Falling for the Girl Next Door

by Tera Lynn Childs

  “Idiot,” he muttered again.

  It was time to stop being so self-centered and self-indulgent. He had to start putting other people first. Beginning with Sloane.

  This dinner meant a lot to her, and he wouldn’t do anything to ruin it. Not if he could help it. And this wasn’t about his drinking. He and his father had the ability to go at it whether or not alcohol was involved.

  He wouldn’t let that happen tomorrow night.

  His feelings for her, his desire to make her happy and keep her safe, were far more important than any barb he could throw at his father. His feelings for her were the most important thing in his life. She was the most important thing in his life.

  He would give up anything for her.

  He would give up everything for her.

  The realization of what that meant hit him like a bolt of late summer lightning.

  “Holy shit.”

  The bubble of lightness that he’d felt after his session with Maggie exploded like a firework. He loved Sloane. He loved her. In a way he had never loved anyone, except maybe his mother and grandparents.

  He looked at the clock screensaver on his computer. It was nearly two in the morning. As much as he wanted to run outside and shout her name into the night until she came to the window, so he could tell her how he felt, he knew she wouldn’t appreciate that. Tomorrow was a big day for her and she needed her rest.

  And now, tomorrow was a big day for him, too.

  First, he would show her how he felt. By being there for her, by supporting her in the way that she needed, not the way he wanted.

  Then, he would tell her.

  This feeling, he thought, is better than any high I’ve ever felt.

  Chapter Seventeen

  My phone rings at six-thirty in the morning. Normally that would be way too early to be awake, especially during a school break and on a holiday, but I am already up and doing prep work in the kitchen. These cupcakes aren’t going to make themselves.

  On my master plan for dinner party domination, my first order of business for dinner is dessert. Obviously.

  I found a delicious-sounding recipe for red velvet cupcakes with cream-cheese frosting that might just blow everyone’s minds.

  I glance at the screen and see Tash’s face staring up at me.

  “Merry Christmas Eve!” I cheer as I answer the phone.

  “Merry Christmas Eve!” She sounds half-asleep, even though it’s an hour later in New York. “I got your message. What’s up?”

  Before falling into bed last night, I shot a quick text to Tash saying I needed to talk to her in the morning. As soon as I learned that Dylan was my Graphic Grrl blackmailer, I knew I had to apologize.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her as I start dumping ingredients into my mixing bowl.

  “For what?” she asks around a yawn.

  “For thinking you could have accidentally spilled my Graphic Grrl secret.”

  “Does that mean you figured out how Engineering Boy found out?” she asks.

  “No,” I say. “I found out who Engineering Boy is.”

  I pour an entire bottle of red food coloring into the bowl.

  “Who?”

  “I’ll give you one hint,” I say with a smirk. “He and I share some DNA.”

  There is only a short pause before she gasps, “Dylan?!”

  “The one and only.”

  “No way. How did he find out?”

  I sigh. “It’s kind of a long story.”

  And kind of a stupid story. I don’t exactly want to own up to the fact that I left incontrovertible proof of my involvement with Graphic Grrl just lying around the house. Makes me look totally incompetent. And also like a complete loser for assuming that Tash was the unwitting source of the leak. Nope, that would be me.

  “That little rat,” Tash exclaims. “Why did he do it?”

  I hesitate as tears sting at my eyes.

  “Sloane?”

  I have to rip it off like a bandage. Get it over with quick. So I blurt, “My parents are getting divorced.”

  “What? No way! They told you?”

  “No, but Dylan says Dad is talking to a divorce lawyer.”

  Tash makes an ouch-that’s-bad noise.

  “And”—I take a deep breath—“he says Dad has a girlfriend.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she says. “That sucks.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It really does.”

  “Guys suck.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Uh-oh. Does that mean new developments with the Tru situation?”

  I’m not sure how much I want to go into this right now. Tash knows about Tru’s drinking and our Tru-imposed break. Things are infinitely more complicated now. I’m barely holding it together as it is. Talking it out with Tash might push me over the edge.

  But in the end, I know I can’t keep this all to myself.

  “We had a fight,” I tell her, my voice barely a whisper.

  I set down my bowl. The last thing I need is to dump my batter all over the floor. And judging from the way my vision goes all blurry, I’m about to be in no condition to handle baking utensils.

  “About what?” she asks. “Aren’t you guys on a break?”

  I brace my hands on the countertop and close my eyes as I give her the shorthand version of everything that happened on the roof last night. How he had a breakthrough with his therapist, and instead of encouraging him and loving him, I told him it had to wait until after Christmas.

  “I’m only thinking about my problems,” I tell her. “How selfish is that?”

  “Listen to me very carefully.” If she were standing in front of me, she would probably be shaking the life out of me right now. “Your life is turning upside-down, and you’re just trying to stay upright. You’re allowed to think about your problems.”

  “But what if I set back his progress?” I say through the sob caught my throat. “What if it makes him drink again?”

  “That is not on you,” she insists. “If his recovery is dependent on you, then it’s not a recovery.”

