My breath catches in my throat. “Jay . . .” I don’t even know where to start. “It wasn’t like that.”
His dark eyes pierce right through me, stopping me from saying more. “Your turn,” he says, leaning back a bit, which lets me breathe easier. “Tell me what you thought of me when you first met me. Be honest.”
I’m not sure I can even do that after what he said, but I force myself to focus, to think back to that day on the cliff and our failure of a date. “I thought you were a jerk. A hot jerk, but a jerk nonetheless. You took one look at me and told me I didn’t belong there, that I wasn’t good enough for you and your friends, that I wasn’t even good enough for my own friends. You threatened to throw me off a cliff to make a point, you’ve gone out of your way to be a giant asshole ever since, and you know exactly how to piss me off. I hate how you read me so easily. I hate that you know exactly what gets under my skin.”
He nods, not offended in the slightest. “And now?”
“Now what?”
“How do you feel about me now?”
“Am I supposed to say I don’t think you’re an asshole anymore? Because I totally do.”
He gives a surprised laugh, and any tension that might’ve been in the air is broken.
“Well, I did just pay two hundred eighty-two dollars and fifty-nine cents, plus tip, for a nice steak dinner for you and your sunglasses-wearing, drug-dealing, bill-skipping boyfriend.”
I nudge him with my shoulder though I can’t stop from laughing. “He’s not my boyfriend! And fine. I’ll give you that; that was totally a non-asshole move.”
“Good,” he says. “So tell me. What do you think about me now? Other than the fact that I’m an asshole.”
WhatdoI think about Jay? Sometimes it feels like I can’t decide.
“If I’m being honest, all of my datessucked, ours included. But the date with Arthur and the date with Chad sucked less because of you. You’ve saved my ass a bunch of times, even though you acted like it killed you to do so, but I appreciate it nonetheless. You coach your little sister’s soccer team and stomached a date with me, someone you hated, for her. You help a bunch of terrified ninth graders feel comfortable with the new math curriculum for free, and you don’t allow the Preston Whitmores of the world to be assholes to people you care about.” I think about the way he acts with me, then continue, “You know how to piss me off but make me laugh in the same breath, and you have an intimate knowledge of my obsessive panty-to-outfit matching, which, like I said, both pisses me off and makes me laugh. You brought me here when no one else would, even though I didn’t ask you to, and even though you clearly don’t care about any of the art. I guess what I’m saying is, I don’t completely hate you; you’re kind of cool. And I’m glad we’re . . . friends?” It comes out as a question, because he hasn’t confirmed it after I said it earlier.
Jay gives nothing away as he nods thoughtfully. “See? Don’t you feel better now?”
I consider it, consider the words shared between us, the words I didn’t hold back, the honest conversation we had with each other. We’ve cleared the air between us, and now I know exactly how he feels, and he knows exactly how I feel. “Yeah. I do, actually.”
He nods. “Good. Now just do that with your friends.”
It would be nice to feel this with all my relationships, but I’m not sure I can be that honest with Kalani, or even Emi. Not everyone is like Jay, who prompts honesty no matter what, whom conversation flows easily with, and who always pulls the truth out of me. I’m not sure it would be this easy with my friends, and the thought makes me sad.
“Your turn,” I say. “What do you think about me now?”
Jay doesn’t answer, instead turning to the canvas in front of us. This one is splattered with different shades of pink, and a bunch of shapes are painted on top with no real rhyme or reason in different colors.
“What do you think it means?” Jay asks, tilting his head and leaning forward a bit.
“Again, it’s not supposed to mean anything. The real question is, how does it make youfeel?”
He settles in his seat and rests his arm on the back of the bench. It’s so close to being around my shoulders that my heart stutters and my breath hitches. I tuck myself into his jacket and try not to consciously think about his spicy, fresh smell surrounding me from all angles.
“Maybe Boscoe will come back next year. Then you’ll have more insight after a year of school and you can explain it to me,” Jay says, tilting his head the other way as if he was missing something at that specific angle.
“Why would a year of business help me understand this painting?”
His head snaps over to look at me. “Business? You’re not taking art?”
The way he’s studying me makes me blush, so I pull some hair from behind my ear and let it hang between us as a curtain as I stare straight ahead.
“Nope. Business at Toronto Metropolitan.”
“Huh. I would’ve thought you wanted to do art.”
“I do, you just have to be really good at it, and I’m . . . not?” It comes out unsure and as a question when Jay lifts an eyebrow at me.
“You don’t seriously believe that.”