Falling for the Girl Next Door

  I flick my gaze to the right. Willa is at the head of the table, pretending to read over the script on the surface in front of her, but her eyes aren’t moving. She’s not actually reading. She’s paying attention to something else. For just a split-second, her eyes dart up. She paying attention to us.

  I turn back to Finn. He’s right. If I’m going to play my part in this ruse, if I’m going to help him out the way he’s going to help me, this is what I have to do.

  I lean closer to him, so closer that our shoulders actually touch.

  “You don’t think it’s too…” I place my hand over his forearm. “Literal?”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Tru frown.

  I draw back my hand just as Oliver walks into the room. “Greetings, Seminarians. Are you ready for a lively discussion?”

  Everyone groans.

  I try to give Tru an apologetic look, but his attention is focused on Oliver. Willa, on the other hand, is staring straight at Finn. Maybe I’m a better actress than I thought.

  …

  Tru squinted into the glare of the bright afternoon sunshine. Even through his darkest sunglasses, the light was almost too much for him to stand.

  NextGen really should have built covered walkways leading from the school buildings to the parking lot.

  Sloane walked at his side.

  He could feel the tension radiating off her. The guilt, maybe.

  After sitting through a whole class period watching her and Finn flirt, Tru almost wanted to let her feel guilty. He knew it wasn’t her fault. Hell, he was the one who put them both in this situation. That didn’t mean he liked it.

  Neither of them said a word as they crossed the campus and then the parking lot. Didn’t say a word as they climbed into his car, closed the doors, and put on their seat belts.

  It wasn’t until he had the car in reverse and was backing out of the parking spot that Sloane finally spoke.

  “Well that was awkward,” she said with an appropriately uncomfortable laugh.

  Tru shrugged. Awkward was an understatement.

  He didn’t want to talk about it. He couldn’t talk about it. He couldn’t process his thoughts into words. Every time he opened his mouth, emotion clawed its way into his throat.

  If he let it out, if he unleashed the emotions boiling inside of him, he was afraid that he wouldn’t be able to stop. He was afraid he would say something he couldn’t take back.

  “I have a leftover muffin from lunch,” she said, pulling something out of her backpack. “Banana nut. Want half?”

  He shook his head.

  He didn’t have much of an appetite. Probably because his body was too busy begging for a drop of alcohol to realize it actually needed food.

  She unwrapped her treasure, broke off a piece, and popped it in her mouth.

  The smell of the muffin wafted across the car, filling his nostrils with the homey aroma of bread and banana. His stomach grumbled.

  “Maybe one bite,” he said, holding out his hand.

  She smiled and he felt the tension leave her body. His body filled with a warmth even alcohol had never provided. Sloane broke off a bigger piece of muffin and placed it in his hand.

  As he brought the treat to his mouth, his stomach churned.

  He ignored it.

  He needed to talk about something that wasn’t his drinking or Finn McCain. Maybe Graphic Grrl was a safe topic.

  “Have you made a decision about your blackmailer?” he asked before shoving the muffin into his mouth.

  Sloane finished her chewing and swallowed her bite.

  “No, not yet.” She took a bite and handed him another one before continuing. “I’m afraid if I give in now, it’ll only get worse.”

  He ate the bite because he thought it would make her feel better. His stomach didn’t agree.

  He steered the car into the fast lane. Traffic was lighter than usual, so he floored the gas.

  Tru nodded. “His demands could escalate every week.”

  “Yeah, who knows where it could end up?” she agreed. “But I’m not sure if I’m ready to face the consequences of turning him down.”

  Tru didn’t entirely understand her reservations. If he had created something as wildly popular and well-respected as Graphic Grrl he would want the entire world to know. Hell, he would probably wear an I Draw Graphic Grrl tee every day.

  But it wasn’t his secret to keep. It wasn’t his life that could be turned upside-down by the revelation.

  “It could mean a lot of changes,” Tru said, trying to be sympathetic.

  Her hands dropped into her lap, the half-eaten muffin cupped between her palms.

  “I have faith in you, New York,” he said with smile. “You can handle whatever comes your way.”

  They fell silent, each lost in the hypnotic drone of the traffic around them. Sloane picked absently at the rest of her muffin.

  As they reached their exit, Tru made his way back across the lanes of light traffic and then left the freeway.

  “So you think I should do it?” she asked.

  “I can’t answer that for you.”

  She was silent for several seconds, before asking, “Would you do it?”

  “If it was me—”

  Halfway through his answer, his stomach lurched. It felt like he had swallowed molten lead. His mouth watered and his arms started shaking. This was going to be bad.

  He drove off onto the shoulder and slammed the car into park.

  “Sorry,” he blurted as he jumped out of the car.

  He rushed around to the back, sure his stomach was about to eject the two bites of muffin he had choked down. Both hands braced on the lift gate, he waited for the purge.

  It didn’t come.

  He stood there, breathing heavy and staring at the gravel beneath his feet, waiting.

  He only vaguely heard the passenger door slam, then sensed movement at his side. The moment Sloane put her hand on his back, reassuring him in soothing circles, the urgent sensation in his stomach faded away.

