This Much Is True (4 page)

Closure, my ass.
“Tremblay isn’t going to be happy with you,” I finally say.

“I can still drop you off for class so you don’t have to take the bus. Can you cover for me?”

“I’m good and I’ll cover for you with Tremblay.” Her wistfulness has captured my attention.
The girl is seriously excited to see Charlie again.
It’s troubling on too many levels to count. I’ve spent many a night handing this girl tissues, while she cried her eyes out over Charlie Masterson, and lamented about who he was dating, who he took to prom, and why they broke up. He effectively cut Marla out of his life like a toy he’d outgrown. My intolerance—for a guy like this—overflows; it’s at an all-time high, especially now. I get even more anxious about this party and worry about Marla even more. “I just don’t think this is a good idea…to see Charlie again,” I say as one last-ditch effort at talking her out of this.

“Maybe not.” She lifts her perfect chin and looks at me in defiance—the look that says
I’m-doing-what-I-want
. I know that look because I have one, too. “But in a matter of weeks, we’ll be back in New York. And I’ll see Devon again.”

Devon St. Claire was one of the few decent guys we’d met in New York. He and Marla hit it off right away. I liked Devon. He was nice enough, worthy enough of Marla. He genuinely liked her and seemed to appreciate Marla’s goodness. He was a young hot shot on Wall Street in a time when everything had been soaring and then crashing, but he seemed to survive all the turbulence and stayed grounded and true to Marla. Still, there was something missing from their relationship and the guy wielded too much control. Something was missing in that relationship. Maybe it’s the simple blissful smile on Marla’s face that I plainly see right now. She gushes on about seeing Charlie again, and how he sent her a text along with a little heart next to her name.

“Well, a heart next to your name is everything, now isn’t it?” I press my lips together to keep myself from saying more but can’t help myself. “Devon may be worse than Charlie. Sorry,” I add when she glares at me.

“I thought you
liked
Devon.”

“Well, the guy can do shots with his eyes closed, but that doesn’t make him right for you. He drives a Porsche for Christ’s sake.”

“A death trap for sure.” Marla’s sarcasm is not lost on me.

I shrug.
Helpless. Found out.
No one understands my worst fears these days. That much is clear.

Marla starts to laughs. “Maybe I should date a forest ranger.”

“Maybe.”

“Or a cowboy. With a horse! Is that safe enough for you?”

“Probably.” I hang my head, so she won’t see my sudden tears.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I swipe at my eyes and turn away from her.

“I’ve never seen you get this excited over Devon—
not
that I’m endorsing Charlie Masterson here.”

“Yeah. I got that. Message received, loud and clear.” I force myself to smile as I look over at her. “Look, Charlie is a thing of the past, but—as I have so cleverly pointed out—it is important to have
closure
. Closure. That’s all it is,” Marla says with a little sigh.

I turn away from her again, slam my locker shut, and give the lock a few extra spins. Marla looks like she’s in love every time she talks about Charlie. With Devon, I never see the happiness seep out quite like this. All of this will require further study on my part. Obviously, I’m going to have to go to Masterson’s party if only to protect Marla from herself. Finally, I steal a look at her. She has the twisted-up pout going.

“
Fine
. I’ll cover for you and go to the party as your wingman.” She laughs outright at the
Top Gun
reference. At first, I catch myself, but then I actually laugh because it proves hard to resist Marla’s contagious charm. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe all we need to do tonight is break a few rules to get back into a rhythm.
Closure
like you said. I’ll do the baseball player, and you do Charlie and get closure.”

I look up and see Rob Thorn still watching us. He looks envious and sad at the same time.

“That’s what I’m thinking.” Marla’s hazel eyes flash with excitement. She tells me good-bye, leans in and hugs me, and then flounces off toward the exit doors.

Rob Thorn watches her walk off down the hall for as long as I do. We turn back at the same time and just stare at each other. I think we’re both remembering Holly in that moment. I manage to turn away first.

Marla’s happy. Marla’s in love with love while I’m instantly reminded of Holly and how she used to look like that whenever she was in love. But loving someone that much? Letting them in like that and losing all your power to them? That’s the one thing I could never allow to happen to me. The idea of caring that much about someone else scares me, especially now.
Look what happens when you love someone that much and then lose them? I can’t lose anyone else. I just can’t
.

Rob Thorn walks past me and gives me one last wistful look before he saunters out the same exit doors as Marla. I soon follow, prepared for public transportation on an almost reverent level, yet I still find myself watching him walk over his car.
To what else? A Volvo.

I shake my head and almost smile at the irony of it all. However, I do say
yes
to him when he offers me a ride.

* * *

There has been nothing but shared stony silence for the entire twenty-minute drive from Paly High to Tremblay’s dance studio. I made the mistake of asking Rob if he knew the way to Tremblay’s, forgetting that he used to take Holly there all the time. I think the question almost made him cry. I’ve kept up the vigilance for not speaking because seeing Rob Thorn cry reminds me of the funeral when I first saw this aberration. And for some reason—ninety-six days since that said tragedy—is not nearly long enough from seeing that particular emotional rendition from Rob Thorn all over again.

