“It should be done by Friday,” Willa says. “I’m hoping to give everyone a draft to read over the break.”
“Cool,” I tell her. “I gotta make a call, so I’ll catch you guys later.”
I wave and continue on my path to the picnic table. Jenna is already there, unpacking her neatly laid out lunch onto the napkin she’s draped over the surface.
After dropping my backpack on the bench, I pull out my phone.
I cross my fingers and then place the call.
“I’m trying to call my dad,” I tell Jenna, not wanting to be totally rude. “He probably won’t pick up, but—”
“Garrett Whitaker,” Dad’s clipped voice says in my ear.
My eyes widen and Jenna gives me a thumbs-up.
“Dad! Hi!”
“Sloane? Is something wrong?” He pauses for half a beat. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“I am,” I tell him. “I’m at lunch.”
“Will this take long? I’m between back-to-back meetings.”
“No, I just…” I bite my lower lip, suddenly nervous to start on this path I’ve decided to go down. “I just wanted to say that I’m really glad you’re coming here for Christmas.”
“I thought you would be disappointed.”
“I was for a second,” I admit. “There are so many things I love about New York at Christmas. But I…” I suck in a deep breath and double down on my plan. “I really love Austin, and I hope you do, too.”
“No, no, I need the latest numbers for the meeting,” he says to someone else. Then, to me, “I’m surprised to hear that, Sloane. What changed your mind?”
“Lots of things. The school is great, and they have a lot of terrific vegetarian food—”
“These are last week’s numbers. I need the ones from this week.”
I continue as if he isn’t distracted. “And I have a boyfriend.”
The phone line is silent for so long I hold it away from me and make sure the call is still connected. It is.
“This is news to me,” he finally says.
“It’s been kind of…” Complicated. Probably not the word a father wants to hear about his daughter’s relationship. “I didn’t want to tell anyone until I was sure he’s as serious as I am.”
“And he is?”
“He is,” I answer without hesitation. Despite our break while he gets his drinking under control, Tru and I are the real deal. “He’s amazing.”
“Good,” Dad says, and I can tell that for the first time in a long time—maybe ever—I actually have his full attention. “You should never be involved with someone who doesn’t care about you as much as you care about them.”
That’s definitely not a problem with Tru. If anything, we both care too much.
“I look forward to meeting your young man.”
I choke on my smile. That was the last thing I expected him to say. “What?”
Dad is the poster child for hands-off parenting. Why would he suddenly take an interest?
“At Christmas,” Dad says. “I expect to meet this amazing boyfriend while I’m in town. You should bring him to Christmas Eve dinner.”
What? Normally that wouldn’t be a big deal. But there are two problems with this scenario. First, there’s the reason Tru and I are on a break. I can’t exactly tell Dad that my amazing boyfriend isn’t available because he’s in rehab.
Second, there’s the fact that it’s Tru. Mom’s tentative truce on the topic has limits, and probably doesn’t include inviting him to a family-only dinner. I doubt that Dad ever got the retraction. All he knows about Tru is what the Dorseys have said about him—which is that he’s a serial screw-up who would be filed under the kind of bad influences that I was sent away from New York to avoid. There is no way introducing him as my boyfriend is going to convince Dad to move to Austin.
If anything, it might convince him to bring me back to New York.
Way to step right into that one, Sloane.
“Is that a problem?” Dad asks, as if sensing my panic.
I can’t let him know this has me rattled.
“No, not at all,” I hurry to say before he starts to ask questions. “I’ll invite him.”
“Good.”
I hear the sound of other people talking in the background.
“My meeting is starting,” Dad says. “I have to go.”
“Okay. See you soon.”
And he’s gone.
Great. What am I going to do? I can’t invite Tru, for the aforementioned reasons. Maybe I can tell Dad that I asked, but my boyfriend has serious family obligations at Christmas. Or maybe that he and his family are going out of town for the holidays. Somewhere unreachable by phone or Facetime.
But even in my own head those sound like made-up excuses.
“So,” Jenna says, interrupting my thoughts, “are you really staying?”
“Yeah, I think I am.”
She looks up and her face is absolutely beaming. “Good. I’m glad.”
I smile back at her. I’m glad, too. Now I just have to figure out how to bring the rest of my family here, help Tru get better, and deal with my blackmailer. Then maybe everything will be okay again.
Tru still wants to go location scouting after school, so I meet him at his car. I’m afraid that things might be weird between us, but I try to remember that he was my friend before he was my boyfriend. He is still my friend, even if he’s not really my boyfriend at the moment.
Just because we’re taking a step back right now doesn’t mean it’s permanent. It’s like art. You have to create it, and then you have to get some perspective, see it from different angles, make sure it’s all working and giving you the kind of emotion you want to express.
Tru and I are just getting perspective on our romance.
Our friendship is doing fine.
Besides, this is about Tru getting better. I can stand a little bit of awkwardness if this is what it takes to help him. Even if it hurts like hell on the inside.