  He closed his eyes, let the magic of her touch make everything feel better for a while.

  Finally, when he felt like he could breathe normally again, he looked up.

  The concern in her eyes nearly broke him.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  He nodded, forced himself to push upright when all he wanted to do was let her rub circles on his back forever.

  “Yeah, better.”

  Maggie had said the first couple weeks would be the worst. If it was all going to be like this, he wasn’t sure he’d make it that long.

  Unless Sloane could be there to rub his back through it all.

  But since he didn’t want to drag her through this mess with him, that wasn’t exactly an option.

  “Thanks,” he said, forcing a more confident expression than he felt. “Must have been something in the muffin.”

  The look on her face said she didn’t buy that excuse at all. Neither did he. They both knew it was the withdrawal.

  Just like they both knew talking about it wouldn’t make it better.

  He walked back around the car and climbed into the driver’s seat. As soon as Sloane was buckled in, he floored the gas.

  Chapter Ten

  Thursday morning, I beat Tru to his car. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. After what happened on the way home yesterday, I totally expect him to be dragging today.

  I only wish I could do something more to help him.

  I only wish he wanted more of my help.

  No point in wishing that. He made it clear that he wants to do this on his own. And I have to respect that. I don’t want to get in the way of his recovery. I’ll keep my distance for as long as he needs me to.

  I walk over to his car and lean against the passenger side.

  I’m usually in too much of a rush in the mornings to notice anything about the day. I take advantage of my early arrival to absorb my surroundings.

  I turn my face upward, peeri
ng through the trees to catch a glimpse of what the weather is actually like.

  The sky above is gloomy and gray. A perfect early winter day. It’s cool enough that I’m wearing three layers plus a hoodie and I’m still a little chilly, but Tru’s car has seat warmers. I can practically feel them warming me from the backside already.

  Most of the houses on our street have holiday decorations up: loads of Christmas lights, still twinkling in the faint morning light, several wreaths with bright red bows, and even one giant light-up menorah.

  Our house, on the other hand, is completely devoid of holiday spirit. When I thought we were going home to New York for Christmas, that didn’t bother me. Who needs candles in the windows when I would be standing under the tree in Rockefeller Center?

  Now that we’re staying here, we really need to do something to make our house feel like the holidays.

  The Dorseys’ front door opens, and I look up, ready to make some sort of funny, snarky comment about beating Tru to his car. Something deviously clever that will erase the awkwardness of what’s happening between us. Something that Graphic Grrl would say.

  But the witty words die on my tongue when I see that it’s not the enigmatic Tru Dorsey walking toward his car. It’s his mom.

  From the worried frown creasing a line down the center of her forehead, I can’t imagine she is coming out here to tell me good news.

  My first reaction is panic. What if what happened on the way home yesterday was a sign of something worse?

  “Good morning, Sloane,” she says with a pained smile.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Dorsey,” I reply. “Is everything okay? Is Tru okay?”

  “Miko, please,” she insists. “And yes, Truman is, well… He’s feeling under the weather today.”

  “Is he…”

  I don’t know how to ask this. I know he said he told his mom about his drinking problem, but her knowing and me talking to her about it are two very different things.

  But his well-being is more important than my awkwardness. So I ask, “Has he checked in with his therapist?”

  Her eyes widen a little, like she’s surprised I know about the therapy, like maybe she’s even surprised that I know about the drinking problem.

  Well I’ve got news for you, Miko. I’ve known longer than you.

  “Yes,” she says. “He will be seeing her first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “I’m afraid he will not be attending school today and won’t be able to give you a ride tomorrow.”

  “Okay, that’s no problem, Mrs. Dorsey,” I say quietly, then quickly added, “Miko.”

  She gives me a strange wave as I turn and walk back to my house.

  Fear for Tru and sympathy for what he’s going through flood my system. He’s strong, and I know he will get through this. And if I can’t be at his side every step of the way, at least he has his mom and his therapist there to help.

  Still, it feels wrong to be walking away from him when he needs me the most. Even if he’s the one who sent me away.

  My hands shake as I open the front door, ready to ask for a ride and bracing myself for the inquisition. I stop when I hear her raised voice.

  “Well that’s just terrific! I hope you’re planning to be the one to tell them.” She sounds angry. “No, of course not. You like to leave the messy stuff for me.”

  That is so unlike Mom. She’s usually the calm and collected type.

  I hesitate in the entryway, waiting to hear if she says anything more. When several seconds go by in silence, I decide the call must be over. I venture into the kitchen where I find her staring blankly ahead, vaguely in the direction of the windows, with both palms splayed on the counter. I can’t tell if she looks angry or upset.

  I don’t really want to face either.

  “Mom?”

  She looks at me, startled. “Sloane? I thought you left already.”

  “I did,” I tell her. “Tru is sick. I need a ride to school.”

  She scowls for a second and then shakes her head. “Of course. Let me find my keys.”

  “Is everything okay?” I asked. “You sounded…”

  “Yes,” she says, a little too quickly. “Yes, everything is fine. Just a…communication issue.”

  “A work thing?”

