Professor Feelgood

  “Huh,” the police woman says. “So, you’re single.”

  Jake frowns. “Technically.”

  “I see.” She stares up at him in awe.

  Yep, I sympathize, lady.

  “Well,” she says, smiling. “I’d better move along, then. Sorry to disturb you folks. You have a nice night, okay?”

  After she leaves, I close the door and turn to Jake.

  His hands are in his pockets and his shoulders are hunched. “We need to get moving. Grab your stuff.”

  I take in his change in tone. “Wait, are you pissed Mrs. Levine called the cops on you? Because it will probably happen again. Next time, just say you’re Rock Hudson and be done with it.”

  He doesn’t look at me. “Asha, we’re running late. Let’s go.”

  “Okay.” I head into my bedroom and slip on my shoes, but when I go to grab my clutch, I stop short. The stack of notebooks is uncovered, and one of them is lying on the bed.

  Oh, God, no.

  I remember the day I’d scrawled the title onto the front cover with a thick black Sharpie. “100 THINGS I HATE ABOUT JACOB STONE.” It was the day I’d finally accepted that my former best friend was gone forever. I’d bawled my eyes out. I’d cried not only because I missed him so much everything hurt, but because I knew … I knew I could have fixed it if I’d tried. If I’d done things differently. If I’d stopped being afraid.

  “I’m surprised you could only come up with a hundred.” I turn to see Jake standing in the doorway, his face half covered in shadow. “Or is there a sequel in that pile somewhere?”

  A hum of anxiety starts in my veins. This book was for my eyes only. It was a private confessional. Self-hypnosis.

  “How much did you read?”

  He goes over and picks it up. “I’ve only skimmed it, but that was enough.” He grips it so hard, the cover warps. I want to snatch it from him and burn it, but the damage is already done.

  “Jake, I can explain.” Can you? a bitter voice whispers. You can barely admit the truth to yourself, let alone him.

  He flips the book open. “Number one: I hate his face. The way he’s able to make every expression some kind of sneer. Two: His eyes. Not even brown anymore. Just purest black, like his soul. Three: His stupid, smart mouth. Always spewing putdowns and sarcasm. I want to slap him most days. Smack his words back behind his lips. Make him bleed.” He glances up at me. “This goes on for a while. You don’t address my fingernails, but other than that, you cover all my physical traits.”

  “Jake ––”

  “Don’t stop me now. After that you really hit your stride.” He flips forward a few pages. “Number twenty-seven: I hate the way he stares at me, like a serial killer dreaming about peeling the skin from his victim. Doesn’t he know he’s already flayed me to the bone? How can he not understand that because of him, I’m just a giant walking wound?”

  “Jake, stop.”

  “Wait, I’m getting to my favorite one.” His anger is showing in his voice, and his movements are jerky and stiff. “Number thirty-three: I hate his heart. His black, withered, toxic heart that is incapable of love and compassion.” He pauses and clenches his jaw, eyes trained on the page. “No wonder he doesn’t have any friends. Who the hell would want to hang around with that worthless, remorseless monster?” My throat closes when he looks up at me. I’ve seen him in pain before, but nothing like this. His expression is a portrait of hurt and betrayal.

  “Worthless, remorseless monster.” He says it softly, with an air of reverence. “Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever really understood how much you hated me until now.”

  I take a step forward, desperate to explain. “Jake, that’s not what I … All that stuff, it’s not even real. When I wrote it, I was young, and bitter, and … stupid. It felt good to just spew garbage onto the pages. It helped me breathe. Didn’t you ever write nasty things about me during that time?”

  “No.” He drops the book onto the bed. “I was angry with you. I never hated you.” He stares at me for a few seconds, as if he’s going to say something else. Then he breaks eye contact and turns toward the door. “Let’s go. We’re going to be late. The car is waiting outside.” He walks out into the living room.

  “Jake … wait …”

  By the time I grab my bag, and hurry into the hallway, the front door is open, and he’s gone.

