Falling for the Girl Next Door

by Tera Lynn Childs

  After such an unexpectedly great dinner with Mom, I drift back upstairs in a kind of good-food fog, ready to do a little last minute cramming for my Modern Lit exam.

  I stop at my desk to shut down my computer before hitting the literal books, but stop when I see the unread message blinking on my email inbox.

  As soon as I read the subject line my heart thump-thumps.

  My First Demand

  It’s from Engineering Boy.

  Clamping my jaw to keep from losing my too-delicious-to-hork dinner all over my desk, I click on the message.

  After long and careful consideration, I have decided my first demand is that you send me the next issue of Graphic Grrl early. By Thursday night, to be exact. If it’s not in my inbox on Friday morning, expect the world to find out who you are.

  Heart pounding, I open a new tab and go to whoisgraphicgrrl.com. Sure enough, the countdown timer on the site is now counting down to Friday morning. Some quick mental math pinpoints the time to 8:00 a.m. Eastern Time. That’s 7:00 a.m. here in Austin.

  Sheer panic sets in. What am I going to do?

  It’s almost impossible that I’ll have the new strip done by Thursday night. I haven’t roughed out the frames, yet. I don’t even know how Graphic Grrl is going to get away from the cyborg spiders.

  I’ll be coming in hot on the deadline to get her up at her regularly scheduled post time.

  Even if I could deliver the strip early, though, that doesn’t mean that I would. Or should. If I send him the strip, if I give in to his demands, it’ll be like I’m giving up. Like I’m giving in and letting him, whoever he is, win.

  I don’t like letting other people win.

  But I also don’t like the idea of the entire world finding out that I’m the creator of Graphic Grrl. Not yet, and not on someone else’s terms. If the world is going to find out, I want to be the one to tell them.

  And I am nowhere near ready to do that. I am nowhere near ready to face what that will do to my life.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  I jump at the sound. If my heart could literally jump out of my throat—the way it did for Graphic Grrl the first time she had to face the Neon Rats in a dark alley—that’s what my heart would be doing right now.

  When I spin around, I see Tru’s face smiling at me through the glass.

  He hasn’t been on my roof in days—definitely the longest stretch since Mom and I moved in.

  I’ve never been happier to see him.

  “Hey,” I say as I slide the window open. “You coming in? Or am I coming out?”

  He gives me a melancholy smile. “Definitely out.”

  Right. We’re on a break. Which means no making out in my room.

  A few seconds later, I’ve moved my box-turned-ladder into place and climbed out onto the roof with him. I’m glad I thought to grab my hoodie on the way out. It’s downright cold out here.

  I’m relieved when I don’t smell alcohol on his breath. That’s a good sign.

  We sit in comfortable silence for a while, just taking in the star-filled sky and the sounds of Texas at night.

  “Long time, no roof,” I finally say.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve missed this.”

  I want to say, I’ve missed you. But I don’t want to make things any harder for him—for us—than they already are. It wouldn’t be fair.

  I crisscross my legs and pick at the hem of my jeans. “So guess what?”

  He looks at me, but doesn’t guess.

  “The first demand from my Graphic Girl blackmailer just came in.”

  “Bad?” he asks.

  I roll my neck against the sudden tension in my shoulders. “It could be worse. He wants me to send him the next issue early.”

  Tru makes a face. “Are you going to?”

  “I’m not sure I can,” I answer honestly. “I haven’t even started this week’s strip.”

  Which doesn’t even begin to address the question of whether or not I should. But I have time—two days, anyway—to decide about that.

  Right now, there are more important things. Tru didn’t come here to talk about Engineering Boy.

  “Whatever,” I tell him. “I’ll figure it out. What’s up with you?”

  Now he’s the one stretching his neck against muscle tension. It takes all my willpower not to reach over and rub the ache away.

  “I told my mom,” he says. “About my drinking.”

  That is pretty much the last thing I ever expected him to say. Tru isn’t exactly the sharing type, especially not with his parents.

  I think it’s probably a good sign that he’s told her.

  “What did she say?”

  He half-laughs. “That my father can never find out.”

  I can’t even imagine what his dad would do if he learned his son had been draining the liquor cabinet. He would probably be more embarrassed for himself than concerned about Tru’s well-being.

  Just another reason I don’t like his dad.

  “And she’s sending me to a counselor,” he continues. “A therapist.”

  He says it like it’s a bad word. Like admitting that he has a drinking problem is one thing, but the idea of seeing a therapist is too much.

  “That’s good,” I tell him. “You shouldn’t try to do this on your own. Professional help can only make things easier.”

  I have a feeling that talking to someone, that opening up about everything that’s going inside his mind, might be the key to overcoming his problem.

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see,” he says, leaning back against the house. “I’m going to my first session tomorrow morning.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be great.” I try to sound as upbeat and positive as possible.

  “Can you—” He groans, and knocks his head back against the house. “Can your mom give you a ride to school?”

  “Totally. It’s no problem.”

  I lean back against the house next to him. We sit there, side-by-side, not saying anything at all. Just…being.

