show. I watch him bring up a timer on his phone. “Aaaand, go.”

He taps the start button then leans over the notebook and gets off to a cracking start.

Okay, wow. This is working.