It is with unspoken relief that we both start to breathe freely when he pulls up in front of the dance studio. He turns in his seat and gazes at me while I try not to notice the unshed tears on his dark-brown lashes. I’m sure looking at me takes a certain amount of fortitude, and I’m not sure how long he’ll be able to hang on to that.

“So,” he says as if we’ve carried on this whole conversation the entire time. “You’re going to Masterson’s party?”

“Looks like it.”

“Be careful, Tally.”

“I’m always careful.”

“I mean it. There’s going to be a lot of older guys there. And they’re there for one thing only.”

“Well, I’m sure we’ll all be there for the same thing then.”

“Just be careful, Tally.”

“Rob,” I say softly. “I’m not Holly. I fu…
screw
who I want.”

“Right.”

If a single word can carry the entire weighty emotion of disappointment, then Rob Thorn has achieved this goal.
He’ll make a great father someday.
“Sorry, I…I shouldn’t have said that.” I bite at my lower lip.

“But you did. And you’re right. You’re not Holly. Can never be. No one can.” His voice catches.

“Sorry.”

“Thanks for the ride.” I slide out the passenger side and lean back into the open door. “Thanks for the ride,” I repeat myself for some unknowable reason.

“Do you think you’ll ever be able to drive again?”

“No.”

“How do you
know
?”

“I don’t want to. I’ll be in New York without a car. Just stuff I know about myself, I guess.” I stare at him hard in fervent hope that I look bitchy enough to somewhat end this conversation.

“I got into NYU,” he says in sudden earnest. “I start this summer.”

He gives me the implied
maybe
I’ll-see-you-around-Manhattan
hopeful look.

I must shut this down.
“Anxious to get to New York, I see.”

“No. Anxious to get through college, get it over with.”

He gets this expectant look, as if I’m already supposed to know this. All I can do is shake my head in endless wonder because he is so different from every other guy Holly went out with. He is hot, but not. Kind of cool, but not. Kind of awesome, but not.
A conundrum.
I’m staring at him, and he starts to smile. It’s crooked. It’s weird.
He’s
weird.
He drives a Volvo. His dad has more money than God, and he drives
a Volvo
. It’s a losing proposition for him socially; and he doesn’t even care. He is Wonderland. Johnny Depp. Sawyer from
Lost
. The dead Kurt Cobain. He’s wearing a black Nirvana T-shirt.
How did I fail to notice this before?

“Tally? Tally?”

Apparently, he’s said my name quite a few times.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say again.

“Maybe I’ll see you tonight?”

It’s a question looking for an answer.
His face gets hopeful, and I feel this insane, impassioned need to crush it
right now
.

“I don’t think so. Look, I have plans.” I wave my right hand toward the red front doors of Tremblay’s dance studio. “One focus. One goal. I don’t have…” He’s biting his lip, and it’s distracting as hell and in a sexy way, which is weird and downright incestuous.
He was Holly’s boyfriend.
“I don’t do relationships of any kind. I’m in. I’m out. Everybody wins.” I flash him my award-winning smile. My best stage smile.

“Right.”

There’s that word again; and the emotive disappointment from him is even more real this time and duly noted by me, whether I like it or not.
What the hell is wrong with me?

“Right. Right.
Right
,” he says with more intensity each time.

“Thank you for the ride.” I hesitate.
Me. Tally Landon, hesitating? No. No fucking way.
“We’re not…we’re not friends,
Thorn
. I just think we should be honest
here
about
that
.”

“Holly?” he asks gently, just as I’m about to close the car door all the way.

My fury knows no bounds at that salutation for my dead twin. “What did you just say? I’m…
Tally
. You are so…
messed up
!”

Now he looks mortified at having spoken Holly’s name aloud, as if he’ll be struck down by lightning for saying it. Or God. Or both. “Sorry. Sorry. Right.”

Oh, my God. Will the remorse from his mortal wounds ever stop? Ever?

My anger quickly dissipates, and I’m left with this overriding uncanny need to comfort him. It’s sixty-five degrees out. It’s a perfectly sunny day and yet this Arctic chill seemingly passes through me as if Holly is visiting my psyche from the great beyond.
Console him. Don’t kill him this way.

I glance at his car radio clock.
Shit. I’m late on top of everything else. Tremblay is going to kill me.

“I’m late.” Rob’s face goes white. Every word I utter just makes it worse for both of us. “For class? I’m sorry? Thanks for the ride? I’ve got to go?”

I slam the car door because there just isn’t anything else I can say to him that will make this any better. But then I stand on the curb and watch him slowly drive away and give him this little silly wave. If he looks in his side mirror, he’ll see me pathetically waving. His silver Volvo merges with the traffic, and he disappears into the mass of thirty or so cars after a few minutes. And I can finally breathe again.

What the hell was that?

Yet I am the one who is about to cry as I slowly ascend the stairs and stumble into Tremblay’s pointe class exactly ten minutes late. She glares at me.
Naturally.
I just wave her off and take my time putting on my toe shoes.
What the hell is wrong with me?