  Finally, when I’m starting to get so cold that I’m either going to have to go back inside or snuggle up against Tru, he speaks.

  “I’m scared.”

  His voice is so quiet that I barely hear him. Like a frightened child.

  My heart breaks in half.

  “Of what?”

  He looks at me, and there is so much pain in his eyes that the halves of my heart just shatter.

  “What if I can’t do it?” he asks. “What if I can’t stop?”

  I give in to the impulse to take his hand. I weave our fingers together, and squeeze his palm against mine.

  “Have you had anything to drink since…” I start to say, Since you put us on a break, but I don’t want to bring up that reminder. “Since Sunday?”

  He shakes his head. “I’ve wanted one.” He rubs his free hand over his hair. “God, I’ve wanted one.”

  “You just have to take it one day at a time,” I tell him. “You made it through Monday. You made it through today. Tomorrow, you’ll focus on making it through tomorrow.”

  He nods, but I can tell he doesn’t quite believe me. I don’t know that I believe me. What do I know about addiction recovery?

  But I have faith in Tru. I have faith in his inner strength and his determination to do what he sets out to do.

  He’ll make it through.

  We both will.

  …

  “Truman Dorsey?”

  The woman who walked out into the waiting room didn’t look like a therapist. Or at least not what Tru expected a therapist to look like.

  She looked more like an art teacher. Long flowing skirt. Long sweater layered over another top. Long hair twisted up into a messy knot on top of her head. Optimistic grin on her face.

  She was probably around his mom’s age. Early forties, if he had to guess.

  “Truman?” she asked again, her gaze landing on him.

  He didn’t know who else she thought he could be. He was the only person in the
waiting room.

  After his mom made the appointment, he’d insisted that he go alone. It was bad enough knowing that his mom knew. He didn’t think he would be able to go through this if he knew she was watching over his shoulder the whole time.

  “Are you Truman?” the woman asked, her face falling as if maybe she was wrong.

  “Tru,” he said, pushing to his feet. “That’s me.”

  “Oh good.” She grinned and looked more than a little relieved. “I’m Maggie. Let’s go inside.”

  She gestured at the door to her office and then waited until Tru had passed through before following him inside.

  “No couch?” he joked when all he saw was a desk on one side of the room and a pair of arm chairs on the other.

  “It’s being reupholstered.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. Was that a joke? Were therapists allowed to make jokes?

  Maggie crossed to the pair of chairs and sat in the one that faced the door. She gestured for Tru to take the other one.

  Once he was seated, she crossed her arms and leaned forward over her knees.

  “I always like to give my new patients a little preview of what their treatment is going to entail,” she said. “To be clear, this isn’t a rehabilitation program or a celebrity detox center. It’s not Alcoholics Anonymous. It’s more of an exploration to find out if you need any of those more serious treatments.”

  An exploration? Sounded like some touchy-feely nonsense that New Age-ers and yoga freaks enjoyed. He didn’t think his mom went in for that kind of thing, but maybe he was wrong.

  He’d been wrong about a lot of things lately.

  “We’re going to be talking about your life,” Maggie continued. “About your friends and family, your dreams and goals, your challenges and your weaknesses.”

  “Sounds like a barrel of laughs.”

  She smiled at him. “Anything you tell me in these sessions will be privileged. It won’t leave this room. It is important that you be as honest as possible with me, with the program, for it to have a chance of working.”

  He nodded in agreement.

  However silly or uncomfortable that all sounded, Tru knew that he would do anything to get better. He would strip naked and do an interpretive dance in front of the entire school if it meant getting better. If it meant becoming worthy of Sloane.

  “The first couple of weeks are usually the hardest,” Maggie said. “You will be a mess. You will be more irritable than usual, you will be more emotional. It will never be easy, but it will get easier.”

  Again, Tru nodded. “I know.”

  “Excellent.” Maggie reached for the legal pad and pen that were sitting on the side table next to her chair. “Now that we have the introductions out of the way, let’s get started.”

  Tru felt his shoulders tense up. He didn’t know what to expect, but he was braced for the worst.

  “Tell me about the first time you had a drink.”

  Yep, that was it. The worst.

  She went right for the jugular.

  “How old were you?” she asked.

  “The first time I drank,” he began, “I was fourteen.”

  She nodded and scribbled something down on her legal pad. “And do you remember why you drank?”

  He had told her he would try. He had told her he would be as honest as possible. But did that mean he had to jump right in on his relationship with his father?

  He didn’t know if he could do that.

  But for his sake—and for his relationship with Sloane, which he wanted more than anything to make right—he would try.

  “Yeah,” he said, facing the painful memory, “I remember.”

  Chapter Nine

  When Mom pulls up to the curb in the school parking lot the next morning, Finn is waiting for me. He looks surprised to see that it’s not Tru giving me a ride.

  Then again, we didn’t tell him why this whole sham-boyfriend thing is necessary, so it’s not like he would know that Tru has morning therapy.

  I told Mom that Tru had to go in early for an ArtSquad practice. I hate lying to her, but that’s better than telling her the truth in this situation. She doesn’t know that I’m on the team, too, or that we’re on hiatus until after break. What she doesn’t know can’t hurt me.

