And why shouldn’t he like her? Why did it seem so wrong to me?
It was the age difference. He was just too old for her, even if neither of them saw it that way. Guys that much older only went out with girls that much younger because they wanted to take advantage of them in some way—
No, that was ridiculous. George wasn’t about to take advantage of anyone. My mother trusted him. Heather trusted him. I trusted him. He was trustworthy.
But still . . . there was an awfully big age difference. Well, not so big—less than three years. But he was out of college; she was just going in. That was weird. Not unheard of. But weird.
I wished I had gotten Heather to see how awkward it would be for them to date. Would a guy his age really want to go to a high school prom? Of course not. And would she want to go to parties where everyone else was over twenty?
Yeah, she probably would. I would. I often did, with my parents.
Not that that was the point. The point was that it would be a mistake for the two of them to date. I couldn’t even imagine it. Heather was so clearly wrong for George. I could see why she had a crush on him but not how he could crush back.
Wait a second—could I see how she could have a crush on him?
I fiddled with another curl as I thought about that for a moment, absently stretching it across my upper lip, mustache-like.
George was sort of cute, if you liked the hipster-nerd type (minus the hipster). There was nothing actually wrong with him. He was no Aaron Marquand—no bronzed, blue-eyed young Adonis—but Aaron was a bit of a cliché. There were tons of guys like him on TV with their flat abs and white teeth—Generic Hollywood Dudes.
And George had a better smile than Aaron: Aaron’s was mischievous and general, a grin that announced his good humor to the world, but George’s was rarer and more personal—if you got a smile from George, it meant something.
I knew this better than anyone; I’d worked hard for some of those smiles.
I’d earned every one I’d gotten.
And that, I decided, was why I didn’t want Heather to go out with George: He and his smiles belonged to me. He was my tutor. It was my mother who had hired him. We’d already spent a lot of days working together before I invited Heather to join us, and we had walked on a beach together in Hawaii.
He couldn’t belong to Heather instead of to me. He was mine. My tutor. My friend. The brother of my stepfather’s production company president . . . or whatever the hell Jonathan’s title was.
The point was, he belonged to me and to my family, and not to Heather.
But you can’t go around telling people not to go out with other people because they “belonged” to you in some weird way.
So I was just going to have to let whatever was going to happen between the two of them happen. No matter how wrong and unfair it felt to me.
twenty-nine
Aaron let me know by text that he wanted to stay over again at our house that night, but he came back pretty late. I ran out into the hallway when I heard him on the stairs—I’d given him a key and the gate code that morning—and he said, “Hey. Hope I didn’t keep you up.”
“It’s fine.” I raised my eyebrows. “I smell Crystal’s perfume.”
“Nose like a dog. The police should adopt you.”
“Where did you see her?”
“My house. I had to pick up some clothes.” He raised the duffel bag in his hand. “I tried to get in and out quickly but she was home and wanted to talk.”
“What about your dad?”
“He was out. Trust me, I checked.”
“What did she say?”
“A bunch of things.” He dropped the bag of clothing on the floor. “Mostly about what a mess their marriage is. Dad refuses to go to couple’s therapy and she said she’s starting to wonder if they even have anything worth saving.”
“What about you and her?”
He stared at the floor for a moment, a muscle flickering in his cheek. Then he looked up and said, “Your father’s your father, you know?”
I did know. Not because of my biological father, but because of Luke. “Do you think he’ll forgive you?”
“I’m going to go see him this weekend so we can talk. We’ve texted a little, though, and I think it’ll be okay. . . .” His shoulders sagged. “She kept crying tonight. She feels like she’s losing everything.”
“She had his baby. He’ll take care of them.”
“Yeah, financially. But it still seems unfair.”
“It is unfair,” I said. “The fallout’s going to be much worse for her than for you.”
“That’s not true,” he protested. “I’ve never felt this miserable before.”
I didn’t say anything. I believed he was unhappy now. He probably felt guilty and unsettled and anxious. But pretty soon he’d move back in with either Michael or his mom, and soon after that he’d go off to college, and soon after that all of this would feel far away, just some crazy thing that happened during his high school years. Nothing would really have changed for him.
But Crystal and Mia’s life would take a completely different path now.
I patted Aaron on the shoulder and told him to try to get some sleep—and felt grateful I had never actually fallen in love with him. He was a gorgeous mess.
When I got home on Friday, I was surprised to see George’s car parked in the gravel circle in front of our house.
I found him in the kitchen, leaning against a counter and chatting with Grandma. He jumped to his feet when he saw me, almost like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “You’re home early, aren’t you? I thought I’d be gone before you got back.”
“My teacher got sick and canceled class. Are you trying to avoid me?”
He flushed. “Of course not,” he said. “I just don’t want to be the guy who’s always underfoot around here.”
It’s funny: Now that Heather had told me she had a crush on him, I found myself looking at him differently. More closely. Scrutinizing his face to see what she found so attractive about it.
Like everyone else in the universe (except maybe their immediate family), I had always lumped him in with Jonathan as just a Nussbaum-looking kind of guy, but now that I was trying to look at him with Heather’s eyes, I could see a lot of differences. George was taller and thinner than his older brother, and his shoulders were broader; he stood up straighter; his hair was thicker; his nose was smaller.
In fact, Heather was right: he was kind of cute. Not drop-dead handsome—more the kind of cute that grew on you over time. And it was the unstrained kind of cute—he never seemed to care too much about how he looked, which I liked. There was no gel in his hair; his wardrobe was way more functional than stylish; he had a Timex watch that had probably come from a drugstore; his mother probably still bought his pajamas and boxers—because he was probably uncool enough to wear old-fashioned plaid boxers—
Not that that was any of my business.
“I told him he’s always welcome to hang out here,” Grandma said to me. She was at the table, eating something that looked like a heap of chewed-up and regurgitated raw grains—and knowing her, probably was. “He’s doing such a good job on your mother’s office! Everything is labeled and in its proper place.” She swiveled in her chair to look at him. “I’m sad you’re almost done—the house feels too big with just me and Lorena rattling around in it during the day. And Ellie and Aaron are really only here at night.”
“Aaron’s here at night?” George said with an unsettled glance in my direction.
“Oh, yes.” Grandma raked her fork contentedly through the piles on her plate. “He’s been our sleepover houseguest the last couple of nights.” Then she said, “Oops, was I not supposed to tell anyone, Ellie?”
“It’s not like it’s a secret,” I said, uncomfortable with the fact she was making it sound like it was.