Dreaming in English Read Online Free PDF Page A

that.”
    When I agree to this, Ike laughs. “You don’t know what strip poker is, do you?”
    I shake my head. “I’ve heard of poker. It’s a card game. But strip? No.”
    “For every round you lose, you take off an article of clothing. So if you lose too much . . .” He watches me, waiting for me to get his meaning, and as I feel my face redden, he grins. “Sound fun?”
    This is not a question I could answer—ever! I’m very shy about things like this—so instead, I move closer to a window ledge that’s lined with postcards. Ike follows, wrapping his arms around me from behind, which causes my temperature to rise by what feels like several degrees. “Do you mind?” I say, meaning does he mind if I pick up the postcards.
    “Of course not. Do you mind if I kiss your neck while you look at them?”
    Blushing, I say, “No!”
    I pick up the Eiffel Tower one first. Paris. Wish you were here. J.
    It’s a woman’s handwriting. I wonder, who is this J. person? But it’s easy enough to disregard the question when Ike’s lips are so soft on my neck. However, when I pick up the Venice postcard and read, Really wish you were here! J. , it’s not so easy to ignore anymore.
    “Who’s J?” I ask.
    “Those are from Jenna,” Ike says. “Remember? I told you about her.”
    “This is not a name I’ve ever heard before, Jenna.”
    “She’s my old girlfriend,” he says. “My old set-it-free girlfriend. You know, the one who went on that huge trip to Europe after college. I told you about her.”
    “Oh, right.” I remember now. This girlfriend gave Ike an ultimatum: Marry me, and I’ll stay. Don’t marry me, and I’ll go. Ike decided to let her go. “But the set-it-free part—what does it mean, please?”
    “It’s stupid.” He grins, embarrassed. “But there’s this . . . well, when it ended, as it was ending, my mom reminded me of this saying, which is totally a cliché, but also, you know, it happens to be true—I guess that’s what a cliché is, right? A true but overused expression—”
    “Every expression is new to me,” I remind him.
    “Well, then you might appreciate it,” he says. “If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, it’s yours. If not, it was never meant to be.”
    This is sweet, and sad.
    “This saying reminds me of a bird,” I say. “Of letting a bird out of its cage and hoping it will fly back to you, but knowing it might not.”
    “That might be where it comes from,” Ike says. “And it definitely fits Jenna because she’s flightier than hell. So anyway, I . . . set her free, and she didn’t come back, so . . .” He gathers up the postcards, tears them up, and throws them over his shoulder so they fall to the ground, the poor things. “It wasn’t meant to be.”
    I appreciate his words, but his matter-of-fact tone does not ring true. He loved her, and he hoped she’d come back. Luckily for me, she didn’t.
    When we hear Mr. Hanson’s truck pull into the driveway, my heart begins to race. Ike suggests we go back to the main house, and on the way, we pass by his mother on the back patio. She’s setting a stack of dishes on the table.
    “Need help?” Ike asks.
    “Nope,” she says. “Fill a pitcher of water before dinner, though, if you would.”
    He agrees, and as we enter the house through the kitchen, I hear a child’s squealing from the living room. Ike grabs a can of Budweiser beer from the refrigerator, and at the doorway to the living room, he makes a motion as if he’s offering to throw it to his dad.
    “Ah, just what a thirsty man needs,” Mr. Hanson says. He looks like Ike, plus twenty-five years—trim, solid, with his shirt tucked into his jeans, although Ike is a little bit taller. “Toss it here!”
    “No, no!” Camille screams. Mr. Hanson is holding her by the ankles, upside down. If he lets go to catch the beer, she’ll fall and land on her head, but from how she’s laughing, I can tell she’s not worried. I