Beautiful Player
Page 2
Clearly, I hadn’t succeeded.
“I know I’m overbearing,” Jensen whispered.
“A bit,” I agreed.
“And I know I meddle.”
I gave him a knowing look, whispering, “You’re my own personal Athena Poliás.”
“Except I’m not Greek and I have a penis.”
“I try to forget about that.”
Jensen sighed and, finally, Dad seemed to get that this was meant to be a two-man job. They’d both come down to visit me, and although it had seemed a strange combination for a random visit in February, I hadn’t given it much thought until now. Dad put his arm around me, squeezing. His arms were long and thin, but he’d always had the viselike grip of a man much stronger than he looked. “Ziggs, you’re a good kid.”
I smiled at Dad’s version of an elaborate pep talk. “Thanks.”
Jensen added, “You know we love you.”
“I love you, too. Mostly.”
“But . . . consider this an intervention. You’re addicted to work. You’re addicted to whatever fast track you think you need your career to follow. Maybe I always take over and micromanage your life—”
“Maybe?” I cut in. “You dictated everything from when Mom and Dad took the training wheels off my bike to when my curfew could be extended past sunset. And you didn’t even live at home anymore, Jens. I was sixteen.”
He stilled me with a look. “I swear I’m not going to tell you what to do just . . .” He trailed off, looking around as if someone nearby might be holding up a sign prompting the end of his sentence. Asking Jensen to keep from micromanaging was like asking anyone else to stop breathing for ten short minutes. “Just call someone.”
“?‘Someone’? Jensen, your point is that I have no friends. It’s not exactly true, but who do you imagine I should call to initiate this whole get-out-and-live thing? Another grad student who’s just as buried in research as I am? We’re in biomedical engineering. It’s not exactly a thriving mass of socialites.”
He closed his eyes, staring up at the ceiling before something seemed to occur to him. His eyebrows rose when he looked back to me, hope filling his eyes with an irresistible brotherly tenderness. “What about Will?”
I snatched the untouched champagne flute from Dad’s hand and downed it.I didn’t need Jensen to repeat himself. Will Sumner was Jensen’s college best friend, Dad’s former intern, and the object of every one of my teenage fantasies. Whereas I had always been the friendly, nerdy kid sister, Will was the bad-boy genius with the crooked smile, pierced ears, and blue eyes that seemed to hypnotize every girl he met.
When I was twelve, Will was nineteen, and he came home with Jensen for a few days around Christmas. He was dirty, and—even then—delicious, jamming on his bass in the garage with Jensen and playfully flirting away the holidays with my older sister, Liv. When I was sixteen, he was a fresh college graduate and lived with us over the summer while he worked for my father. He exuded such raw, sexual charisma that I gave my virginity to a fumbling, forgettable boy in my class, trying to relieve the ache I felt just being near Will.
I was pretty sure my sister had at least kissed him—and Will was too old for me anyway—but behind closed doors, and in the secret space of my own heart, I could admit that Will Sumner was the first boy I’d ever wanted to kiss, and the first boy who eventually drove me to slip my hand under the sheets, thinking of him in the darkness of my own room.
Of his devilish playful smile and the hair that continually fell over his right eye.
Of his smooth, muscled forearms and tan skin.
Of his long fingers, and even the little scar on his chin.
When the boys my age all sounded the same, Will’s voice was deep, and quiet. His eyes were patient and knowing. His hands weren’t ever restless and fidgety; they were usually resting deep in his pockets. He licked his lips when he looked at girls, and he made quiet, confident comments about br**sts and legs and tongues.
I blinked, looking up at Jensen. I wasn’t sixteen anymore. I was twenty-four, and Will was thirty-one. I’d seen him four years before at Jensen’s ill-fated wedding, and his quiet, charismatic smile had only grown more intense, more maddening. I’d watched, fascinated, as Will slipped away into a coatroom with two of my sister-in-law’s bridesmaids.
“Call him,” Jensen urged now, pulling me from my memories. “He has a good balance of work and life. He’s local, he’s a good guy. Just . . . get out some, okay? He’ll take care of you.”
