My body jerked as though I'd been goosed from behind. My cheeks heated with mortification. Truman had to have seen me eye-fucking his body as I stood over him, like some crazy stalker. Jesus Christ, what a nerd. My belly heated with a different brand of warmth when he let me off the hook by lowering his head, closing his eyes and pretending like nothing happened. Yet, despite his words, I had the feeling he was also inviting me to keep doing exactly what I'd been doing. Judging by his smile, he liked being looked at. I definitely liked doing the looking.
I compromised and lowered myself down to sitting as I watched the rise and fall of his belly, round biceps framing his face. I resisted the urge to curl myself against him, settling instead on staring out across the small, manmade pond in the center of the park.
We stayed like that for a long time. He seemed comfortable simply being there with me, enjoying the setting, no need for words. It helped me relax, at first. Then, as the minutes ticked by, I began to feel awkward. It was either talk or keep going with my X-rated train of thought. "So, you live at home with your parents?" I silently congratulated myself on taking the high road, rather than continuing to picture him naked. Despite years of admiring him from afar, I didn't really know him. I wanted to.
He shifted a little but didn't look at me. "Yeah."
"Um, do you have any brothers or sisters?"
He grinned. "One of each, both younger."
"What are they like?"
He rolled over to face me, his head propped on an elbow. "Sawyer is a good enough guy. He's only a year and a half younger. He's kind of a pothead, but he'd never hurt a soul. Grace is the youngest. She's an annoying little pain in the ass, but I love her. She's twelve going on thirty-two."
I chuckled and settled on my side in front of him, mirroring his posture as I propped my head up, as well. "I have twin twelve year-old brothers. I feel your pain."
"I bet you do." He chuckled, reaching out to push a strand of hair from my eyes.
I wanted to memorize the feel of that small bit of skin against mine. "Um, how about your parents, you get along with them?"
His eyes darkened as he pulled his hand away. "Yeah, we get along all right. They mostly leave me alone. I work with my dad and uncle Matt." His chin lifted with pride, or anger. I couldn't tell.
"What do you do?"
"Roofing, construction. Actually it's mostly them ordering me around, yelling at me to trim a piece of wood or bring them more nails, complaining that I don't move fast enough or I cut something to the wrong size, shit like that." His voice was gravelly.
"What about your mom?"
The dark energy dissipated somewhat, though he seemed only marginally more enthusiastic. "She's cool."
He rolled to his back but kept his eyes open. "My parents were high school sweethearts. She was a cheerleader, and he was captain of the football team."
I smiled. "Really? That's adorable."
His answering smile was tight. "She got pregnant with me her senior year. He quit the team, dropped out, got married, and started working so he could support her."
"Oh, wow, that must have been hard."
"Yep." His jaw flexed the muscles visible under the smooth skin of his cheek. "I don't think he would've married her if she hadn't gotten pregnant. But that's what you did, I guess, when you knocked someone up. Then Sawyer came along not long after me, and Grace a few years after that. Before he knew it, he had three kids, a string of shitty jobs, and that was his life."
"You don't think he's happy?"
His laugh was strained. "Hell, no. He's a miserable son of a bitch."
"Sorry, Truman." My response was so lame. I scrambled to find some words of comfort or wisdom to help him feel better.
He bristled. "Don't feel sorry for me, darlin'. I'm not the one who got the head cheerleader pregnant." His charming grin was back, but the warmth in his eyes when he looked at me was gone.
Had I made a mistake by asking him such personal questions? Maybe he'd felt like I'd invaded his privacy. Crap, I'd ruined the mood. I opened my mouth to change the subject when he stood. His body lengthened as he stretched before he gathered up our uneaten candy and sodas and shoved them back into the pockets of his jacket. I took the cue and stood, as well.
"I better get you home. I gotta get up early tomorrow."
Yep. I'd ruined my first, and probably last, date with Truman Miller.
CHAPTER THREE
No DNA was left behind
Past~
For twenty-four hours I allowed myself to obsess about our date. Why had he ended it so abruptly? Had I asked too many personal questions? After two days, with no call, I lost hope. He wasn't going to ask me out again. My silly high school crush was over.
