Falling for the Girl Next Door (Creative HeArts) Read online

  “Come on,” I beg, feeling more like Mom every day. “You gotta give me more than that.”

  “School is school,” he says, sounding put-out.

  “Still at the top of your class?”

  “Almost.”

  “Almost?” I gasp. “What happened?”

  “Allison Adesina happened.”

  “You got distracted by a girl?”

  I am equal parts horrified at the idea of my baby brother being interested in a girl and thrilled that he might prove to be human underneath all that science and math. Maybe he really is starting puberty. Maybe he has a girlfriend. I feel so old.

  “No,” he says, as if I’m the most annoying interrogator ever, “I’m getting beat by a girl. She is one point ahead of me in Conceptual Calculus.”

  I ignore the fact that my eleven-year-old brother is taking a more advanced math class than I am. He’s taking a more advanced math class than I’ve ever even heard of.

  I gave up on academic comparisons when he started studying physics in third grade. If I hadn’t, I would be in a never-ending depression.

  “Wow, that’s—”

  “It’s awesome,” he says.

  “I was going to say rough, but…awesome?”

  Did I mention that I also gave on up trying to understand the boy brain? Especially genius boy brain.

  “Because it’s a challenge,” he says with a silent duh. “No one has ever beat me before.”

  “Oh, okay. Cool.” It’s a probably a good thing he can’t see me shaking my head. Just one of the reasons I refuse to Facetime with him. “So how’s Dad?”

  There is a brief pause, which could be for any number of reasons. I try not to read anything into it when he could be distracted by his game or something.

  “Same as always,” he finally says.

  I know what that means. “Not around much?”

  “He’s usually home by bedtime on the weekends,” he says. “But Nadia is always around.”

  “Nadia?” I ask. “Is she a nanny or something?”

  I can practically feel the shrug.

  “I guess.”

  Mom never said anything about hiring a nanny for Dylan. It makes sense, though. My brother would live on chips and soda if no one fed him regularly. And since Dad is barely around, he’s not exactly the best influence.

  Still, it’s weird that this is the first I’m hearing about Nadia.

  But I know better than to try to get any details out of Dylan. He’s like a black hole of information. I shift the conversation to something I know he’ll want to talk about.

  “Have you decided what you want for Christmas?”

  I smile as he starts rattling off a list of video games and expensive-sounding toys and even-more-expensive-sounding science equipment. Mom and Dad have their work cut out for them if they want to make Dylan happy this year.

  And I have a feeling that Mom will be going overboard to make him as happy as possible, given the current long-distance situation.

  “But I’m already getting the thing I want most of all,” he finally says.

  “And what’s that?” I ask, expecting Dylan to name something from his list that Dad has already bribed him with.

  “Spending Christmas with you and Mom.”

  My chest tightens.

  Very few things have the power to bring me to actual tears. I’m a crying-on-the-inside-if-at-all kind of girl. But my baby brother behaving like the sweetest little boy who ever lived—which he occasionally actually is—has my eyes stinging.

  “You better not say crap like that around Mom,” I tell him as I wipe at my eyes. “She’ll never stop bawling.”

  “I miss you, Sloaner.”

  And there it is. That punch in the gut. That reminder that it’s all my fault, that if I hadn’t pulled off my rebellious act of guerrilla art and nearly gotten myself sentenced to juvie, Mom and Dad wouldn’t have thought I needed to spend some time away from my supposed bad influences. They wouldn’t have split up our family, sending me and Mom to build some kind of alternative life here in Austin, while Dylan and Dad get to keep on with the old ways in New York.

  I thought Dylan, at least, would be happy he got to stay in the city. But he’s obviously not. He shows emotion just about as often as a new Van Gogh shows up on the art market. For him to even say he misses me is a huge deal. It’s a sign of much deeper feelings.

  My baby brother’s heart is breaking, and it’s all my fault.

  It makes the fact that I’m actually liking being in Austin even worse.

  “I miss you, too, fart monster,” I say around the giant lump of guilt in my throat. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

  He half-laughs. “You’d better. I made you the best present ever.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  As we say our goodbyes, I know that I’ve never meant anything more. I really can’t wait for my dad and brother to be here. Four months separated is four months too long.

  It’s time for my family to be back together. It’s time for me to undo my mistake. Now I just have to figure out how to make that happen in a way that makes everyone happy.

  I let myself get lost in working on the movie poster art for the state-of-the-project assignment. No matter how bad a mess my life becomes, I can always lose myself in my art.

  The next time I look up, the sun is gone and I can see stars twinkling through my window. According to the clock, it’s almost ten o’clock. No wonder my back is aching and my hand feels like it’s deformed itself around my stylus.

  I stand up and stretch the tension out of my back and shoulders. Deciding that I could use a breath of fresh air, I cross to the window and slide it open.

  This window has become my favorite spot in the entire house. Possibly in all of Austin.

  So many good memories have happened here.

  I’ve lost count of how many times Tru has shown up on my roof to tap on the glass, always really late and sometimes even in the dead of night. Always with a smile that makes me want to sink into him.