  Her words make sense. But I can’t help feeling guilty for pushing him away when he needs me. And I need him just as much.

  “If I was there right now, I would go over there and punch him in the nuts.”

  I laugh through the tears. “I know you would.”

  Behind me, the oven dings to indicate it’s reached the optimum baking temperature for my cupcake masterpieces. I’m falling behind on my carefully orchestrated schedule.

  “No, you know what?” Tash says. “You should go over there and punch him in the nuts.”

  I fit each cup in the muffin tin with a paper liner. “I’d better go. I’m making Christmas Eve dinner.”

  She makes a choking sound. “You? You’re cooking dinner?”

  “I know, right?” I scan my gaze over the elements of dinner prep that I have spread out all across the kitchen. “And for eight people, no less.”

  “Eight?” She hesitates for a second. “The Dorseys?”

  “Yes,” I answer.

  “That won’t be awkward.”

  “Not at all,” I agree with a wince.

  “Wait, there’s just three of them, right?” she asks. “That makes seven. Who else is coming?”

  “Um…”

  “Don’t tell me Tru is bringing a date?”

  “No. It’s complicated.”

  I’m getting really tired of having to say things are complicated. How about my life gets simple for a while?

  I can practically hear Tash’s eyes narrow through the phone line. “Are you bringing a date?”

  I didn’t tell her about the fake thing with Finn. Heck, I haven’t even told her Finn McCain and I are going to the same school.

  “Sloane… What aren’t you telling me?”

  I break down and tell her everything, from it being Tru’s idea to his unexpected jealousy, to the whole my-parents-are-expecting-Finn thing. Tash remains eerily and uncharacteristic
ally silent the entire time.

  When I finish, I listen to her silence until I can’t stand it anymore.

  “Tash?”

  “I’m trying to process,” she says. “You both really thought this was a good idea?”

  “It seemed like one at the time.”

  “I take it back. You’re both idiots.”

  There is a double-edged sword of being best friends with Tash. She always tells it like it is, right to your face. I always know what she thinks, even if sometimes I don’t want to hear it.

  “I know,” I reply with a sigh.

  “At least that means you’re a good pair.”

  “Yeah, there’s that.”

  I hunt through the kitchen drawers for a soup ladle so I can start filling the cupcake papers. Anything to distract me from the unsettling nothing coming from the other end of the phone.

  Finally, after what feels like forever, she asks, “Would you do something for me? For Christmas?”

  “Sure. Anything,” I blurt, leaping at the chance to end this awkward silence.

  “Fix your relationship with Tru. Don’t let all these complications get in the way of something awesome.”

  I frown. “How is that doing something for you?”

  “Because when we’re eighty years old and sharing a porch at the retirement home, I don’t want to be stuck listening to you whine about the one that got away.”

  I half laugh, half cry at the image of us as old ladies, still inseparable and gabbing in the old folks’ home.

  “At least think about it,” she says.

  “Okay,” I tell her. “I’ll try.”

  “Good,” she replies. “You know I’m always right.”

  She isn’t always right, but she’s right more often than not. At least often enough for me to consider that maybe she’s right this time. Tru and I are both right. And we’re both wrong. We need to at least talk this out.

  An alarm on my phone dings, reminding me that I have a tightly orchestrated schedule to follow today. I am overwhelmed by the logistics of getting all this food ready on time and edible.

  First, dinner. Then I can think about fulfilling Tash’s Christmas wish.

  I am just closing the oven door on the cupcakes when the doorbell rings.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  I stare down at my hands, which are covered in red dye. I look like I’ve been slaughtering something in here.

  Everyone else in the house is still asleep, which means I’m the only one available to see who on earth is ringing our doorbell this early on Christmas Eve morning.

  I hurry to the door.

  In the faint early morning light, I can only make out the basic shadow of a human standing on our front step.

  “Who is it?” I call out.

  Because, of course, during the holidays, serial killers are more polite. Then again, if it’s a serial killer I will definitely scare them away with my blood-spattered hands.

  Either that or they’ll think they’ve found a kindred spirit.

  But it’s not a serial killer who answers my question.

  “It’s Tru.”

  My heart hammers against my chest.

  “Um, hold on!”

  He has been on my mind nonstop since my call with Tash. And now it’s like he’s been conjured from my thoughts.

  Or maybe the stress of planning Christmas Eve dinner is getting to me.

  I stare at my hands again. I’ve washed them three times, but I can’t be sure the color won’t transfer. Mom spent all yesterday in a cleaning frenzy. If I get food coloring all over the front door she’ll flip.

  Using the heel of my palm, I manage to flip the deadbolt and depress the lever on the handle without leaving a smear of red across the door. But I can’t risk trying to pull it open.

  “Okay, push,” I tell him.

  I move out of the way as the door glides open.

  My eyes rake over him. The doorway frames him like a picture, with the soft glow of the morning light creating the perfect backdrop. If I were into photography, I would want to capture this moment as a work of art.

  “Hi,” I say awkwardly with a matching wave.

  He gestures at my hands. “Need help burying the body?”

