One True Thing

by Lynne Jaymes

  ONE TRUE THING

  By

  Lynne Jaymes

  Copyright © 2014 by Lynne Jaymes

  www.lynnejaymes.com

  Cover Design by © Helen Williams, AllBookedOut.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This isn’t the first time I’ve written the story of Tyler Branch. Over the years, the book that is now ONE TRUE THING has taken on many forms in many genres, but I love how it finally turned out. As part of an interracial family, the topics of race and identity have always been fascinating to me, especially the question of what people see vs what they know about you and how they react based on it. ONE TRUE THING is primarily a love story between two very different people with similar desires and goals, but the underlying themes make this so much more for me. All of the scenes in the book are fictional, but many of them are based on real incidents that have happened to me or my loved ones over the years– it’s up to you to guess which ones.

  Ty has always held a special place in my heart and I’m so glad I finally get to share him with all of you!

  Table of Contents

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Chapter One (Ty)

  Chapter Two (Jenna)

  Chapter Three (Ty)

  Chapter Four (Jenna)

  Chapter Five (Ty)

  Chapter Six (Jenna)

  Chapter Seven (Ty)

  Chapter Eight (Jenna)

  Chapter Nine (Ty)

  Chapter Ten (Jenna)

  Chapter Eleven (Ty)

  Chapter Twelve (Jenna)

  Chapter Thirteen (Ty)

  Chapter Fourteen (Jenna)

  Chapter Fifteen (Ty)

  Chapter Sixteen (Jenna)

  Chapter Seventeen (Ty)

  Chapter Eighteen (Jenna)

  Chapter Nineteen (Ty)

  Chapter Twenty (Jenna)

  Chapter Twenty-One (Ty)

  Chapter Twenty-Two (Jenna)

  Chapter Twenty-Three (Ty)

  Chapter Twenty-Four (Jenna)

  Chapter Twenty-Five (Ty)

  Chapter Twenty-Six (Jenna)

  Chapter Twenty-Seven (Ty)

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Also By Lynne Jaymes…

  CONTACT

  Chapter One (Ty)

  Crack.

  I feel it the minute the ball leaves the bat—that satisfying pop that tells you it’s gone.

  “Nice one Branch,” Coach Castro says from behind the backstop.

  “Thank you sir,” I say, propping the bat back up on my shoulder and keeping one eye on the pitching machine out on the grass. The ‘sir’ still feels foreign in my mouth, like I’m just playing at being a Texan—if anyone back in San Francisco heard it they’d give me shit for days. I wish I could say it was the biggest thing I’ve done to fit in since I came here.

  I see another white blur leave the mouth of the machine and let my body take over, timing the swing so that the wood meets the ball with another satisfying crack. I love the power, the strength I feel in these moments—it’s what got me hooked on baseball as a little kid. There’s nothing else like it.

  “Think you can keep that up against Indiana next week?” Coach asks as I give up my spot at the plate and walk slowly back to the dugout.

  “Yes, sir,” I say. And I mean it. I didn’t come all the way out here to ride the bench. I only have these two seasons to make an impression on the scouts so every at bat has to count.

  “That’s the attitude son,” Coach says, swatting me on the arm with a glove. He works at the big glob of chaw in his lip. “You know, there’s been talk that your name has come up in the Astros organization.”

  Coach has to see the effect those words have on me despite my desperate attempt to stay cool. The Astros. The majors. The only thing I’ve wanted since I was six years old and picked up a glove for the first time. A chance to try out with them would make everything worth it—the years of travel ball I played in the Central Valley on fields that registered 105 in the shade, two years at a crappy community college to get my skills up and my name known enough to win this spot at Garvin State. I wasn’t one of those baseball prodigies, one of the kids that the coaches would signal to the other players to move back the minute I came up to the plate. I was an okay player in Little League, sometimes I’d get a good hit, but more often just a bobble to second. But what I lacked in talent I made up for in repetition and desire and that’s gotten me where I am today—standing at the edge of a beautiful ball field at a top baseball school just waiting for my chance to break out, to prove to everyone what I can do.

  “That’s great sir,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady, not giving up any of the emotion I feel at the thought of walking onto a major league field. I turn to watch Mitch at the plate as he lets one get by him with a swish of the bat and a thud as the ball strikes the padded backstop. I’d be cursing and smacking the bat against the ground for letting one go, but Mitch just laughs and gets ready for the next one. It’s one of the things I like about him.

  “You bet your ass it’s great,” Coach says, his eyes on Mitch at the plate. “Keep your bat hot and your nose clean and this time next year you might be in Arizona for spring training instead of hanging around Garvin with us.”

  “That would be cool,” I say. I put my hand to my mouth and pretend to cough in order to cover up the shit-eating grin that’s taken over my face. Just the fact that my name’s been thrown around at some Astros’ meeting is incredible.

  Coach just smiles and spits a wad of brown juice into the empty soda can he always carries as he walks away.