And what is going on with Rob Thorn? Why do I care? When will my life ever be normal? Why do I have to feel these extreme almost debilitating rounds of emotion every waking minute of every flipping day? Why? Somebody please tell me why.

* * * *

CHAPTER FIVE

Linc ~ The Valentine’s Day girl

E
MERGING FROM THE SANCTUARY of my aunt and uncle’s guest house, I move somewhat stealthily through their kitchen side door. I’m assailed by the strong odors of cheap beer and overcooked pizza. Smoke fills the air as if someone has forgotten to rescue it from the oven soon enough. I do a quick survey of the kitchen and see Charlie cutting up the rescued pizza and serving it up on a cookie sheet. He gives me the thumbs-up and turns to talk to some blond girl, who is helping him with this party-host detail. The noise level is already at the awesome-party stage; and I rapidly count at least eighty people. Uncle Chad and Aunt Gina picked a fine time to be gone for the evening and leave their only son in charge.

The music blares, and the general feeling of high-level party chaos prevails and completed by the hundreds of sparkling Christmas lights that must have strung up in a hurry for this event. The only thing this party needs to complete the ultimate party theme is a Piñata. Then, I spy one in the fair corner of the great room where some girl, who wears an overly tight T-shirt and a loosely-tied blindfold around her head, drunkenly swings a Nerf bat at the pink and blue paper-
mâché
donkey.
Charlie does know how to entertain, or break all the rules, equally.

I help myself to a bottled imported beer from the refrigerator and consciously avoid the keg that is set up on the far end of the black granite counter-top of Aunt Gina’s normally pristine gourmet kitchen. I didn’t want to come, but Charlie insisted that I swing by and celebrate the long weekend since I was around. My baseball team has a curfew, but my dad took care of things with the coaching staff that basically allows me to forgo those installed rules that apply to everybody else but me. I had the coach’s grudgingly-given permission to stay at my aunt and uncle’s house, away from campus, and avoid the check-in routine. I was covered, like always, because of who my dad is.

Meanwhile, my dad is already headed back to L.A. His work is done. He set things up with my sports agent in terms of which teams are expected to be at my game tomorrow against Oregon State. We lost today, and I will pitch tomorrow. So, yes, technically, I shouldn’t even be here; but the meeting with my agent and my dad and talk about the upcoming draft left me on edge. So I took off, after dropping those two off at the airport bound for LAX and promptly left after the Cardinal team meeting and ended up here. Charlie mentioned inviting a few friends over since it was a long weekend, but this has turned into a full-blown party.

I recognize a number of people from Paly from years before, and I do what I can to avoid direct conversation and just incline my head in their general direction; even so, that anti-social move only takes me so far. After being drawn into the fifth conversation about me and baseball and my big-time draft rumors, I install myself against the farthest wall and keep to the shadows and privately cajole myself for being here at all. I begin to plan my exit, so I can avoid any further encounters with old high school classmates and fan-girls looking for a good time with an almost-famous baseball player. Mindless sex with a stranger isn’t hard to find when you’re an athlete and even less so when you’re on the verge of fame because everybody wants a piece of that action. God knows I used to play into that, too; but the free-sex-no-strings-attached lifestyle catches up to you. As it turns out, everybody wants a piece of you or that action. You can’t really trust anybody to want you for you. They always want more. Now, I abide by strict rules of not getting involved with anyone—at least not often and never permanently—because there’s too much on the line with me and baseball these days. It used to be that saying yes to every invitation offered was a whole lot easier than saying no. Sometimes, it’s still that way. But now? The only thing that matters to me is baseball and keeping my dad happy. And we’re so close.
I’m
so close, as my dad constantly reminds me.

So here I am, imbibing in a few beers and trying to appear normal and avoid all the supposed fan-girls, if at all possible; and then, there she is—the girl from Valentine’s Day. I’m just staring at her—the raven-haired girl across the room—remembering Valentine’s Day and the horrible circumstances under which we first met and immediately having trouble remembering all my set rules for not getting involved with anyone. Ever.

At one point, I catch her green-eyed gaze, and she looks right through me. I actually shiver at the unspoken admission that she doesn’t remember me at all. I find myself suffering with this crushing disappointment as if I’ve been hit squarely in the chest by a baseball. What dumb luck is it that she’s shown up at this party, and that she doesn’t even remember me?

She surveys the room with a disdainful look and takes one long, slow pull of her drink from a red plastic cup. I watch her slender throat move up and down as she swallows. My body reacts to all of her in a single instant.

Man, I want her bad. Just like that. At the very least, I want to know her name before I leave here tonight.

I watch her for so long that I can tell when the vodka-spiked punch actually hits her system. She sways ever so slightly now and leans further up against the far wall as if that alone is the only thing still holding her up.

My conscience surges with guilt that I should have gone over to her sooner, but still directs me toward her before I actually think about what I’m doing. I’m not sure where this urgent need to protect her comes from. Perhaps I’m spurred on by a few of these guys partying it up right next to her that seem to have taken notice of the swaying, dark-haired girl at about the same time I start to make my way across to her. Still, I’m determined to be the one that saves her
again,
even if she doesn’t remember me from the first time we met more than three months ago on Valentine’s Day.

* * * *