Falling for the Girl Next Door

by Tera Lynn Childs

  “Yeah,” I say, trying to look at the design with fresh eyes, “I guess I can see what you’re saying.”

  Finn turns to face Willa. “I think the browns add depth.”

  “I’m with Willa,” Tru says.

  It takes all my restraint not to turn and glare at him.

  “I think we should have a vote,” Willa says, a self-satisfied look on her face. “All in favor of taking out the brown?”

  Several people—including Tru, Willa, Mariely, and Dahlia—raise their hands.

  “All in favor of keeping the brown?”

  Finn, Damien, and a few others raise their hands. Cabot raises his hand until Mariely nudges him in the shoulder, and he drops it back to his side.

  “Well, it looks to me like the numbers were dead even,” Oliver says. “I think that means Sloane gets to cast the deciding vote.”

  “I…” I’m not sure what to think. Part of me agrees with Willa’s criticism, but I also think she was only being critical because of Finn. I’m glad our plan is working for him, but also annoyed Willa would bring that into a discussion about art.

  Either way, I don’t think I can make a decision right now on the spot.

  “I’ll take another run at the poster,” I tell Oliver, pointedly not looking at Willa, Finn, or Tru, “and if it looks better without the brown, I’ll leave it out.”

  “Excellent compromise. Now, next up is…” Oliver smiles as he skims his gaze over the three students who have yet to present—Jenna, Finn, and Tru. “Tru. You’re up.”

  We squeeze past each other as I head back to my seat and Tru moves to the computer. It’s been a long time since we were this close, and I can’t even enjoy it.

  “Thanks a lot,” I whisper softly so no one else can hear.

  He freezes. “It wasn’t personal.”

  “It felt personal.”

  Without waiting for him to respond, I continue back to my seat. I turn around to face the whiteboard, ready to watch the projection of Tru’s video.

  “Actually, Oliver,” Tru says, his voice taking on that I-don’t-care-enough-to-care tone that I hate, “I don’t have anything to present today.”

  I spin around to face him. That’s a lie and I know it. I went to all those locations with him. I know how much footage he shot.

  “I’m disappointed to hear that,” Oliver replies.

  Tru shrugs and drops back into his chair.

  “Next up will be…” Oliver’s gaze scans to Finn.

  “Don’t you think we’re running out of time, Mr. Wendell?” Finn asks before Oliver can call on him.

  Oliver frowns, like he’s trying to figure out if he’s being played. But, as Finn has proven time and again, he’s a really good actor.

  Oliver relents. “Very well.”

  Next to me, Finn sighs with relief.

  Beyond Finn, Jenna looks upset.

  I’ll bet she’s wishing she volunteered to go first right about now.

  “Far be it from me to be the one to delay the start of your vacation by even a few minutes. So let’s consider this class dismissed,” Oliver says as the seats are already emptying.

  “Have a great holiday,” he calls out to fast retreating backs. “Be safe and come back ready to start filming!”

  …

  Tru reached for the gear shift. His exchange with Sloane in Senior Seminar left him with a bad taste in his mouth and he didn’t know what to do about it.

  On the one hand, he knew he had every right to objectively critique her work.

  On the other, he knew he hadn’t been objective.

  As he shifted into reverse, Sloane placed her hand over his.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I got defensive.”

  “I shouldn’t have—”

  “No,” she said before he could apologize. “You should have. A good artist knows how to take criticism.”

  “I—” He wasn’t sure what to say, but he knew he didn’t want to be let off the hook. He just didn’t know how to say that. “You’re right, a good artist takes criticism. A great artist learns how to separate out the biased kind.”

  “Are you saying you were being biased?”

  “I’m saying there were emotions involved,” he admitted. “Like jealousy.”

  She didn’t respond. She remained quiet for so long that he thought she was going to pass the rest of the ride home in silence.

  Until finally she said, “I miss you.”