But there he was, three days later, his scratchy, vaguely southern accent on the other end of the line.
"What are you doing tonight?"
Despite my limited experience, I knew I wasn't supposed to say yes to a last minute invite. Amy would've had a fit had she been there. But I didn't want to play games with Truman. I'd watched him for years. He seemed unfailingly straightforward, brutally blunt at times. I found comfort in that and wanted to give the same back to him.
"Nothing much. Just hanging out." My smile was huge. I gripped the phone between my fingers while I tried, and failed, to sound neutral. God, I seriously needed to up my game. Create my game. I was too available.
"Well, we're doing the same thing here, darlin'. Come over if you want."
"Who's we?" I could hear others in the background, male and female voices.
"Oh, my brother, a couple cousins, and friends." Long pause. "You coming or not?"
I couldn't say no. Not when I'd been so sad about the idea of never going out with him again. He was my dream crush, and he was asking. Maybe not for a real date again, but over to his house, with his family and friends. It was good enough for me.
I hurried to shower, primp, and then bring everything down a notch so I wouldn't look like I'd tried too hard. When enough time had passed that it wouldn't seem like I was overly eager, I skittered down the stairs and paused in the doorway of our family room.
"I'm going out. To Truman Miller's house."
The TV was up too loud, and my brothers were about to knock over the coffee table as they wrestled. Mom sat in an easy chair, her hand waving casually while she kept her eyes on whatever show was playing. "Nice, honey. Is he a friend from school?"
I opened my mouth to speak but couldn't get past my shock. Which issue was more important? The fact that Mom had forgotten—in the space of a mere forty-eight hours—about my crush on Truman Miller or the increased likelihood that Everett was about to get a concussion from Winston's fists against his head as they wrestled on the floor?
Fuck it.
"Yeah. From school. See ya." I crumpled the piece of paper with his address written on it in my fist as I walked out the door.
***
Truman's family lived in a bungalow on west eleventh. Not the best part of town, but there were worse neighborhoods. I parked my car and approached. Lights from the large front windows illuminated the yard. Green paint was chipped and faded in spots. Black shutters framed only a few of the windows. Wide, uneven front steps led to a full porch crowded with lawn chairs and a battered love seat.
Someone sat on an old wicker chair on the far end of the porch. He was a smiling, dopey version of Truman, the resemblance clear enough that it had to be his brother, Sawyer. When his lazy, stoner gaze wandered all over my body, I did my best to plaster on a friendly smile, despite my unease. He had Truman's looks, but none of his charisma. This guy's perusal made me itchy, though I knew he was harmless, as one knows a sloth isn't going to climb down from its tree and chase you through the jungle.
"Hey, there. You must be Jessa." He stayed seated, but his eyes lit up. Sawyer's voice was a carbon copy of Tru's, his tone a little more apathetic, his drawl thicker, but over the phone you'd have a hard time telling them apart.
"Yea
h, and you're Sawyer."
His smile grew even bigger, and I imagined that the pictures from his childhood, where he likely had the same chubby cheeks and twinkling eyes, weren't much different today than they were back then. When he smiled, the effect was of a kid trapped in a man's body.
He nodded. "She's real pretty, Tru. You did good. Maybe you can hold on to this one."
I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and turned to find Truman standing in the doorway, outlined by the bright lights in the house. Though I couldn't see his face, I grinned, relieved at his timing. I'd already made awkward conversation with him on our first date. I wasn't eager to continue the tradition with his brother.
He sauntered over to me, smelling faintly of cigarettes and beer and mint, and took my hand in his. It was warm and strong, just what I needed.
"Jessa, you've met Sawyer. That loser next to him is my cousin, Charlie."
I gasped. I hadn't noticed the lump on a chair in the darkest corner of the porch. Charlie was stoned beyond words, and that's a literal definition of his state. The guy had smoked so much weed, he'd passed the chatterbox, giggling stage and gone straight to comatose. He grinned and nodded before the nodding was too much for him and he had to give up. His head thumped back against the chair and he closed his eyes.
Sawyer, unaffected by this, propped his feet up on the porch banister, "You'll have to excuse Charlie here; he's over-indulged a bit this evening."