  Before our car pulls to a complete stop, I’m throwing open the door. I grab my backpack as I jump out.

  “See you when I get home,” I tell Mom.

  Then I slam the door and start walking away before she can ask any questions about the tall blond guy who’s walking toward me like he is waiting for me. Which he is.

  I don’t breathe again until I hear the car driving away.

  “Hey, Sloane,” Finn calls out. “Wait up.”

  “My mom almost saw you,” I say, like it’s an accusation.

  He frowns, dark blond brows scowling over dark gray eyes. “I thought that was the point.”

  I glare at him for a second, like I want to be angry, but he’s right. I can’t exactly keep Finn a secret.

  “I haven’t told her yet,” I explain.

  “You haven’t told your mom about the guy you’re bringing to Christmas dinner?”

  “Christmas Eve,” I correct. “And it’s complicated.”

  He shrugs, like it makes no difference to him either way. And it shouldn’t.

  Logically, I know that Finn can’t just show up at our family holiday dinner without Mom knowing in advance that it’s not going to be Tru. I have to tell her.

  It just has to be the right time.

  “We need a game plan,” Finn says.

  “A game plan?”

  “If we’re going to make anyone think that this is real in less than a week,” he says, gesturing at the two of us, “then we have to put on a good show.”

  Finn keeps stride with me as I navigate my way across campus, toward my locker.

  “What kind of show?” I ask.

  He looks at me like I might not have all my marbles.

  Maybe I don’t.

  “The kind that makes other people think that we’re an item.”

  From the way he emphasizes other people I know he means Willa. As in the whole reason he’s doing this for me in the first place.

  “So, like you walking me to my locker?” I guess.

  He grins. “Exactly. And eating lunch together.”

  “Tru and I usually eat at a picnic table in the quad.”

  “Isn’t it getting kind of cold for that?”

  I shrug. “The fresh air is nice.”

  “Okay,” Finn concedes. “I’ll find you there.”

  If he thinks it’ll be uncomfortable to eat with Tru at the same table, he doesn’t show it.

  He leans against the locker next to mine as I spin my combination. It’s weird to have someone—a boy who isn’t Tru—paying attention to me like this. Even though I know Finn isn’t interested in me that way any more than I’m interested in him, it’s still…weird.

  Plus, I get the feeling that he’s always calculating. I can practically hear the gears turning in his mind.

  “Laugh at me,” Finn says.

  “What?”

  “Right now,” he whispers. “Laugh.”

  I bark out what has to be the most awkward laugh in the history of all laughs. Finn grins with what looks like pride. Then he leans closer and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

  I stiffen. What on earth is going on here?

  I’m still frozen in shock when I sense movement in my peripheral vision. Willa and Mariely walk by, heads close together and speaking in hushed tones.

  My eyes widen as I realize what he was doing.

  When the girls are out of sight, I tell him, “Sorry. That was a crappy performance.”

  “It’ll get easier,” he assures me.

  But I’m not so sure it will. Acting doesn’t exactly come easily for me.

  “You’re sure you want to do this?” he asks. “You and Dorsey seem pretty tight.”

  �
��Like I said, it’s complicated.” I level a serious look at him. I will get better at this charade, because it’s a means to an end. A means to an end that is really important to me. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  He smiles, a kind of wry half-smile that hides more than it shares. “Without a doubt.”

  “Okay, then.” I slam my locker shut. “Let the show begin.”

  By the time Senior Seminar rolls around, Finn and I have been spotted talking between classes three times, eating lunch together, and laughing uproariously once when Finn told me the most ridiculous story of something that happened on the set of one of his mom’s movies.

  That last one was the only interaction that didn’t feel totally fake. I am so not made for the acting life.

  If Willa actually believes that I’m interested in Finn, I will be amazed. Finn, on the other hand, should win the Academy Award. Sometimes I even find myself almost believing that he really likes me. And I know better.

  So when he drops into the chair next to me and says, “Hey, beautiful,” I find myself looking up from my tablet and grinning at him like a bit of a fool.

  He can be a real charmer when he wants to be. How Willa hasn’t seen it, I have no clue.

  “Hey, handsome,” I say back.

  In deference to the sham relationship, Tru is sitting across the table from me. He doesn’t say anything. But even from across the room, I can feel him watching me.

  “Working on something special?” Finn asks.

  He leans close, looking over my arm at the screen of my tablet.

  “Concept sketches for the movie poster,” I tell him. “Wanna see?”

  His smile illuminates the entire room. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  I scoot my tablet over closer to him and start flipping through my sketches.

  “I like that one,” Finn says as I show him the sketch that depicts Lizzie hold an axe dripping with blood. “Appropriately gruesome.”

  He leans closer, so close I can feel the heat of his arm next to mine. So close that I can feel the swirl of his breath on my skin.

  I draw back instinctively.

  It’s one thing to buy into the flirting, to laugh at his silly jokes or be flattered by his compliments, but this is moving way too close to a line I don’t feel comfortable crossing.

  “Come on, Sloane,” Finn whispers, so low that no one else can hear him. “Give me something.”