Emily Franklin - Principles Of Love 06 - Labor Of Love by Emily Franklin
Book: Emily Franklin - Principles Of Love 06 - Labor Of Love by Emily Franklin
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Authors: Emily Franklin
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laugh."I mean, I get that you met her in Switzerland and that it's not affected there--that is, in fact, the correct pronunciation since she's French and all." I pause."And phenomenal looking, by the way."
"Yes--true on both fronts. But from now on I shall refer to her as Juliet.As in that song."
"Dire Straits?" I ask even though I'm perfectly aware of what he means.
"Yeah." Jacob stands up and holds on to the metal pole of the bumper car and switches to a jaunty pink one."How's this?"
"Suits you," I say."So . . . you were saying . . ."
"Right." He sits in the car, which is next to mine, and we look like we're about to drag race, but the minivehicles are motionless. The sunlight slips further down behind the trees. Soon it will be dark and I will be here, with my old boyfriend, my old friend, my old something, talking. Is it too intimate? Is this wrong, considering Charlie's place in my life? Worry creeps in for a bit, but then I push it away.This is
&%, :b^an;gVc`a^c
okay.This is just talk.This is necessary."So, Love, we had this pact--you and I.We'd be friends. Only for a while it didn't really feel that way. And then, at Crescent--which I realize is an ironic place, given the fact that we split up there after sophomore year . . ."
I nod."Over Chris. Remember that? You were all huffy, thinking I was fooling around with him on the dunes while really he was trying desperately to come out to me."
Jacob holds up his hands. "Stop--I know. Believe me, it took an entire summer and fall for me to get past feeling like a total dickhead. I was young. Jealous.The usual crap."
"And now? What's the story?" I ask and stand up to trade my green car for white. "Hey, I'm in the lovebug. Heh. I adored those movies when I was little. Aunt Mable used to play them for me. Herbie the Lovebug. Herbie Goes Bananas. But I digress."
"You're the writer--you tell me what our story is." His eyes rest on mine while he tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. His dark curls are softer now, less coiled than I remem ber, giving his whole appearance a gentleness that sets me at ease.
"Why would you say that? That I'm a writer . . ." I feel as though it's something I'm just figuring out myself.That he has given me that classification feels funny.
"I didn't think it was any surprise. I mean, you've writ
&%- AVWdgd[AdkZ
ten lyrics for ages. Good ones. Believe me, I've tried and I've read other people's, and the majority suck. And I figured with your journals . . ." He looks away. "The ones in your room . . ."
"I know which ones you mean." I picture the stacks of them tilting this way, unsteady, threatening to topple over and open up for the world to see. Or maybe this is a meta phor for me. I stand up and so does Jacob. Before we say anything else we simultaneously move to the bright blue bumper car in the center of all the others.
Standing side by side, we pause, and then squish next to each other, with me at the wheel. "So I'm driving?" I ask, putting my hands on the black circle.
"You are driving this . . . figuratively and literally." His shoulder touches mine. Our legs touch, too, my bare skin against his jeans. There are marks on the jeans--a phone number written in red marker, a splotch of something. Sud denly I need to know what these are. And suddenly just decide to tell him. "See this? I like, have to know whose number that is and why you have it.And the stain?" I touch it just for a moment, then pull my finger away."Was it grape juice? Liquor? Mustard?"
"Does it look like mustard?" Jacob's voice is deadpan. He always cracks me up. I start laughing but then continue.
"Do you get what I'm saying, Jacob? For all intents
&%. :b^an;gVc`a^c
and purposes, we're not much--not really friends, as you said. And certainly not more . . ." I look at him as I say this and catch his gaze directly. In the small space, I can feel his breath, watch the rise and fall of his chest through his shirt. He could kiss me now. Or I could
"Yes--true on both fronts. But from now on I shall refer to her as Juliet.As in that song."
"Dire Straits?" I ask even though I'm perfectly aware of what he means.
"Yeah." Jacob stands up and holds on to the metal pole of the bumper car and switches to a jaunty pink one."How's this?"
"Suits you," I say."So . . . you were saying . . ."
"Right." He sits in the car, which is next to mine, and we look like we're about to drag race, but the minivehicles are motionless. The sunlight slips further down behind the trees. Soon it will be dark and I will be here, with my old boyfriend, my old friend, my old something, talking. Is it too intimate? Is this wrong, considering Charlie's place in my life? Worry creeps in for a bit, but then I push it away.This is
&%, :b^an;gVc`a^c
okay.This is just talk.This is necessary."So, Love, we had this pact--you and I.We'd be friends. Only for a while it didn't really feel that way. And then, at Crescent--which I realize is an ironic place, given the fact that we split up there after sophomore year . . ."
I nod."Over Chris. Remember that? You were all huffy, thinking I was fooling around with him on the dunes while really he was trying desperately to come out to me."
Jacob holds up his hands. "Stop--I know. Believe me, it took an entire summer and fall for me to get past feeling like a total dickhead. I was young. Jealous.The usual crap."
"And now? What's the story?" I ask and stand up to trade my green car for white. "Hey, I'm in the lovebug. Heh. I adored those movies when I was little. Aunt Mable used to play them for me. Herbie the Lovebug. Herbie Goes Bananas. But I digress."
"You're the writer--you tell me what our story is." His eyes rest on mine while he tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. His dark curls are softer now, less coiled than I remem ber, giving his whole appearance a gentleness that sets me at ease.
"Why would you say that? That I'm a writer . . ." I feel as though it's something I'm just figuring out myself.That he has given me that classification feels funny.
"I didn't think it was any surprise. I mean, you've writ
&%- AVWdgd[AdkZ
ten lyrics for ages. Good ones. Believe me, I've tried and I've read other people's, and the majority suck. And I figured with your journals . . ." He looks away. "The ones in your room . . ."
"I know which ones you mean." I picture the stacks of them tilting this way, unsteady, threatening to topple over and open up for the world to see. Or maybe this is a meta phor for me. I stand up and so does Jacob. Before we say anything else we simultaneously move to the bright blue bumper car in the center of all the others.
Standing side by side, we pause, and then squish next to each other, with me at the wheel. "So I'm driving?" I ask, putting my hands on the black circle.
"You are driving this . . . figuratively and literally." His shoulder touches mine. Our legs touch, too, my bare skin against his jeans. There are marks on the jeans--a phone number written in red marker, a splotch of something. Sud denly I need to know what these are. And suddenly just decide to tell him. "See this? I like, have to know whose number that is and why you have it.And the stain?" I touch it just for a moment, then pull my finger away."Was it grape juice? Liquor? Mustard?"
"Does it look like mustard?" Jacob's voice is deadpan. He always cracks me up. I start laughing but then continue.
"Do you get what I'm saying, Jacob? For all intents
&%. :b^an;gVc`a^c
and purposes, we're not much--not really friends, as you said. And certainly not more . . ." I look at him as I say this and catch his gaze directly. In the small space, I can feel his breath, watch the rise and fall of his chest through his shirt. He could kiss me now. Or I could
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