  His chest tightened. Just like that, she had absolved him. Had forgiven him, even though he didn’t deserve to be.

  He wanted to say he missed her, too. He wanted to tell her he was stupid to think they needed a break, that he wanted her at his side no matter what, that he wanted her in his arms as much as she was already in his heart.

  But he also knew how selfish that was. With everything that he was going through, that would only mean dragging her through the mud with him. She deserved better. She deserved a better version of him.

  He wanted to be worthy of the smart and sassy girl who always surprised him.

  Until he got his act cleaned up, he wouldn’t be.

  And so he simply said, “I know.”

  He shifted into first and then pulled his hand away. His chest tightened when he saw her draw her hand back into her lap. But it had to be this way. It was necessary for her protection. Just like the fake relationship with Finn was necessary for convincing her dad to move to Austin. That was good for both of them. Tru had to get over himself about that.

  “Sorry if I’ve been a jerk about the thing with McCain.”

  “You haven’t—” she started to say. Then, “Okay, maybe you have. But it’s understandable. It’s complicated.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  She snorted softly at the ironic understatement.

  They fell into a slightly uncomfortable silence. He didn’t like how strange it felt to just sit in the same car with her. Since the day he first climbed onto her roof, they had been comfortable with each other, like two halves of a whole that just clicked into place.

  This was downright painful.

  “How is your therapy going?” Sloane finally asked as they pulled onto the freeway.

  He shrugged as they started the long crawl into Friday afternoon traffic.

  “Hard to tell,” he answered. “All she does is make me talk.”

  “Sometimes talking is good,” she said.

  “Sometimes talking is hard,” he replied.

  “Sometimes everything is hard.”

  Her voice was so soft and quiet that it was hard not to reach over and take her hand. Everything in him wanted to comfort her, to make her feel better and tell her everything would be okay.

  But it wouldn’t be. It couldn’t be. Not until he was okay.

  He needed to keep her at a distance until he was.

  “So, I hear you’re cooking up an amazing Christmas Eve dinner,” he said, trying to break the awkward silence.

  “I’m going to try,” she replied. “I hear you’re going to be there.”

  “Yeah, my mom told me.”

  The tension pulsing off her ratcheted up ten degrees. He didn’t want to make her feel bad or uncomfortable. Never that.

  “I can skip out,” he offered. “I can play the sick card. My mom would totally buy it as an attack of withdrawal.”

  Sloane looked at him. Even though he couldn’t face her, he could feel her gaze on him.

  “I don’t want that,” she said. “Unless you don’t think you can…”

  She trailed off, but she didn’t have to finish. He knew what she meant. He knew what she was asking. Would he be able to sit there and watch her play girlfriend with Finn?

  He wouldn’t like it. It would probably be pure torture.

  But he would rather spend a miserable Christmas Eve with her than the best Christmas Eve ever with anyone else.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Good.”

  He could hear the
smile in her voice. She was just as glad that he was coming. Knowing she felt the same way made all the tension flood out of him.

  Suddenly the silence in the car was back to comfortable.

  …

  First thing Saturday morning, I dig in on the one big project I have to accomplish over winter break: Christmas Eve dinner. This might be my biggest project ever—even bigger than the guerrilla art installation that got me exiled to Texas in the first place.

  The first thing on my holiday meal agenda is to round up my recipes, which means hitting the internet. I start by searching for vegetarian versions of traditional Christmas foods.

  Back in New York, Mom always liked to try different recipes at Christmas. Maybe because it was the only time of year she exercised her culinary creativity. The rest of the year we either ate out, got takeout, or brought home heat-and-eat meals.

  Which explains why, when we moved to Austin, I was so shocked to learn she’s actually a pretty phenomenal cook. Who knew?

  Other than helping Mom decorate cookies a few times, I’ve never actually participated in cooking a meal. What on earth possessed me to volunteer to make one as important as Christmas Eve dinner all on my own?