  There is something so relaxed about his smile, about his whole everything right now, I feel all the tension that’s been between us just evaporate.

  “If I did, you’d be my first call.” I wiggle my blood-red fingers. “I’m making cupcakes.”

  “Red velvet?” he guesses.

  I nod.

  “Want some help?”

  I must flinch or frown in surprise, because he starts to step back. “I’m sor—”

  “Sure!” I blurt before he can apologize. “I’d love help.”

  His frown relaxes into a smile. “Excellent decision. I happen to be an expert cupcake taster.”

  “I’m kind of desperate,” I confess. “I’ll take any help I can get.”

  He follows me into the kitchen. I try to focus on what needs to be done, but I’m distracted by his presence. By wondering why he’s here and what that means.

  After my talk with Tash, I had all but decided that before tonight’s dinner was over, I needed to apologize to Tru. But he’s here now. And everyone in the house is asleep.

  No time like the present.

  “Last night I—”

  “I wanted to say I’m—”

  We both start to talk at once.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  Tru half-laughs. Then he turns serious. “I know a gentleman would tell you to go first,” he says. “But I’ve never pretended to be a gentleman.”

  I laugh, but only barely. Because there is a sense of heaviness in his tone. I’m half afraid that if I let him go first, I won’t have the courage to say what I need to.

  And after I’ve spent the last hour rehearsing what I want to say, down to the syllable, I can’t let that happen.

  He begins, “Sloane, I’m—”

  “We were both wrong,” I blurt.

  He blinks in shock. “What?”

  “Last night. All along,” I tell him. “As Tash put it, we’ve both been idiots.”

  “Okay…”

  “You’re going through something serious, and my family is falling part.”

  “I know, that’s why I—”

  “Let me finish.” I advance on him, pointing a red-dyed finger at his chest. “No relationship is easy. Life has bumps and turns, and if we’re going to be in for the long haul we have be ready to deal with them.”

  “Sloane, let me—”

  “You drink too much. Bump. My parents are splitting up. Turn.” I rise up on my tiptoes so I can come closer to his nose. “We should be helping each other through these things, not fighting about them. We’re in this together.”

  His mouth spreads into a gentle grin as he wraps a hand around my wrist. “Better?”

  My breath comes in heavy, ragged pants. It’s like I’ve condensed all the emotion I’ve been feeling for the last few days—for the last few months—into the one focused rant. And yes, I do feel better. I finally let out all the pent up anger and resentment over his ridiculous breakup and everything else going on in my life.

  “A little,” I say, not wanting to concede him any points.

  “Good, because I think you’ll want to hear what I was going to say.”

  If he weren’t still holding my wrist, I would cross my arms over my chest. Since I can’t, I straighten up to my full height and give him a look I hope expresses the same general message.

  The only problem with that plan is it brings my face literally inches from his. I find myself staring straight into his dark brown eyes.

  “I didn’t come over to help,” he says. “I mean, I’m happy to taste anything that needs tasting, but that’s not the main reason I’m here.”

  His gaze flicks down to my lips and then back up to meet my eyes.

  “Oh?” My stomach does a flip.

&
nbsp; “I came to apologize,” he says. “I was an ass. I am an ass. You’re right about everything. Our relationship is important to me. You are important to me. Keeping your family together is important to you, which means it’s important to me. Like you said, we’re in this together.”

  “Oh?” I say again because it feels like the only syllable I can manage.

  “If that means I have to watch you flirt with Finn McCain for the duration of one dinner, then I can suck it up. I trust you.”

  Tears prickle at my eyes, but I shake my head to fight them because I’m afraid that if I start crying I won’t be able to stop.

  His face is getting closer and closer to mine. Since I’m up on my tiptoes, I know I’m not the one closing the gap. Tru is leaning in to me.

  “It might feel like my insides are being gnawed out by an alligator,” he continues, “but I realized one very important thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I care about your happiness,” he says. “That’s all it comes down to. I care more about your happiness than my own.”

  I nod, because I literally can’t form words.

  “I’ve screwed up a lot,” he says.

  The tears start falling.

  “Me, too,” I tell him, tears streaming down my cheeks as I lift my free hand to cup his face. “Maybe that’s what makes us such a good pair.”

  “I don’t deserve you.” He covers my hand with his.

  I nod. “Ditto.”

  And then I’m pulling him down until his mouth is on mine, the heat of his mouth setting my skin on fire, hard and soft at the same time, an agonizing pressure that I can’t get enough of.

  A sound somewhere in the house breaks me out of my spell.

  I pull back just a fraction of an inch. His lips aren’t touching mine, but I can feel them. The heat of them.

  They brush whisper-soft across mine as he says, “I’m sorry.”

  I press my hand to his cheek. “We can be sorry together.”

  Then I let my hand slide down to his and link our fingers together.

  “Come on, taste tester,” I say to him, “I’ve got two dozen cupcakes baking and about a billion other things to cook.”

  He squeezes my hand as we head for the kitchen. Inside, my heart bursts into fireworks.

  I lean into him as we walk, letting my arm press into his. This just might turn out to be the best Christmas ever.