  As I fill my lungs with crisp, damp night air, a glint of light flashes in my peripheral vision. I squint in the direction of the flash. I hold my breath, staring into the puddle of darkness that is our backyard and the Dorseys’ next door.

  As soon as I see the glint again, I know it’s Tru. It’s light catching on something reflective—metal, maybe, or glass—coming from the gazebo that’s in the back corner of their yard.

  One of Tru’s favorite haunts.

  We’ve made a few good memories there, too.

  Smiling, I push away from the window, grab a hoodie on my way past my desk, and head downstairs.

  Mom called it an early night, so I tiptoe through the front hall and out the front door, closing it behind me in whisper silence. Unlike Tru, I am not athletic enough to hop over the fence that separates our yard. I would probably impale myself on a picket.

  I walk around the house and unlatch the gate into the Dorsey yard.

  My sneakers crunch on the dried twigs and brown grass of the winter lawn. Other than the sound of my footsteps, the neighborhood is silent.

  Tru looks at me when I step up onto the platform. He is sprawled across one of the bench seats that line the gazebo, arms stretched wide across the railing behind him. He has that hooded, sleepy look in his eyes that makes him look like a soap opera star who just rolled out of bed.

  Of course he almost always looks like he just rolled out of bed—slightly rumpled, utterly relaxed, and ready to snuggle back in.

  He pats the bench seat, inviting me to snuggle back in with him. I cross my arms over my chest.

  “You didn’t come to my window,” I say, not quite an accusation but more than a statement of fact.

  I’ve become so used to his nocturnal visits that it feels wrong when he doesn’t show up.

  “I did,” he replies with that dreamy smile. “You seemed busy.”

  There is a flicker of something in his smile. Doubt, maybe. Or hurt. I can’t entirely tell. As much as I feel like I’m finally starting to know the real Tru, I can tell that there’s a part of him that he holds back. There’s still a piece of him I can’t quite figure out.

  And I’m not even sure if I need to. Maybe the mystery is part of the appeal.

  “I was working on the poster for Senior Seminar,” I say, crossing to the bench.

  He gives me a smug look that says, See?

  “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to be interrupted.” I sit down and give in to the impulse to cuddle into him. “I’m going crazy trying to figure out who might know I’m Graphic Grrl.”

  He wraps an arm around my shoulders as, even with my hoodie on, I’m shivering in the cool Texas night. His body heat chases away the chills.

  “No clues?” he asks, running a hand up and down my arm in mesmerizing strokes.

  I lean in tighter. “Not a one. I’m too careful for anyone to have figured out.”

  “There must be something you’re not seeing.”

  “I know.” I drop my head onto his shoulder and pull my feet up on the bench.

  “Would it be so bad?” he asks. “The world finding out?”

  My shoulders tense at the very thought. “It would change everything.”

  “Change can be good.”

  “It can also be not good.”

  “You’ll figure it out,” he says, letting it go as he squeezes me closer. “Think about New York at Christmas instead.”

  I groan and bury my head in his jacket. “I wish.”

  “What happened?” he asks.

  “Dad’s business deals beckon. He and Dylan are coming here instead.”

  “Will you hate me if I say I’m glad?” he asks.

  I heave out a melodramatic sigh. “No,
” I admit. “But I might dislike you for a little while.”

  “That I can handle.”

  We sit in silence, him stroking my arm and occasionally pressing a soft kiss to my temple.

  “How are things with your dad?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “They are.”

  He never wants to talk about it. The topic isn’t exactly off-limits, but it’s never welcome.

  Ever since I got him to admit that sometimes things between them get violent, I’ve been carefully watching for signs of things getting worse. They haven’t. In fact, there hasn’t even been a repeat of what I saw.

  He’s made it clear that it’s something he wants to handle on his own. I’ll respect his wishes up to a point. But I worry. I try to check in with him about it at least once a week.

  Judging from the sudden tension in his muscles, tonight the topic is more off-limits than usual.

  I shift gears, bringing up something that I’ve been thinking about ever since my call with Dylan. Something I think will make Tru happy.

  “I’ve been thinking about New York,” I tell him.

  His arm tightens around my shoulder. I know it’s been bothering him that I still want to get back to the city.

  “Yeah,” he says, too casually to be genuine. “What about it?”

  “About maybe not going back. About maybe finishing out my senior year here, at NextGen.”

  “What brought about this change?”

  “Dylan,” I answer honestly. I lean into Tru’s side. “And other things. Dad is still as much of a workaholic as always. He’s never around. He’s even hired a nanny to do his parenting for him. That can’t be healthy. Instead of trying to convince Mom to move back to New York, I’m going to convince Dad to move him and Dylan here.”

  Tru heaves out a soulful sigh. “That’s a plan I can get behind.”

  My mind races with the possibilities. I don’t have a plan yet, but I have time to come up with one. How can I convince Dad to make the move? He eats, sleeps, and breathes his work. Maybe his firm has an office here. They have offices all around the world. He could ask for a transfer.

  I’m sure Austin would be a much better pace of life for him. For all of us.

  “I’m hoping that once Mom and Dad are in the same room again,” I say, daydreaming out loud, “they’ll realize how much they miss each other and Dad will want to move here immediately.”