  But I have faith in my ability to follow directions. Between Google and my determination to make this the perfect family-reuniting meal, I’m sure I can make it work.

  I’m sorting through an overwhelming list of possible recipes when Mom knocks on my door.

  “Yeah?” I call out.

  She opens the door and looks startled when she sees me at my desk. “I didn’t hear you get up.”

  “I’ve been up for a while,” I say with a shrug.

  She holds out a large, plastic wrap-covered plate. “Miko sent sugar cookies. Want one?”

  “Or ten.” I flash her a devious smile. “When have I ever turned down a cookie?”

  She laughs as she sets the plate on my desk.

  These are not the haphazard sugar cookies I remember decorating as a little girl. No uneven lines or three-eyed Santas in this bunch. Every last one is a perfect snowflake, with delicate lines of icing traced along each arm. The icing has been dusted with coarse sugar, and the very end of each line is punctuated with a tiny silver ball.

  “Are these even edible?” I ask, holding one up for inspection.

  Mom shakes her head. “The look like they should be in a catalog.”

  “Or a museum.”

  I choose one and take a bite. The cookie melts in my mouth like pure indulgence.

  “Omigod,” I say around the mouthful of cookie. “This is amazing.”

  Mom nods. “Miko has the gift.”

  While I finish my cookie, Mom starts on one of her own.

  By the time we’ve each finished two, I feel like I’ve had my sugar fill for the day. One more might put me into a coma.

  “What are your plans for the morning?” Mom asks, looking just as over-sugared as I feel.

  I moan and rub my stomach. “I was hunting down recipes for my Christmas Eve menu. But I don’t think I can look at any more food right now.”

  “Then how about you help me decorate?”

  My stomach churns at the idea of decorating our own batch of holiday cookies. “Decorate what?”

  “The house,” she says, as if the answer should be obvious. “For Christmas. I’ve heard people do that sometimes.”

  I roll my eyes at her attempt at humor. Parents should not be allowed to wield sarcasm.

  “I thought it would be nice if the house was full of Christmas when your brother gets here this afternoon.”

  “Do we even have decorations?” I ask.

  “We do now,” she says in a suspiciously cheerful tone. “I might have stopped at Crate and Barrel on my way home from work yesterday.”

  I give her a side-eye.

  “And Pier 1. And World Market.” She throws her hands up in the air. “What can I say? I’m feeling the Christmas spirit.”

  She seems so genuinely excited about this that I can’t help but catch a little of the holiday enthusiasm.

  “Okay,” I tell her. “Give me ten minutes.”

  She practically jumps to her feet. “I’ll bring in the shopping bags. Let’s meet in the living room.”

  I give her a thumbs-up.

  I can finalize my menu choices later when my stomach is done protesting any and all holiday-related food. Maybe turning the house into a holiday wonderland will get me in the Christmas spirit, too.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I have only been to a handful of airports in my life, but I think Austin-Bergstrom International is possibly one of the coolest.

  For the most part, it’s an airport like any other. Wild traffic, impossible parking, and harried travelers. But two things definitely make it stand out.

  First, the live music. I can’t see the performers from down here in baggage claim, but I can hear the bluesy-indie sounds drifting through the air. It makes the airport feel like a concert venue. If I had to name one thing that might make air travel more enjoyable, live music would definitely be at the top of the list.

  Second, the baggage claim. In other airports I’ve been in, baggage claim is a throwaway. A bunch of conveyor belts that make loud, annoying noises when the luggage is about to start rolling out. Shiny, antiseptic metal and plain flooring chosen for durability more than design. It’s bland and boring as a paper napkin.

  Oh, the Austin airport still has all of those things, but boring it is not.

  Perched on top of the central carousel is a collection of oversized guitars decorated in a variety of bright and colorful designs. It speaks to Austin’s proud tradition as a cutting-edge music scene and the “Keep Austin Weird” city motto.

  Plus, it adds an extra injection of cheer into the end of a person’s journey.