I have to focus on Tru and how I can be there for him.
“Where are we headed first?” I force a cheerful tone as he pulls onto the freeway.
He grins. “The Driskill.”
“What’s a Driskill?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“A very old hotel,” he says.
“How old?”
He shrugs as he drifts into the fast lane. “Very.”
Since he is clearly a font of information about this, I pull out my phone and do a quick search. Not just because it’s an easy distraction from the undercurrent of tension in the car right now, but because I’m interested in historic architecture.
He wasn’t exaggerating about the age. The old hotel dates back to 1886, built by some cattle baron when Texas was still the Wild West.
It doesn’t date back as far as the oldest buildings in New York—few places in the country do. But for a state that wasn’t one of the original colonies, it is very old.
“This place has a history,” I say as I skim through the Wikipedia article, which details tales of the property having to close less than a year after it opened and ultimately being lost in a hand of poker.
And I thought all those old Westerns made that kind of thing up.
“We do have some of that here,” Tru says. “New York doesn’t own the market on history.”
“You learn something every day,” I tease, hoping that bringing some humor into the car will ease some of the tension. I tap back to my search results and choose another link, one that details all the ghosts that are associated with the Driskill. “Did you know it’s supposed to be haunted?”
Tru lifts the corner of his mouth into a half smirk. “Every creaky old building in town thinks it’s haunted.”
“Yeah, but this place seems to have more spirits than most.”
There are reports of at least a dozen.
“Mwuahaha.” Tru’s maniacal laugh sends shivers down my spine. “Then it’s the perfect setting for our murderous production
.”
A quick glance at his eyes tells me the laugh is forced. That actually makes me feel better. I’m not alone in feeling the awkward tension.
I can’t do anything about it. But just knowing that Tru feels it too makes it a little more bearable. Makes it possible to breathe a little easier.
We may not be together together, but we’re still together right here, right now.
I pull up a picture of the hotel. It’s gorgeous. Breathtaking, really.
The style reminds me a lot of St. Bart’s church back home. Beautiful old Romanesque architecture, with columns and arches and contrasting colors of brick and stone.
As much as I tend to go for the modern when it comes to art and design, I have a real soft spot for historic architecture. Something about the classical elements, maybe, makes it feel part of the continuity of thousands of years of human construction.
With some of my tension eased, we drive along in silence as Tru hums along with the soundtrack to Hamilton and I keep reading the ghost stories. I try to focus my thoughts on the project and how the haunting might inspire my designs for the web series. I try to keep my focus off Dad and the Christmas dinner date debacle.
Of course, trying not to think about it only makes me think about it more.
“What’s wrong?” Tru asks.
“Nothing,” I tell him, because he doesn’t need to be bothered with my problems right now. “Why?”
I put down my phone, deciding it’s probably better if I don’t read the tale of a four-year-old girl who haunts a painting of herself. I don’t need to give myself nightmares.
His frowns. “You seem distracted.”
“It’s nothing.” I shrug.
“Tell me.”
I want to. I want to talk to him about it. But I don’t want to add any guilt to his burden right now.
“No, really,” I insist. “It’s fine.”
“You don’t have to treat me like some kind of fragile doll,” he says in a serious tone. “I have a drinking problem, not a social coping problem.”
“I know, it’s just… I don’t want to heap my drama onto your situation.”
“I’d rather think about your problems than mine.” He flashes me an ironic grin. “Plus, you know how I love your kind of drama.”
I have a mental debate for a second. In the end I decide that maybe he’s right.
Besides, I don’t like keeping things from him.
“I was talking to my dad about how much I like Austin,” I explain. “Trying to set up the pitch to convince him to move here.”
“Sounds like a reasonable plan.”
“It was,” I say, “until I told him that one of the reasons I love Austin so much is this fabulous boyfriend I have.”
I mentally correct it to had. Our break might be temporary, but it’s still in effect.
Tru is silent, so I continue. “He says he wants to meet this fabulous boyfriend at Christmas Eve dinner.”
His hands tighten on the steering wheel.
“Sloane, I’m sorry—”
“No, don’t be,” I cut him off. “I’m not asking you to change the plan. You getting better is the only thing that matters. Besides…”
I let the words trail off, not wanting to say out loud that Dad isn’t likely to be thrilled at the idea of me dating the screw-up next door. Not wanting to remind him that my parents have a pretty poor opinion of him. That couldn’t possibly help his situation.
Unfortunately, those are all things he already knows.
“I’m not exactly on the top of the parent-approved boyfriend list?”
I make a face that I know he can’t see. “Yeah.”
“You shouldn’t disappoint your dad.”
“I know. With his crazy schedule, this dinner might be my only chance to make my pitch for moving to Austin.” I drop my head back against the seat. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not your problem. I’ll figure something out.”
Tru nods along with the beat, but doesn’t say anything more. I assume the conversation is over as we drive by our destination. He finds a parking spot about a block and a half from the hotel.
