“I do,” I assured him. And I did. I just wish they could have been happier together for a while longer.
“So when are you coming up here, Sprinkles? It's beautiful with the leaves changing. You could bring Ethan. . . stay the weekend,” he suggested.
“I thought I'd wait and come up with Gemma the week of Thanksgiving. No school.”
“That'd be fine, but nothin' says you can't come twice. It's only about an hour's drive up here, you know.”
“I know.” I also knew I should make a better effort. “Let me look at my calendar. Definite maybe, how's that?”
“I'll take it!” he said. “Maybe your mother wants to come, with her history professor,” he offered.
“I'll see,” I promised. “Have a great day, Dad!”
“See you, Sprinkles.”
I clicked off and sat staring into the middle distance, thinking about happily-ever-afters and the alternative, until the morning's coffee took effect and I had to pee.
And then I slipped back into the journal for just one more passage. . . .
Â
I confess I'm no longer certain that this diary was the well-intentioned gift I'd imagined. I'd wondered at Olivine's insistence that I refrain from pursuing any scientific journaling in this little book, but rather save it for my own personal thoughts and opinions. She knew I wasn't the type to indulge myself in a running commentary on daily life, but then quite suddenly, I was. I certainly don't claim to understand what has happened to my first, vaguely incriminating, diary entry, nor can I explain the odd nature in which a few words remain, and rather coincidentally (when read in order all at once) form a strange bit of advice. Advice, it just so happens, I've taken, without intending.
We came upon each other unexpectedly in the rose garden. The rain had been pummeling down for what seemed like days on end, so when the sun fleetingly made an appearance, I slipped out to enjoy it. It seems he had the same idea. And seeing as neither of us cared to relinquish the opportunity for a sliver of sunlight and a walk in the dewy air, we resolved politely to endure each other's company.
Turns out he is surprisingly sufferable after all. We very deliberately didn't discuss the war or my studies, keeping our conversation confined to common interests, of which, funnily enough, there are many. We both adore horses and love to ride, so it wasn't long before we agreed to abandon the garden in favor of the stables. We were late in to dinner, brushing the hay from our bums, having spent the entire afternoon having a cozy little chat. It was quite embarrassing to be teased over doing something else entirely. I felt the flush warm my whole body.
His eyes are a murky, almost turbulent green, as if they're changing color before your eyes . . . and perhaps they are. And his passionate nature, when not set up in opposition against me, was rather arresting, appealing even. I confess, I almost wish my visit was to be longer than originally intended. I simply need to get refocused. The country air is making me feel giddy and utterly irresponsible.
Â
I would have loved to have pushed on and discovered what Gypsy Jane had in store for these two, but enough was enough! Between the fascinating real stories and the fortune-teller-style advice, this journal had the potential to become a
tremendous
time suck. Which reminded me, I was currently in limbo. . . .
I carefully closed the journal and twisted out the key, riveted by the shrinkage. And then, just as carefully, I paged forward until I came to the latest word from Gypsy Jane.
Â
There are secrets, and then There's Clueless
Â
I sat for a moment and considered, trying to hit on an interpretation that wasn't a jab at my prowess at sleuthing or awareness . . . or
something.
It was a little ironic, or perhaps apropos, that I'd used the term “clueless.” Here I was, embroiled in a matchmaking scheme, falling for the wrong men, i.e., the Darcys of the world, finagling my mother's love lifeânot to mention teaching
Emma
to my seniorsâhell, I
was Clueless.
I hadn't realized how very much my life was beginning to mirror the novel . . . or the Hollywood adaptation.
I smirked at the thought of Paul Rudd playing Ethan, but quickly sobered. Ethan was not my Mr. Knightley. I closed the book, full up on Jane for the moment, and decided to go out. I needed groceries unless I wanted to spend the week eating bagels and hummus, and I wanted to pick up a couple of things before the evening's Scrabble match, assuming there would still be one. I could make dinner, but that might be awkward, while a pizza delivery was likely to snap things back to normal in a hurry. I'd just check in with Ethan.
I wasn't ready to talk, even over the phone yet, so I texted him:
Â
Still on for tonight?
Â
His reply, when it came back, was as casual as mine:
Â
Yep.
Â
I bit my lip, relieved. Now I had about seven hours to dispense with any hurt feelings, grudges, awkwardness, and all-around cluelessness. I slipped on jeans and a sweater and my favorite scarf and stepped out the door into the crisp autumn sunshine, feeling suddenly giddy and irresponsible.
Â
When Ethan walked around the corner and onto the patio, I was ready for him. I had the Scrabble board all laid out, a couple of microbrews on ice, and Groucho Marx glasses, complete with plastic nose, perched on my face.
Ethan broke into a grin, just as I'd hoped, and immediately plunked down a peace offering of his own: the CIA mug from this morning filled with autumn-toned ranuncula. My heart tripped on an excess of sentimentality, and I was glad for the disguise to hide that fleeting moment of awkwardness.
“We good?” I asked, sliding his pair of glasses over to him. “For undercover work,” I clarified.
“We're good,” he said, ignoring the glasses and eyeing the beer. “Anything else you want to know?”
“Uh-uh. At least not right now. Or is there a narrow window of opportunity, and if I don't take it now I have to forfeit my chance forever?”
“Why don't you wait,” he suggested calmly, selecting a single tile from the Scrabble bag.
I did the same, and when we flashed each other our tiles, his “A” was a winner, so he started. Almost immediately he'd lined his tiles up down the middle, spelling “HYBRID” for thirty-eight points.
As I stared with a mixture of awe and irritation, he popped the top on his beer, selected six replacement tiles, and settled back in his chair with a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips.
I felt a compulsion to knock him off balance a little. “So, are you officially considered a spy?”
