The Truth About Jack (Entangled Crush) by Jody Gehrman Page B

living is that art thrives when it’s fed by love and togetherness. I want to believe that—who doesn’t? Lately, though, the evidence for such hippie-dippie idealism is pretty scarce.
    That night, back in my yurt, I find myself drawing a very detailed portrait of Alejandro—the way he looks in my head, anyway. Having a guy you like on paper is totally different from having a real, flesh and blood boyfriend. During the long stretches between letters, you can fill that empty space with fantasies and daydreams. He can be whoever you want him to be. He never annoys you by saying careless, insensitive things and he never disappoints.
    I do miss flesh and blood kisses, though. Cody was an excellent kisser. Like me, he wasn’t all that experienced, but I found that kind of reassuring. His lips were soft and warm, and he’d always pull back to study my expression before he slipped his hands under my bra, making sure each move he made was what I wanted, not just rushing ahead blindly. We didn’t take it any further than under-the-clothes fondling, but if he hadn’t moved away so early in our relationship, I’m pretty sure we would have gone all the way. We talked about it a couple times, about sharing that together, the first time for both of us. Now I’m so glad we didn’t. Knowing I’d lost my virginity to someone who couldn’t keep his hands off my best friend would have made everything a thousand times worse.
    I gaze at my portrait of Alejandro and sigh. Maybe that’s why I’m so into him, because boys who only exist on paper can’t hurt you. Between my mom’s abrupt decision to cut me out of her life and the shock of Cody and River getting together, I need a reprieve from real life. I need a fantasy boyfriend who will tantalize from afar and never, ever, make out with my best friend.

Chapter Twelve
    Dakota
    The tall, dark-eyed guy who took my raspberry scone recommendation yesterday sits in the same corner today. My gaze slides over him, then returns, caught by the eerie intensity in his face. His high, sharply defined cheekbones and his well-defined jaw make him look like the hero from a gothic novel. I notice he’s got a half-eaten raspberry scone sitting before him, which makes me smile. The tension in his jaw tells me he’s not enjoying it much, though. He’s brooding. There’s just no other word for it. He’s sitting there, staring into his coffee like he expects some sinister message to emerge from the steam . He’s got no phone, no computer, not even a book to distract him, unlike everyone else in the place. He just sits there with his hands wrapped around his cup, staring into the inky black coffee.
    Last winter, Fran and I read Wuthering Heights together as part of my homeschooling. I fell madly in love with Heathcliff, a seriously hot bad boy brooder. We spent hours talking about his dark magnetism, which I doubt they do in regular English classes, but hey, we do things Luna Cove–style. Right now this guy looks so pensive and moody he would give Heathcliff a run for his money.
    He glances up and catches my eye. Something flickers there, behind the lone wolf frown, something lightning-quick and bright as fireworks. Before I can respond, though, he ducks his head, his gaze falling into his coffee again. It’s like he’s determined to hide that rogue impulse, that raw, little boy happiness.
    Is it possible that seeing me sparked that? Come on, Dakota, get a grip. Delusions of grandeur much?
    I’m in a slightly delusional mood, though, feeling feisty and inspired. I spent all morning arranging objects on my corkboard, planning out my geisha sculpture. Now the board is groaning with origami cranes in every hue, scraps of Japanese floral silks, bright red rope tied into elaborate obi knots. My geisha will be five feet tall. Her body will be chicken wire covered with a patchwork kimono I plan to stitch from thrift store blouses, skirts, and tablecloths. Her face, hands, and feet will be made of