I’m reaching for my seatbelt when Tru says, “Ask Finn.”
“What?”
He turns to face me. “Ask McCain.”
“Ask him what?”
“To be your boyfriend.”
I jerk back. “What? No. I’m not interested in—”
“Not your actual boyfriend,” Tru explains. “Ask him to play the part. For the duration of dinner.”
“I don’t know…”
“Look, he has acting in his blood. I’m sure he can pretend to be the most parent-pleasing boyfriend in the history of all awkward meet-the-parents moments.”
I consider the possibility. It feels too weird to even think about.
“I trust him,” Tru says. “And I don’t think you should blow off this chance with your dad.”
Tru’s right. If I want to do my best to convince him to move here, then I have to present the most positive, look-how-Sloane-has-turned-her-life-around image as possible. Maybe Finn McCain can help me do that.
“Do you think he’d do it?” I finally ask.
Tru shrugs. “Can’t hurt to ask.”
I smile and then give him the nod of approval.
“Great. We’ll ask him tomorrow at lunch.”
“We?”
Tru gives me that cocky half smile I love so much. “I want to make sure that Hollywood playboy knows this is only for show.”
“You know it will be,” I tell him.
His expression turns serious. “I know.”
I have to fight the urge to kiss him, to pull him into my arms and squeeze him so tight he can never leave. But I know that has to wait. He has to get better first. Then I’ll get my Tru back.
“So, you ready to scout some locations?” he asks.
I smile. “As I’ll ever be.”
Chapter Seven
Tru considered ignoring the tentative tap on his bedroom door. He considered ignoring his alarm and skipping school altogether. Last night had been hard.
Especially the staying away from Sloane part. She had become part of his routine so quickly. Sneak into the liquor cabinet. Climb onto her roof. Spend half the night getting lost in her.
Fighting the urge to go see her at two in the morning had been almost as hard as fighting the urge to go find a drink.
His head pounded like a mother.
But it was a good pounding. Or at least a better pounding than the kind he got from a hangover.
“Truman,” his mother’s quiet voice called out from the other side of his door.
His father was gone. The great David Dorsey almost always left before dawn, eager to get ahead of whatever political maneuvering he needed to do that day. So Tru knew whatever his mother wanted to talk to him about wasn’t something she wanted his father to know.
And that made him curious.
He scrubbed his hands over his face, shoved his fingers through his hair, and forced himself to his feet. Not caring that he probably looked like the living dead, he yanked open the door and sagged against the door jamb.
“Yeah?” he muttered.
His mother shook her head and made a chiding sound. “You look a fright.”
He gave her the ghost of a smile.
“I feel like one, too,” he replied. “Did you want something?”
She held up a handful of small yellow papers. They looked vaguely familiar.
“I found these in your car,” she said.
He squinted at them, trying to make out the bigger words at the top of the first page.
Traffic Citation
“Speeding tickets?” he guessed.
“Yes,” his mother replied with a disapproving tone. “Speeding tickets. Your speeding tickets. At least a dozen of them.”
He had lost track of how many he’d accumulated. But he did remember stuffing them in his glove box.
He shook his head to clea
r his thoughts. “What were you doing in my car?”
“If I did not clean out your car from time to time, there would be an entirely new species of rodent living in your back seat.”
She said it in that tone that both grated on him and made him feel like a troublesome toddler destined for a time out.
He didn’t love the idea of his mother digging through his car. It was his sacred space. But he had occasionally wondered how his car stayed so clean when he spent more time tossing trash over his shoulder than clearing it out.
“That’s not the issue here, Truman,” she said. “Have you paid these tickets?”
He shrugged. He honestly couldn’t remember.
“I thought not.” She scowled at him. She clutched the papers to her chest like an ironic Mother’s Day bouquet. “I will take care of them.”
He shrugged again. What did he care if she paid the fines?
“And,” she added, with extra emphasis, “I will not tell your father about them.”
“Do whatever you want.”
“If your father knew about these,” she said, shaking the tickets, “he would take away your car.”
That pushed him over the edge.
“What do you care?” he accused. “When have you ever cared?”
She had the gall to look hurt.
After years of fights between him and his dad, after watching those fights escalate from squabbles to shouts to physical blows without ever saying a word, never once did she step in to defend him. Never once did she stand at his side. Never once did she protect him like a mother was supposed to. How dare she act like she actually cared?
He started to close the door, but she smacked her palm against it to stop him. The aggressive action was so unlike her. Normally meek and accommodating, he couldn’t remember the last time his mother actually stood up to anyone. He was so shocked by the outburst from her that he actually jerked back.
“I may not show it in ways that you would like,” she said, “but I care. We are neither of us without flaws.”
He almost laughed out loud at that. If they were going to start listing flaws, he didn’t know who would end up with the longer list.
No, he knew. His mother might choose to run away from a fight, might not stand up to her husband when she should. Still, compared to Tru, she was pure, Michelangelo-grade marble.
Falling for the Girl Next Door Page 6