  EIGHTEEN

  ____________________

  Eventful

  AS WE HEAD INTO THE hotel, I struggle to keep up with Jake’s long strides. The ride over was quiet and tense. I apologized several times and tried to draw him into conversation, but he just stared out the window and gave one-syllable answers.

  I feel sick that he read that journal, but right now we have a job to do, and I intend to make sure we do it well.

  I check Sid’s email and move as quickly as my heels allow. “Sid’s advice for photos is to not move too much. You don’t have to smile, but if you do, make sure it’s sincere. If you’re asked questions, only answer the ones you’re comfortable with. If you choose to not answer, be polite about it.”

  “Got it.”

  “If you have any problems, just look at me, and I’ll intervene.”

  He stops suddenly and holds out his arm for me. I look at it in surprise.

  “Just take it,” he says. “Watching you gallop after me like a baby giraffe is annoying.”

  I slip my arm through his and ignore the tingles that break out as we continue at a more subdued pace.

  “Eden and Max have also included you in some fun activities, and Sid wants you to participate. There’ll be photographers circling all night, and he wants you to be in the mix.”

  “Great. Do I have to look like I’m enjoying myself?”

  “Preferably.”

  “Then you’d better keep the alcohol coming.”

  When we reach the red carpet outside of the ballroom, I’m staggered by the number of people milling around. There’s a sea of gowns and dinner suits, and the excitement and energy is palpable.

  “Shit,” Jake says under his breath. “You want me to wade into that? I can’t undergo some nice waterboarding instead?”

  I squeeze his arm. “You’ll be fine. Just stay calm.”

  “So I shouldn’t stare at them like a serial killer dreaming about ripping off their skin? Damn.”

  His sarcasm is at an all-time high, and I can’t say I blame him. If I’d read something that nasty about myself, I’d be pissed, too. It’s just one more layer of crap we’ve never talked about, and it feels like our tumultuous emotional weather pattern is brewing into a hurricane.

  When one of the red-carpet wranglers sees us, she guides Jake to stand in front of a Romance Central marquee. As soon as he’s there, the flashbulbs go berserk. There are paparazzi everywhere, and Sid must have worked his magic in priming them about Professor Feelgood, because right away, people are yelling his name.

  “Jacob! To your left! Turn left, pal! Come on, Jacob!”

  “Professor Feelgood! Right here! More to the right! Great! Hold it there!”

  After some initial squinting at the barrage of flashes, Jake handles the attention surprisingly well. He composes himself and slides his hands into his pockets like a pro. For someone who’s never been in this kind of environment before, I’m impressed with how patiently he poses and takes direction.

  “This way now! Jacob! Over here!”

  I hover behind him, trying to seem professional and in control. Inwardly, I’m freaking out. Everywhere I look, there are famous people. Right now, Jake is sharing the red carpet with three Oscar winners, two-Grammy Award-winning recording artists, and an ex-first lady. I knew Max had a bunch of high-profile clients, but this is ridiculous.

  “Jacob! Can we have a picture with you and your girlfriend? Bring her over.”

  I get ready to tell them I’m not his girlfriend when Jake says, “Get over here.” He takes my hand and draws me into his side. “Sid specifically said he wanted pictures with bot
h of us, so pretend I’m one of the guys from your romance novels rather than a monster and smile.” He winds his arm around my waist, and the warmth of his hand gives me goosebumps.

  Contrary to his earlier statement, Jake stares at each photographer as if he’d like to murder them. Luckily, intense and pissed-off works for him, and I don’t miss the cavalcade of approving looks he gets from passers-by.

  Finally, when my cheeks are starting to ache, a staff member leads us to the huge double doors of the ballroom.

  As we step inside, we gape at the room in awe.

  “Damn,” Jake says, taking it all in.