Charlie snorted, then laughed, apparently not so comatose his ears weren't working. Sawyer joined in, and I looked at Truman. He rolled his eyes before pinching his thumb and forefinger together, bringing them to his pursed lips in imitation of smoking a joint, and then flashing three fingers at me. My eyes widened. I'd taken a toke here and there, but three joints seemed too much for any human to take.
"C'mon inside, sweetheart. These jokers are incapable of intelligent conversation at the moment."
This only made Sawyer and Charlie laugh harder, and I couldn't help but smile at the sound. Truman squeezed my hand as he led me through the door into the house. Sitting at the dining room table, a can of beer in front of him, was another Truman lookalike. Though this one was older, his bronzed skin deeply lined from sun exposure and hard labor. There was an air of misery surrounding him, so intimidating it practically vibrated in my gut. I fought the urge to turn around and leave, involuntarily gripping Truman's hand as he led us toward the table.
“That's my Dad, Pete, and over there's my mom, Cosette."
His father's eyes were bland, uninterested, but he nodded as Tru introduced me, before bringing a lit cigarette to his mouth.
"It's so nice to meet you." Cosette came over, wiping her hands off on a dishtowel before taking mine in a gentle handshake.
It was obvious where the Miller grins originated when she flashed a perfect set of white teeth. Her eyes were a pale shade of blue, her honey brown hair cut in a chin-length bob. I thought back to Tru's story of his parents, and how his mom had been head cheerleader in high school. Looking at her now, her eyes sparkling, deep dimples set in rosy cheeks against creamy skin, it was easy to imagine how irresistible she must've been as a teenager.
I grasped her hand. "Good to meet you, too. Truman's told me about you."
Her eyes widened in delight. "Oh? Well that's sweet. I wish I could say the same." Her gaze at him was questioning, but understanding. I bit back the disappointment that he hadn't spoken of me at all to his parents. Then again, I'd only reluctantly shared my fascination with Truman with my mom, so I couldn't judge. He murmured something unintelligible in response before pulling me toward the stairs leading to the basement.
His dad's voice stopped us mid-step. "Hey, turn that fucking music down a little, yeah?"
"Yeah." Truman's tone was almost robotic in response. His jaw tensed with irritation, but it was the desolation, the way his brows drew together for the briefest of moments, which really broke my heart. The way he'd described Pete—"a miserable son of a bitch"—was no exaggeration.
We made our way down the creaky stairs, ducking our heads to avoid the overhang before Truman showed me around. It was everything I expected in a basement hangout. A beat-up looking couch sat with a chipped coffee table, a large old television, and a couple of worn out chairs. A bag of chips and a few soda cans perched on the edge of a bookshelf. As he turned the volume down on the stereo I looked around, noticing the one nice thing in the room—a beautiful yellow and cream Stratocaster and amp in the corner.
"Do you play guitar, too?"
Everyone at school knew Truman was in a band with Leo and a couple of guys. I'd seen them a few times at parties, but Truman played the drums.
"Yeah, a little. I've been trying to teach myself some chords and stuff."
"Would you play something for me?"
His smile was boyish and shy, but I could tell he was pleased I'd asked. Warmth bloomed in my stomach. Finally, I was saying the right things. He sat on the stool and picked up the guitar. I took the opportunity to admire the way his face had transformed over the last year into that of a man. The hard planes of his cheeks, the sensual curve of his lips, the scruff along the side of his jaw, all reminders of his masculinity. The sight of him strumming, lost in the music as he hummed the tune of an old blues song had me mesmerized until he'd sung the last note.
Sawyer and Charlie stomped down the stairs only moments after he'd put the guitar back on its stand. A few more guys and a couple of girls were with them, carrying grocery bags. Soon the music was back up, and everyone was lounging around on chairs. Two-liter bottles of wine coolers were passed around.
I forced my anxiety down, along with a swig of something resembling spiked grape-flavored Kool-Aid, then drank some more. It was a little weird that his parents were right upstairs while a bunch of underage drinkers were getting hammered in their basement, but I wasn't about to ruin my second chance with Truman by acting like it bothered me.