  “Jesus Christ, I suck,” Mitch says with a laugh as he joins me in the dugout. With his heavy Texas accent, blond hair and fondness for oversized belt buckles, Mitch is the poster boy for everything I worried about when I got recruited to come here this year, but since the season started he’s become my unlikely best friend.

  “What was that, like one for ten?” I ask knowing that he hit more than that. My mother could hit more than that.

  “Two for ten,” he says with a grin. “Give me a little credit, Ty—I have been known to hit a ball every now and then.”

  But we both know it doesn’t matter. Mitch is a pitcher, practically expected to choke at the plate, while my position in center field is only secured if I can continue to hit the ball. My dad used to say that every pitch counted, and that’s even more true now. A couple of strike outs, a few dropped balls, and the spotlight will move on to the next player. Because there’s always a next player.

  “What was Coach talking to you about?” Mitch asks as the rest of the guys file into the dugout and we shove our gear into the bat bags.

  “Nothing. Just keep the bat hot and my ass clean. Shit like that.” Mitch might be my best friend,
but there’s no way I’m going to jinx it by talking about the majors. Not to mention the fact that he doesn’t understand the drive that consumes me—he’s actually here for the education and a free ride on the baseball team was the best way for him to do that. As a second-string pitcher, he has no illusions about making it to the majors—when he graduates next year he’ll actually use his degree to get a tech job somewhere out in Silicon Valley and maybe play softball with the old guys in the company on Thursday nights. College for me is only a stepping stone to the one thing I really want in this world—the bright lights of a major league stadium.

  The showers in the locker room are already running and the humidity hits me full in the face as we walk in. Mitch’s locker is next to mine, which is how we got to know each other in the first place.

  “Is that new ink?” he asks as I pull the damp jersey over my head.

  “Yeah,” I say, turning my arm so I can see the quote on the back, the darkness of the new tattoo mixing with the skull I got right after I graduated from high school. The one that I managed to hide from Mom and Dad for almost a year until they got suspicious about why I was swimming with a shirt on. Man, were they pissed. Especially Mom. She’s not going to like this one any better, but I’m 21 years old and have to stop living my life according to what they think. Right now, there’s a lot they don’t know and I’d like to keep it that way.

  Mitch leans in closer. “What are those? Birds?”

  “Ravens,” I say. I feel the blond hairs that cover both arms already starting to come back in.

  “The past is prologue,” he reads, the ink already settling nicely in my skin. I was worried that the guy in Abilene wouldn’t be as sharp as the tattoo shop I’ve been going to back home, but he did a good job. “That mean something?”

  It means a lot, only I can’t say that. It’s about reinventing yourself, about living in the right now, about letting everyone believe what they see and keeping the rest of it hidden. I can’t let myself feel guilty about any of it. I just have to keep going with what I’ve constructed so far.

  “Shakespeare,” I say, grabbing my towel.

  “Deep.”

  I’m hoping that he’s going to drop the subject when there’s a burst of laughter from across the locker room. We both turn in time to see Rowan pulling a large pink tutu out of his locker to the howls of our teammates. To his credit, he just shakes his head and tosses it aside as he grabs the rest of his stuff.

  “What’s the matter Rowan?” Austin calls, holding the tutu up and prancing around the locker room with it. “Not your size? It’s definitely your style.”

  I can see the back of Rowan’s neck getting red and I know that this is the moment that I should step in and defend him, stop all of the locker room bullshit that’s been going on all year. I should tell the guys that it’s nobody’s business if he’s gay and that they should leave him the fuck alone for once. Those are the things I should say, but instead I just grab my shampoo and slam my locker shut. Back home, I’d never let something like this go, but right now I can’t afford for the spotlight to be turned on me. Not when I’m so close to making it all happen.

  “Cut the shit, Austin,” Mitch says as we pass the group on our way to the shower. “Just because you really want a tutu, you don’t have to blame it on someone else.”

  There’s a chorus of ‘oohs’ as we pass, but nobody lashes out at Mitch. He’s secure in his place here and unlike me, he doesn’t have any secrets. He can afford to be the good guy.

  I’m shaking the water out of my ears and pulling my street clothes out of the locker when Rowan passes by, fully dressed, on his way out. After all of the shit he’s been given and the rumors that have been flying about being gay, he doesn’t shower here anymore. He gives Mitch a barely perceptible nod. “Thanks man,” he says quietly.

  “No problem,” Mitch says, nodding back.

  I feel like even more of an asshole for not doing anything. We dress quickly and walk out to the parking lot.

  “You need a ride?” Mitch asks. He’s been good about giving me a lift home from practice since the season started.

  “No, thanks.” I point to the gleaming Triumph I parked near the gym door. “Finally got some wheels.”

  “Wow—nice,” he says, coming over to admire the bike. He runs a finger over the red and white tank. “’67 Bonneville?”

  “Yep,” I look at him, a little surprised. Mitch grew up on a ranch somewhere—I hadn’t figured on him knowing anything about bikes. “Got it off a guy in Lubbock who had a bunch of Triumphs in his garage. This one’s always been my favorite.”

  “Pretty sweet,” he says, squatting down to get a better look at the pipes.