  She shrugs absently as she digs around in her purse for the car keys. “Come on. Don’t want you to be late.”

  A minute later, I’m buckling myself into our car. She’s right. I don’t want to be late. It’s the last day of art classes before winter break, and we’re presenting final projects in Advanced Graphic Design. I’m trying for a twofer, using the movie poster I created for the web series as my final project.

  There is enough complexity and technique involved that I think Mrs. K will be impressed.

  Mom drives in silence for a while, caught up in her own thoughts. It’s not like her to miss an opportunity to grill me about something. But I’m not going to ask any questions. I don’t want to poke the beast.

  Considering all the thoughts of my own I have to be caught up in, I’m grateful for the silence.

  Mom has a meeting after school, so I ask Jenna if she can give me ride home.

  “Can’t,” she tells me with an apologetic look. “I have STEM club.”

  “Great,” I mutter. That will teach me to be friends with an academically overachieving science nerd.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “Maybe I could run you home and still make it back in time for—”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll just hang out and wait for Mom.”

  “You need a ride, Sloane?”

  I turn at the sound of Finn’s voice.

  “Oh, no, it’s fine,” I say with a dismissive wave.

  He steps closer and gives me a meaningful look. His head jerks a little bit to the side. My gaze follows the direction of the gesture, and I see Willa and Mariely walking our direction.

  “Right,” I say, reminding myself that Finn is expecting to get some jealousy-inducing results from this situation. “Sure. That’d be great.”

  He flashes the kind of Hollywood smile designed to make girls swoon.

  “So tell me,” he says, swinging an arm around my shoulder as we walk to the parking lot, “have you ever ridden a motorcycle?”

  “Motorcycle?” I half-choke. “No.”

  His grin gets even bigger. “Then this is going to be a real treat.”

  Then, before I even know what he’s doing, he takes me by the hand. My first instinct is to pull away, but I shove that reaction aside and force myself to play the game. I move so close to his side our shoulders brush.

  He looks down at me with the kind of expression that would make most girls swoon. If this guy isn’t headlining in Hollywood by the time he’s twenty-five, I’ll be shocked.

  “Is it working?” I whisper as I give him my best helplessly-into-you smile.

  His gaze flicks back over his shoulder for a split-second. From the way his eyes crinkle up in the corners, I know the answer before he says, “Oh yeah.”

  This time my grin isn’t fake at all.

  A few minutes later, I’ve given Finn directions to my house and am sitting behind him with a helmet strapped under my chin.

  “If you feel unsteady,” he says, loud enough for me to hear through the helmet, “then wrap your arms around my waist.”

  I nod, and then before I’ve had time to brace myself, the bike roars to life and Finn peals out of the parking lot. Desperate to stay on, my arms wrap instinctively around his torso. As we roar to the exit, I catch a flash of Willa and Mariely watching us from the sidewalk. Mission accomplished, I guess.

  If I thought Austin traffic was scary from the relative safety of a car, it’s downright terrifying from my too-exposed position on the back of Finn’s motorcycle. He weaves the bike in, around, and through the traffic like it’s nothing. Thankfully that means we get to my house in record time. I can definitely see the advantages of a more agile form
of transportation.

  Not that I’m going to get one, or advocate Tru getting one.

  Or will ever voluntarily ride one again.

  But still, fast is nice.

  As Finn cuts the engine, I climb off the back of the bike. I unstrap the helmet and remove it.

  “Thanks for the ride.” I hand him the helmet.

  “No problem.” He rests the helmet on the handlebars. “It’s probably good for your mom to see us together, anyway.”

  I give him an awkward smile. “Too bad she’s not here to see.”

  “Oh, right.” His cheeks turn a little pink. “Well, then, at least I know how to get to your house.”

  “There’s that,” I say with a smile.

  “See you tomorrow?” he asks.

  I nod. “Thanks again.”

  He starts up the bike, slips his helmet on, and then backs out of my driveway. He looks totally comfortable on the two-wheeler. I watch him ride out of the neighborhood, thinking maybe the bike wouldn’t look quite so terrifying when I’m not on it.

  Nope. Still totally fear inducing.

  As I turn back toward the house, ready to go inside, I see Tru standing in the grass between our two houses.

  His expression is blank, but there is something angry in his eyes.

  “Hey,” I say with a smile. “I didn’t see you there.”

  He doesn’t move. “No, I guess you didn’t.”

  I cross the driveway and move to stand in front of him.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Why would anything be wrong?”

  I frown. Where did that venom come from? “You seem angry?”

  “Do I?”

  “Tru, seriously. What’s wrong?”

  He jerks his head toward the road. “You two looked pretty cozy on McCain’s bike.”

  For several long seconds I just stare at him, blinking way faster than normal. What on earth is his problem? Is he—no way. He can’t actually be jealous. Can he? This was his idea.

  “Are you joking?”

  He crosses his arms.

  “He gave me a ride home,” I explain.

  “Why him?”

  My self-defense instinct kicks in at the unspoken accusation.

  “Why not him?” I counter. “My mom has a meeting, Jenna has STEM club, and you decided not to show up today, so I had to get home somehow.”