  The room is teeming with activity, and everywhere I look, there’s something new and fabulous. Up in the ceiling, a dozen performers dangle from long lengths of silk; around the outside of the room is a digital archery range emblazoned with neon cupids, and at the front is a huge stage with an orchestra and a dance floor. All in all, it’s like a mixture between a high-tech carnival, a dinner club, the bat cave, and Cirque du Soleil.

  “Unbelievable,” Jake says.

  I look over at him, and for once it’s easy to see the boy he used to be within the framework of the man he is now. One time they were having fireworks in a park near our neighborhood, and Jake and I crawled out onto my porch roof to watch them. It was the first time either of us had seen fireworks, and the expression on his face back then mirrors how he looks now.

  When he notices me staring, he frowns. “What?”

  “Nothing. It’s just …”

  He turns to me. “Just, what?”

  Every now and then I get a flash of my childhood best friend, and it leaves me with a pang of longing so severe, it takes my breath away.

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

  He stares for a second then shakes his head and turns away. “So, who the hell are all these people?”

  “Romance Central clients. A bunch of New York singles. People looking for love.”

  “And they think an app is going to help them find it?”

  “They’ve probably tried everything else. What do they have to lose?”

  “Everything.”

  My attention is drawn to a tall man in front of us who looks familiar. When he turns, I’m shocked to see that it’s Toby. I’m used to seeing his face framed by his long, shaggy hair and messy stubble, and I’ve never seen him in anything but skinny jeans and cardigans. But sometime between when I saw him this afternoon and now, he’s had a haircut, and his face is freshly shaven. Not only that, he’s tugging at the collar of a very slick dinner suit.

  Objectively, he’s a total babe.

  “Toby! Hey.”

  He sees me and smiles. “Hey, Ash! You look incredible, as usual.”

  “You, too. Did you have a makeover?”

  He glances down at himself. “Uh, yeah. A friend said I needed to be more sophisticated for tonight.” He gestures to the suit. “Hence this monstrosity. I have a hunch this collar is trying to kill me, but what do I know?”

  He glances at Jake. “Hi, I’m Toby Jenner. You must be Phillipe. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Jake takes his hand. “Nice to meet you, but I’m not the boyfriend.” He doesn’t say ‘thank God’, but it’s implied in his tone.

  “This is Jake Stone, Tobes,” I say. “We’re working together on a book.”

  Toby looks relieved for a second before recognition sparks. “Wait, you’re that Professor Feelgood guy, right? There’s a whole bunch of girls at work who are obsessed with you.”

  Jake smiles, but it seems forced. “Uh … tell them hi from me.”

  “This HEA app is Toby’s brainchild,” I tell Jake. “He’s a genius.”

  Toby shakes his head. “Not really, but thanks anyway. I just hope it helps bring people together. That’s what life’s all about, right? Finding meaningful connections.” He beckons us to follow him. “Come on over and I’ll get you guys set up.” He leads us over to a bank of screens, and after he guides us through setting up the app on our phones, he points to a graph.

  “So, the whole thing is based on a new type of algorithm I’ve developed that you can use to test different types of compatibility.” He swipes the image. “The first step is to complete the questionnaire, but this is the real game changer.” He holds up what looks like clear plastic stickers with a pattern of silver foil inside them. He peels off the stickers and places them on the backs of our phones. “Any app can create a probable match based on random variables. That’s easy. But what they can’t account for is chemistry. No one really knows why we’re attracted to certain people. But with this bio film in your palm, the app will read your biological and electrochemical reactions to someone and add that into the compatibility equations.”

  He hands our phones back then gets out his own. “So to demonstrate, Ash, open your app.” When it’s open, he taps some settings into both phones. “And now, we just stand close together.” He moves forward until we’re almost touching. “Just keep breathing. It will take about thirty seconds.”

  I stare at Toby’s chest and wait for the bio reader to do its work. It feels strange being this close to him. Not unpleasant, but also not comfortable.

  “The app is reading the changes in our heart rate, breathing patterns, blood pressure, pheromone production, etcetera, and then …” Both our phones ping at the same time.