  Every airport should have something like this.

  “They’re coming in to gate twenty-one,” Mom says as she walks back over from checking the arrivals screen. “They should be coming down this one.”

  We move to stand at the base of the escalator where Dad and Dylan should appear. There is a sea of people riding down to the baggage claim level. Some look exhausted. Some look excited and ready to party. Others are looking around for whoever is picking them up, and then breaking into smiles and waves when they see them.

  I scan my eyes over person after person. The businessmen coming home from their last work trip of the year. The musicians arriving to perform at the holiday music festival. The tourists who, for some reason, have decided Austin is the place to be this holiday season.

  Mom squeals.

  My gaze darts around until I see them. Dylan is just stepping onto the escalator, waving at us with the hugest smile on his face. It’s only been three months, but he looks older, like his little round face is a little less round.

  I can’t believe how much I missed seeing that face on a daily basis.

  Dad is right behind him, still in the business suit he probably wore to work this morning. For him, there is no such thing as a weekend. Or even a holiday. There is only work, work, and more work.

  He has his phone pressed to his ear, deep in conversation with someone important about something crucial, I’m sure. It always is.

  He waves at us as he steps onto the escalator, but it’s a more reserved wave than the one Dylan gave us. More like he’s acknowledging a business acquaintance than seeing his wife and daughter for the first time in months.

  Good to see you, too, Dad.

  “Does he look taller?” Mom asks, and I can hear the emotion in her voice. “He looks taller.”

  “Who, Dad?” I reply. I know she means Dylan, but I’m trying to lighten the mood. “Nope, I think he’s the same height as always.”

  She smirks, but doesn’t tear her eyes off my baby brother long enough to even give me a glare.

  She rushes him as soon as he reaches our level, wrapping him in a huge hug I’m sure is supposed to make up for all the hugs she’s missed. From the loo
k of pure joy on his face, maybe it does.

  “Mom,” I say, yanking her out of the path of the escalator, “you’re going to cause a pile-up.”

  She doesn’t let go of Dylan, but reluctantly moves her hugging off to the side.

  “Fine, then,” Dad says into the phone. “Text me when it’s done.”

  He stuffs the phone into his jacket pocket and then appears to realize I’m standing right in front of him.

  “Baby girl,” he says in that tone he always uses, like I’m still that little pink bundle of joy they brought home from the hospital seventeen-and-a-half years ago.

  And it works. I feel like that baby girl. I can’t help it.

  All the weeks of resentment, of being angry at him for letting us go and for never having time for more than the shortest of phone calls, vanishes. I rush him like a linebacker and squeeze my arms around his waist.

  “I missed you,” I whisper into his chest.

  He wraps his arm over my shoulder. “Missed you, too, sweetheart.”

  “Your bags should be arriving at carousel two,” Mom says.

  Not the one with the guitars. Bummer.

  Dad leans out of my hug. “I only have this,” he says, indicating the garment bag that hangs from his left shoulder. “But Dylan has a checked bag.”

  “I dumped my entire dresser into a duffle.” Dylan beams, as if he’s certain he discovered the best packing method ever.

  Mom is right. Dylan looks taller. He’s almost as tall as Mom now, putting him at just about five-three, which makes him just one inch shorter than me.

  “What did you do?” I ask, giving him the once over. “Take growth spurt pills?”

  His smile makes me feel like the whole world is going to be okay. “Pills are so twentieth century,” he says. “All the new medicine is in topical creams now.”

  I shake my head at his science nerddom.

  “Get over here,” I tell him.

  The next instant, he’s in my arms. It feels so good to have my Dylan back.

  As much as he loves to bug the hell out of me and usually only talks about things I don’t care about using words I don’t understand, he’s like a limb I didn’t realize how much I missed until I got it back.

  “I missed you so much, Sloaner,” he whispers in my ear.

  His heartfelt confession brings tears to my eyes.