I guzzled the nasty-tasting wine cooler until I was nursing a happy buzz. Truman and I sat together on the couch, relaxed against the comfy cushions. I relished each brush of his arm, each lean of his shoulder against me, glad he seemed as determined to stay as close as I wanted him to be. I laughed as he told stories. Even in his basement amongst friends, Truman was a performer. He acted out different voices, his body moving in time with the narration of whatever incident he was recalling. I gazed at him like a fan girl. When he held my hand while he smoked a cigarette, I thought I'd died and went to heaven.
As the night wore on and my buzz deepened, so did my posture until I was slouched low into the cushions, nearly flat on my back. Tru had moved with me, now propped on an elbow next to me, his face precariously close to mine every time he turned to say something. It was the perfect positioning for a kiss, but he hadn't taken the bait. A few times he'd caught my eye and paused, but someone would say something or a song would come on, and his attention would be drawn elsewhere.
The alcohol softened my brain but it didn't quell my nerves. My body was strung tight. I'd never wanted someone to kiss me so badly. I'd met his family, heard his stories—some of them hilarious, all of them laced with miserable undertones. Truman was making the best of his work situation, but it was clear he was suffering. Those small glimpses into Tru's vulnerability had melted my heart. No longer my mythical high school crush, he'd emerged as a real person. One I wanted to get to know better.
Starting with a damn kiss.
I did my best to act casual, lying there on that couch. I didn't want my rioting emotions to show on my face. It was bad enough I was so inexperienced, worse if he were to get the idea I was a prude.
I was about to give up and head home when Tru pivoted during a quiet moment. A few people had left, the rest were engaged in watching TV or talking amongst themselves. He looked down at me with such longing, I couldn't do anything but hold my breath.
His eyes were on mine, pinning me to the spot as he looked from one eye to the other. Was I supposed to m
ake the first move? God, the smallest effort would put my lips on his, but I was terrified that somehow I was reading the moment wrong. What if he was about to tell me it was time for me to leave? A flat-out public rejection by Truman Miller was a humiliation I might never recover from. So I waited. It seemed like we looked at each other forever before he shook his head and mumbled, "Fuck it."
He picked up one of the containers of wine cooler off of a nearby table, this one an unnatural orange color, and proceeded to down nearly half of it in one long drink. My jaw dropped.
When he finished, he swiped the back of his hand across his lips and pressed his mouth against mine with a kiss that managed to be a shock, despite how much I wanted it. His lips were everything I'd fantasized they'd be and more. Soft but firm, they pressed hard at first, as though we were in an old movie where the hero grabs the girl and plants one, solid and loud, against her surprised but closed lips. This kiss started with that same feeling of trepidation, like he was throwing himself off a cliff, but quickly turned into something else.
The room melted away, voices faded, and Tru's lips softened against mine. I could taste the wine cooler and cigarettes on his tongue as I opened for him. He tilted his head for a deeper invasion as my hands threaded up behind his neck and into his short crew cut. His thigh moved between my legs, precariously close to pressing against me there. I whimpered into his mouth, grabbing at him as we tasted and explored.
Then, as quickly as it had begun, he pulled away.
"Guess I'd better let you get home. Early day tomorrow."
I looked around the room, flushed and embarrassed, though no one seemed to be paying any attention to us. It was just as well. My willingness to let him have me was probably written all over my face, and he was ending our date abruptly, again. Only this time he grinned, a huge toothy smile with dimples that matched those of his brother and mom, and I fell in love.
***
"Turn right at the next driveway."
Two weeks later I was on the back of Tru's bike, yelling directions in his ear about how to get to Darcy Schmidt's house. Darcy was my childhood best friend-turned-awkward-acquaintance and a holy fucking terror if you crossed her and sometimes even if you didn't. But no one could deny her parties were the shit. With her mom out of town, it was a given that everyone we knew would head over. Her dad had left them years before in a brutal divorce, something the sweet Mrs. Schmidt didn't deserve. Something else she didn't deserve was her spoiled brat of a daughter.
I Fell In: A mostly true story about lust, redemption, and true love. Page 4