  Toby reads his screen. “Okay, so, this will come as no surprise, but I’m extremely attracted to you, and …” He looks at my phone. “You’re … not extremely attracted to me.”

  I glance at the blue circle that’s flashing ‘62/100’.

  Toby shrugs. “To be honest, that’s better than I was expecting.”

  I give him a smile. “Well, you do look extra fine tonight.”

  I think I see a hint of a blush as he points to another feature on the screen. “When you add your attraction score to the results of your questionnaire, you get your overall compatibility, and then, shazam. You’re on the road to finding your soul mate.”

  Toby’s phone beeps, and after he checks the screen, he sighs. “Well, no rest for the wicked. The boss man needs me, so I’ll have to catch up with you guys later. Have fun.”

  I wave as he moves through the crowd. “Bye, Tobes. Thanks.”

  When I look at Jake, he’s frowning down at his phone.

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing. Just doing my questionnaire like a good little sheep.” His mood is still dark. I wish I knew how to lighten it.

  You could go back in time and make different choices.

  I bring up the questionnaire on my phone and work through it. “What would happen if you found someone here tonight who was your perfect match? Would you date them?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m still recovering from the last person I thought was my perfect match.”

  I lean back against the bench, and we’re both quiet as we answer the questions. It covers a huge range of topics and hypothetical situations. Not sure how they all work together to form a personality profile, but according to Eden, Max is an expert at this. No doubt he worked in tandem with Toby to develop the whole thing.

  After a few minutes, Jake sighs deeply. “Done. Why do I feel like I just had a prostate exam?”

  I finish my final question and press ‘complete’. “I guess they want as much information as possible to get an accurate prediction.” I’m tempted to bump his phone to see how compatible we are, but I fear knowing will be worse than blissful ignorance.

  Jake flags down a passing waiter and grabs two glasses of champagne before handing one to me. We both drink deeply and then stand there in silence, watching the action in the room. I hate that things are so tense between us. Damn me for having those notebooks out, and damn him for finding them.

  “How long do we have to endure this?” Jake asks. “And how drunk am I allowed to get?“

  I watch people mingle and bump phones. Seems like everyone but the two of us is havin
g a good time. “Sid wants us to stay for a couple of hours.”

  “Not the party,” Jake says, turning to me. “Us. The way we are together. It’s exhausting.”

  I’m taken aback. I’ve been lamenting about our bickering so much, I didn’t realize he was feeling the same way.

  “Maybe you were right about me needing a different editor,” he says. “I’d hoped that enough time would have passed for us to let go of all the shit we’ve put each other through, but I was wrong.”

  I’m becoming more tense with every word he says, which is crazy. Yesterday, I would have been thrilled to leave this project and get away from him, but now that it’s happening, it feels hideously wrong.

  “Is this about the journal? Because if you want me to apologize again, I will.”

  He looks down at his empty glass. “The journal is a symptom, not the cause. I thought I could keep all the angst from our past as background noise while we worked together, but … I can’t. It’s deafening. Every time I’m near you, I can’t hear anything else. That’s why I can’t write.”

  “Jake, it’s been one day. We need to find our footing together. Tomorrow will be better.”

  He looks at me. “Will it? Or will we just continue to let our issues drag us around in circles?”

  “If we both try to find a better way, then absolutely not. I don’t know about you, but I hate being angry at you all the time.”

  He gives a bitter smile. “I’ve been angry at you for so long, I don’t know how to stop.”

  “Have you tried?”

  “Yes. Have you?”

  I want to say I have, but I know it’s not true. Part of me has been avoiding letting go of my anger, because when it’s gone, I’ll have to deal with a whole world of feelings I’m not ready to face. Is my anger even real? Or is it the name I’ve given to the sensation of my heart trying to push out pain and loss?

  I grab Jake’s arm and pull him toward the bar in the far corner of the room. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “We’re going to talk through everything we’ve done to each other and see if we can finally get some closure. But before that happens, I’m going to need a real drink.”