  Tru laughs. “You think that’ll actually happen?”

  Now it’s my turn to shrug.

  “It would never work with my folks, for sure,” he says. “If they spent any time apart, it would probably make them realize how much they secretly hate each other.”

  “You don’t think they’re in love?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe some twisted kind of love.” He half laughs again. “My dad should love the hell out of my mom. I can’t imagine anyone else putting up with his shit.”

  “Love shouldn’t be like that,” I say.

  “Like what?”

  “Two people being together by default,” I explain. “Like they’re only together because they can’t—or won’t—find something else. Something better.”

  “Ah, so you admit it. You’re not just toying with me until something better comes along.”

  I twist out of his arm and fake outrage. “That is not what I’m saying at all.”

  “It sure sounds like what you’re saying.” He leans toward me and brushes a whisper-soft kiss across my lips.

  “No.” I wrap my arms around his neck. “I’m saying you’re better than all the rest.”

  He smiles against my mouth. If I thought his body heat had the power to warm me up, then the pressure of his lips turns me into a volcano. I sink into him, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him as close as possible without us melding into one person.

  Sometimes I feel like we could.

  When we finally break for air, we are both breathing heavily. It’s these moments, when I feel like it’s just me and Tru alone in the world, that make the truth crystal clear. Home isn’t a place or a house or even a familiar city. Home is wherever Tru lives.

  Which is why it stuns the hell out of me when he says, “I think we need to take a break.”

  It takes a full three seconds for his words to penetrate. When they do, I bolt upright.

  “What?” I can’t have heard him right. “Are you…breaking up with me?”

  “No, no,” he insists. “Not like that.”

  “Then like what?”

  A dark shadow crosses over his face, like he’s in physical pain. He leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and scrubs his hands over his head.

  “Sloane, I’m a mess.”

  I open my mouth, ready to shoot out a snarky comment. That’s not news, maybe. Or, but you’re my mess.

  But something about the despair in his posture, the ache in his voice, tells me that would do more harm than good. For once, sarcasm wouldn’t be welcome. So I don’t say anything.

  “I’m… I… I think I’m…” He sucks in a sharp breath, sits up straight, like he’s gathering the courage, and says, “I have a drinking problem.”

  I bite my lips to keep from tearing up. Not because this is news to me, but because he’s admitting it. That has to be the first step to progress, right?

  “Can I—” I’m not sure what to say. “How can I help?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’m still figuring this out, but I think…” He looks me in the eyes. “I think I need to do this alone. I want to be better, Sloane. You make me want to be unbroken.”

  If I thought Dylan was the only one with the ability to bring me to tears, I was wrong.

  Tru reaches out and smooths his thumb over the salty streak on my cheek.

  “Until I am,” he says, “I think we need to be…”

  He stares at me, like he can’t find the words.

  “Friends?” I offer.

  He drops his hand back to his side. “Yeah,” he says with a nod. “Friends.”

  “Okay.”

  I say the word, force it out over my tongue and through my teeth, but I’m not sure I mean it. This doesn’t feel okay. This feels as far from okay as it gets.

  “Yeah?” he asks, like he didn’t think I would agree.

  But whether or not I’m okay is not the point right now. This isn’t about me. Or at least it’s not just about me. Tru getting better is the top priority right now.

  “Yeah,” I echo. “You are one of the most important people in my life. Important enough that I would leave my favorite city in the world to stay near you.”

  He winces, like it hurts him to hear me say that I would give up New York for him. It’s not only for him—we both know that—but he’s a big part of it. He needs to know that.

  “And the most important thing to me is that you get better.” I reach out and take his hand, needing that physical contact to show that we are connected, no matter what. “Whatever it takes to make that happen, I’m in.”

  He stares at our hands for a long time before he nods.

  I’m both thrilled and terrified for what’s coming. I’m sure he is, too. But I mean what I said. Whatever it takes.

  Tru getting better is the only thing that matters. If he needs us to take a break for that to happen, then we’ll be on a break.

  Even if the very idea tears my heart in two.

  Chapter Six

  I’ve been trying to call Dad ever since I came up with the brilliant idea of convincing him to move to Austin. He didn’t answer last night. Or this morning. Or when I asked for a hall pass to get something from my locker during Modern Lit.

  Maybe lunch will be my lucky time.

  I hurry out of Trig and make straight for the quad.

  I’m halfway to our picnic table when I hear someone call out, “Hey Sloane!”

  I spin around to see Willa, Mariely, and Jacen sitting at one of the other tables. Willa has her laptop open, with Mariely leaning in from one side and Jacen leaning in from the other.

  “Hey guys,” I say, walking over to them. “Working on the script?”

  Willa nods.

  “It’s getting really close,” Mariely says.

  Jacen adds, “And really good. This is going to blow everyone’s socks off.”

  Willa blushes.

  “That’s great,” I say. “I can’t wait to read it.”

  I helped out on a couple of student films at SODA. Getting to see how the cast and crew turn a script into a living, breathing film is one of the coolest things I’ve ever experienced. I can’t wait to be part of something like that again.