Professor Feelgood (Page 54)

After she leaves, I close the door and turn to Jake.

His hands are in his pockets and his shoulders are hunched. “We need to get moving. Grab your stuff.”

I take in his change in tone. “Wait, are you pissed Mrs. Levine called the cops on you? Because it will probably happen again. Next time, just say you’re Rock Hudson and be done with it.”

He doesn’t look at me. “Asha, we’re running late. Let’s go.”

“Okay.” I head into my bedroom and slip on my shoes, but when I go to grab my clutch, I stop short. The stack of notebooks is uncovered, and one of them is lying on the bed.

Oh, God, no.

I remember the day I’d scrawled the title onto the front cover with a thick black Sharpie. “100 THINGS I HATE ABOUT JACOB STONE.” It was the day I’d finally accepted that my former best friend was gone forever. I’d bawled my eyes out. I’d cried not only because I missed him so much everything hurt, but because I knew … I knew I could have fixed it if I’d tried. If I’d done things differently. If I’d stopped being afraid.

“I’m surprised you could only come up with a hundred.” I turn to see Jake standing in the doorway, his face half covered in shadow. “Or is there a sequel in that pile somewhere?”

A hum of anxiety starts in my veins. This book was for my eyes only. It was a private confessional. Self-hypnosis.

“How much did you read?”

He goes over and picks it up. “I’ve only skimmed it, but that was enough.” He grips it so hard, the cover warps. I want to snatch it from him and burn it, but the damage is already done.

“Jake, I can explain.” Can you? a bitter voice whispers. You can barely admit the truth to yourself, let alone him.

He flips the book open. “Number one: I hate his face. The way he’s able to make every expression some kind of sneer. Two: His eyes. Not even brown anymore. Just purest black, like his soul. Three: His stupid, smart mouth. Always spewing putdowns and sarcasm. I want to slap him most days. Smack his words back behind his lips. Make him bleed.” He glances up at me. “This goes on for a while. You don’t address my fingernails, but other than that, you cover all my physical traits.”

“Jake ––”

“Don’t stop me now. After that you really hit your stride.” He flips forward a few pages. “Number twenty-seven: I hate the way he stares at me, like a serial killer dreaming about peeling the skin from his victim. Doesn’t he know he’s already flayed me to the bone? How can he not understand that because of him, I’m just a giant walking wound?”

“Jake, stop.”

“Wait, I’m getting to my favorite one.” His anger is showing in his voice, and his movements are jerky and stiff. “Number thirty-three: I hate his heart. His black, withered, toxic heart that is incapable of love and compassion.” He pauses and clenches his jaw, eyes trained on the page. “No wonder he doesn’t have any friends. Who the hell would want to hang around with that worthless, remorseless monster?” My throat closes when he looks up at me. I’ve seen him in pain before, but nothing like this. His expression is a portrait of hurt and betrayal.

“Worthless, remorseless monster.” He says it softly, with an air of reverence. “Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever really understood how much you hated me until now.”

I take a step forward, desperate to explain. “Jake, that’s not what I … All that stuff, it’s not even real. When I wrote it, I was young, and bitter, and … stupid. It felt good to just spew garbage onto the pages. It helped me breathe. Didn’t you ever write nasty things about me during that time?”

“No.” He drops the book onto the bed. “I was angry with you. I never hated you.” He stares at me for a few seconds, as if he’s going to say something else. Then he breaks eye contact and turns toward the door. “Let’s go. We’re going to be late. The car is waiting outside.” He walks out into the living room.

“Jake … wait …”

By the time I grab my bag, and hurry into the hallway, the front door is open, and he’s gone.

EIGHTEEN

____________________

Eventful

AS WE HEAD INTO THE hotel, I struggle to keep up with Jake’s long strides. The ride over was quiet and tense. I apologized several times and tried to draw him into conversation, but he just stared out the window and gave one-syllable answers.

I feel sick that he read that journal, but right now we have a job to do, and I intend to make sure we do it well.

I check Sid’s email and move as quickly as my heels allow. “Sid’s advice for photos is to not move too much. You don’t have to smile, but if you do, make sure it’s sincere. If you’re asked questions, only answer the ones you’re comfortable with. If you choose to not answer, be polite about it.”

“Got it.”

“If you have any problems, just look at me, and I’ll intervene.”

He stops suddenly and holds out his arm for me. I look at it in surprise.

“Just take it,” he says. “Watching you gallop after me like a baby giraffe is annoying.”

I slip my arm through his and ignore the tingles that break out as we continue at a more subdued pace.

“Eden and Max have also included you in some fun activities, and Sid wants you to participate. There’ll be photographers circling all night, and he wants you to be in the mix.”

“Great. Do I have to look like I’m enjoying myself?”

“Preferably.”

“Then you’d better keep the alcohol coming.”

When we reach the red carpet outside of the ballroom, I’m staggered by the number of people milling around. There’s a sea of gowns and dinner suits, and the excitement and energy is palpable.

“Shit,” Jake says under his breath. “You want me to wade into that? I can’t undergo some nice waterboarding instead?”

I squeeze his arm. “You’ll be fine. Just stay calm.”

“So I shouldn’t stare at them like a serial killer dreaming about ripping off their skin? Damn.”

His sarcasm is at an all-time high, and I can’t say I blame him. If I’d read something that nasty about myself, I’d be pissed, too. It’s just one more layer of crap we’ve never talked about, and it feels like our tumultuous emotional weather pattern is brewing into a hurricane.

When one of the red-carpet wranglers sees us, she guides Jake to stand in front of a Romance Central marquee. As soon as he’s there, the flashbulbs go berserk. There are paparazzi everywhere, and Sid must have worked his magic in priming them about Professor Feelgood, because right away, people are yelling his name.

“Jacob! To your left! Turn left, pal! Come on, Jacob!”

“Professor Feelgood! Right here! More to the right! Great! Hold it there!”

After some initial squinting at the barrage of flashes, Jake handles the attention surprisingly well. He composes himself and slides his hands into his pockets like a pro. For someone who’s never been in this kind of environment before, I’m impressed with how patiently he poses and takes direction.

“This way now! Jacob! Over here!”

I hover behind him, trying to seem professional and in control. Inwardly, I’m freaking out. Everywhere I look, there are famous people. Right now, Jake is sharing the red carpet with three Oscar winners, two-Grammy Award-winning recording artists, and an ex-first lady. I knew Max had a bunch of high-profile clients, but this is ridiculous.