  “It is,” I say, kicking one leg over and straddling the seat. I’ve always wanted a bike like this, and every time I see it, my heart gives a leap. Must be what it’s like to fall in love.

  “Don’t let Coach see this,” Mitch says, standing back up. “He’ll crap himself.”

  “It’ll be fine,” I say. “Haven’t wrecked one yet.”

  “You need something to sit on the back of this,” Mitch says, patting the empty seat behind me. “Speaking of…I’m meeting Nina down at McCarthy’s in a couple of hours. You should come, she’s got some seriously hot friends. Good way to get the week started.”

  “No, thanks,” I say, pretending to wipe something off the speedometer dial. This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation and I hate evading him but I have no choice. “I’ve got some stuff to do.”

  “I’m starting to think you don’t like my girlfriend,” Mitch says.

  I glance up, worried, but there’s a look in his eye that tells me he’s only kidding. I wish I could tell him the real reason that I don’t want to come, except that it has everything to do with Nina and he’d never understand. “It’s not that. Maybe after the game next weekend?” I put that out there knowing I’m just going to have to come up with another excuse.

  “I’m going to force it one of these days,” Mitch says, backing up while I kick the bike to life. There’s a loud roar that drowns out any further conversation as I settle on the seat and pull the throttle.

  I wave to Mitch as I ease the bike out of the parking space, hoping he’s cool with it. It’s not like I’ve made so many friends here this year that I can afford to piss any of them off. The off-campus apartment I’m renting with this guy Jessie isn’t all that far, but it feels good to be riding again. Unlike San Francisco where it’s always jacket weather, the warm Texas air rushes over my head and surrounds my bare arms despite the fact that we’re barely into March. We’ve had helmet laws in California for as long as I can remember and it feels weird to ride without one, but I’m only going a couple of miles. I run one hand over my head, the short, bristly hairs feeling like suede—just another way I’m trying to fit in around here. It’s tempting to pass the small, stuccoed apartment building next to campus and just keep going, gun the bike and keep speeding down the endless stretch of two-lane highway, but I actually wasn’t lying. I have some studying to do for statistics and if I don’t keep my grades up I’m off the team, so I reluctantly lay off the throttle and ease into the parking space under the shelter. I hate not having a garage for the bike, but at least it doesn’t have to sit out with the sun baking on it all day.

  I’m reaching for the glass door to the building when I see her walking out of the laundry room, a basket of neatly folded clothes on her hip. It’s been days since I’ve caught sight of her and I realize now how much I’ve missed it. I wonder if she took off somewhere for the weekend, probably with a boyfriend, because there’s no way someone this hot is unattached. The thought gives me a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach and I try to erase it. I don’t want to wreck the fantasy I’ve built up since the day she moved in.

  “Thank you,” she says, as I hold the door open for her, the soft Texas twang in her voice making my heart beat faster as she brushes by me, her dark brown eyes fixed on the ground. Jenna Taylor.
Dance major, sophomore, comes from somewhere outside of Abilene—way outside according to Jessie, one of those towns that has only four stoplights and a Dairy Queen with a sign that congratulates the FFA on their livestock win. About as far from San Francisco as you can get.

  “No problem,” I reply, following her through the door. We approach the stairs to the second floor together, but I slow my pace so that she can get ahead of me, hoping that I don’t look like a stalker and that she doesn’t notice that I’m sneaking looks at her ass as she walks up the steps. And it is a perfect little ass. Jenna has a way of moving that’s more like gliding than actual walking, her feet turned out just slightly in that way that dancers have. She’s wearing baggy sweats that sit right at the place where the two dimples on her lower back meet her spine and a workout top holding her small, perky breasts that leaves little to the imagination. I can see the muscles in her back move as she walks and that turns me on more than anything, so I shift my eyes up to the expanse of bare white skin on the back of her neck, covered by a few light brown tendrils of hair that escape from the loose bun on top of her head. Even at her messiest, Jenna is perfection. But I can’t talk to her, there’s no point. There’s too much I’d have to say, too much I’d have to give up to make it real.

  I want her to look back as I approach the door to my apartment, nosily fumbling for the keys to try to get her attention, but she stares straight ahead, her back tall and her thin, muscled arms gripping the laundry basket as she heads for her apartment at the end of the hall. I sigh as I take one last look at her and swing my apartment door open. Gotta keep my eyes on the prize. Jenna Taylor is just one more thing I shouldn’t be messing with this year.

  Chapter Two (Jenna)

  Okay, I admit it. When I saw Tyler Branch pull up outside the laundry room window, I might have waited a few extra seconds for him to slide off his new bike and head for the building before I walked out. I purposely didn’t look at him as he held the door open for me because I already knew what I was going to see there. The blond hair he keeps cut almost military-short, the strong, straight nose, and then there’s his eyes. Green eyes like I’ve never seen before, so clear and piercing with a band of orange around the rim and blond lashes that almost disappear in the sun against his golden tan skin. He’s almost never without his gym bag but for some reason he always smells like soap and something else, something strong and spicy that gets me way down deep.