His eyes met mine, each behind our respective glasses, his real, mine pretend, and the smirk broadened into a smile. “Couldn't help yourself, could you?”
“How hush-hush does it really have to be? Because you're hiding your light under a basket, my friend. Girls would eat that up.” I took a sip of wine, played “YODEL,” and raised an eyebrow, poised to deliver the punch line. “Especially if you have the body of an agent.”
“Is that right?” he said, leaning forward in his chair, settling his arms on the table. “Well, you're the only girl who knows, and you've seen about as much of my body as anyone recently.” And then he lowered his voice and I felt goose bumps running rampant. “Planning to jump me?”
I was going to have to keep these damn glasses on all night the way things were going, and the way my lips were twitching from the itchy little mustache, I couldn't possibly be taken seriously. Then again, maybe I could play that to my advantage.
“Do I need clearance first?” I said, twitching on purpose to fight the bubble of laughter that threatened.
“You checked out,” he said, focusing on his tiles.
I immediately abandoned the teasing flirtation. “You had me checked out??” On the one hand, I felt I should be outraged, or at the very least offended, but on the other hand, I had to admit, I was a little thrilled.
“No.”
“Oh.” My shoulders slumped. I told myself it was in relief, but I think it was more likely disappointment.
“I checked you out myself,” he confirmed. “I am officially a âspy,' and can do my own dirty work.”
I opened my mouth to bluster out a protest at the same moment he laid down his tiles, using my “L” to spell “LEVERING” on a double-word space, using all his letters and earning himself a fifty-point bonus, effectively stealing my thunder. Closing my mouth, I gazed calmly at him. It was unlikely I was going to come back from this. He knew it, and I knew it.
“Are you impressed yet?” he asked.
I blinked at him. If he wasn't my best friend, I'd be flirting up a storm right now. What can I say? Words impress me, “spy” having particular impact. But this was Ethan . . . goofball, computer geek, Mr. Secrets Ethan. I glanced over at him from beneath my two caterpillar eyebrows and imagined sitting on his lap, pulling off his glasses, running my fingers along the edge of his jaw, leaning in . . .
My hand jerked suddenly and sent my tiles tumbling off the table and onto the patio stones. Thrilled to have a momentary escape, I ducked my head and tried to pull it together as I gathered the little vowels and consonants.
But when Ethan's head suddenly dipped down to my level, I started again, rapping my head on the iron table and shooing all thoughts of Ethan from my head. Except perhaps the blameful ones.
“Shit! Oof.” Gritting my teeth against the pain, I snatched up the remaining tiles, went topside, and violently repositioned my tiles, spontaneously deciding to play “VAIN” off his “V”
Cradling my head and gulping down wine in a determined effort to dull my senses, I silently added a string of curses to the first.
This was all his fault. Friendly competition was one thing, but it was hardly fair play given that he'd had formal government training (it didn't matter that I had no idea in what exactly), and I was just a civilian. It occurred to me that my crack on the head might have knocked something loose. Something kind of critical.
I let my eyelids shutter closedâjust for one peaceful moment. When I opened them again, Ethan was watching me, and I was ready to change the subject.
“How about I order the pizza, and you play both our hands?” I suggested.
“Why don't we just put the game away and do something else?”
All the conflicting thoughts I'd been having about Ethan, prompted by the recent Knightley daydreams and the spy guesswork, were starting to wreak havoc on my palling around with him. I was reading innuendo into everything, imagining the two of us in compromising positions, and tripping over myself in every situation. It had to stop. And I knew the perfect way to stop it.
“You up for a little experiment?”
His eyebrows shifted slightly, but otherwise he didn't visibly react. “Possibly. I'm going to need a little more information.”
I glanced toward the house to make sure my mother was busily occupied and then settled my gaze on Ethan.
“Okay, here's the deal. Things are a little garbled right now, between the journal and . . . you . . . and even me,” I admitted, thinking of Cat. “And I admit, the journal has inspired me to do a little matchmaking among friends. . . .”
Ethan's posture relaxed and he looked away, clearly amused.
“Seriously? You're trying to set people up?”
I couldn't decide if the stress had been on the “you're” in that sentence and whether I should be offended, but Ethan didn't give me time to figure it out.
“The experiment isn't about you trying to set me up, is it?” he demanded.
“No!” I assured him, rather huffily. “Not exactly. And give me a little credit. I may be an amateur, but I'm consulting with a professional.” I squared my shoulders and straightened the Scrabble tiles on the board. “I'm getting backup advice fromâ” I paused. “Gypsy Jane” didn't sound particularly reputable. “Jane Austen.”
“What?!” Ethan exploded before quickly reining himself in. He settled back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, waiting, no doubt valiantly fighting a giant eye roll from overtaking him.
“It's already working,” I assured him, a little smugly. “Mom had a date last week while you were out of town.” I tipped my head saucily.
“With whom?”
“Mr. Carr,” I said, daring him to find fault with the situation.
“From school?” He seemed baffled.
“Yep. They hit it off marvelously. In fact, you can see for yourself on Wednesday. He's coming over for a barbecue dinner . . . and maybe a little
Burn Notice
.”
That last bit threw him a little, but he shook it off.
“I think maybe I will,” he said, looking a little smug himself. Then again, Ethan often looked a little smug, and not always for good reason. I decided to ignore it.
“Anyone else?” he asked. Drawled is probably more accurate.
“I'm working on it,” I said cryptically, not really wanting to share the rest just yet. “But the matchmaking is only part of the madcap muddle. Then there's the whole âsecret spy' situation with you,” I said, using air quotes while lowering my voice and glancing around nervously.
The corners of Ethan's mouth lifted in amusement.
“What about it?”
“Let's just say it's adding to the confusion.”
“The confusion over what?” He seemed genuinely interested.