“I know I’m overbearing,” Jensen whispered.
“A bit,” I agreed.
“And I know I meddle.”
I gave him a knowing look, whispering, “You’re my own personal Athena Poliás.”
“Except I’m not Greek and I have a penis.”
“I try to forget about that.”
Jensen sighed and, finally, Dad seemed to get that this was meant to be a two-man job. They’d both come down to visit me, and although it had seemed a strange combination for a random visit in February, I hadn’t given it much thought until now. Dad put his arm around me, squeezing. His arms were long and thin, but he’d always had the viselike grip of a man much stronger than he looked. “Ziggs, you’re a good kid.”
I smiled at Dad’s version of an elaborate pep talk. “Thanks.”
Jensen added, “You know we love you.”
“I love you, too. Mostly.”
“But . . . consider this an intervention. You’re addicted to work. You’re addicted to whatever fast track you think you need your career to follow. Maybe I always take over and micromanage your life—”
“Maybe?” I cut in. “You dictated everything from when Mom and Dad took the training wheels off my bike to when my curfew could be extended past sunset. And you didn’t even live at home anymore, Jens. I was sixteen.”
He stilled me with a look. “I swear I’m not going to tell you what to do just . . .” He trailed off, looking around as if someone nearby might be holding up a sign prompting the end of his sentence. Asking Jensen to keep from micromanaging was like asking anyone else to stop breathing for ten short minutes. “Just call someone.”
“?‘Someone’? Jensen, your point is that I have no friends. It’s not exactly true, but who do you imagine I should call to initiate this whole get-out-and-live thing? Another grad student who’s just as buried in research as I am? We’re in biomedical engineering. It’s not exactly a thriving mass of socialites.”
He closed his eyes, staring up at the ceiling before something seemed to occur to him. His eyebrows rose when he looked back to me, hope filling his eyes with an irresistible brotherly tenderness. “What about Will?”
I snatched the untouched champagne flute from Dad’s hand and downed it.I didn’t need Jensen to repeat himself. Will Sumner was Jensen’s college best friend, Dad’s former intern, and the object of every one of my teenage fantasies. Whereas I had always been the friendly, nerdy kid sister, Will was the bad-boy genius with the crooked smile, pierced ears, and blue eyes that seemed to hypnotize every girl he met.
When I was twelve, Will was nineteen, and he came home with Jensen for a few days around Christmas. He was dirty, and—even then—delicious, jamming on his bass in the garage with Jensen and playfully flirting away the holidays with my older sister, Liv. When I was sixteen, he was a fresh college graduate and lived with us over the summer while he worked for my father. He exuded such raw, sexual charisma that I gave my virginity to a fumbling, forgettable boy in my class, trying to relieve the ache I felt just being near Will.
I was pretty sure my sister had at least kissed him—and Will was too old for me anyway—but behind closed doors, and in the secret space of my own heart, I could admit that Will Sumner was the first boy I’d ever wanted to kiss, and the first boy who eventually drove me to slip my hand under the sheets, thinking of him in the darkness of my own room.
Of his devilish playful smile and the hair that continually fell over his right eye.
Of his smooth, muscled forearms and tan skin.
Of his long fingers, and even the little scar on his chin.
When the boys my age all sounded the same, Will’s voice was deep, and quiet. His eyes were patient and knowing. His hands weren’t ever restless and fidgety; they were usually resting deep in his pockets. He licked his lips when he looked at girls, and he made quiet, confident comments about br**sts and legs and tongues.
I blinked, looking up at Jensen. I wasn’t sixteen anymore. I was twenty-four, and Will was thirty-one. I’d seen him four years before at Jensen’s ill-fated wedding, and his quiet, charismatic smile had only grown more intense, more maddening. I’d watched, fascinated, as Will slipped away into a coatroom with two of my sister-in-law’s bridesmaids.
“Call him,” Jensen urged now, pulling me from my memories. “He has a good balance of work and life. He’s local, he’s a good guy. Just . . . get out some, okay? He’ll take care of you.”
