Tru Love (First Love Book 1) Read online

  yet. Not a hundred percent. And you don’t trust yourself, either.”

  “You’re right,” she admits. More truth she allowed herself to face in the early morning hours: He’s experienced. He’s more man than boy. And she’s no match for him. She’s no match for her feelings, either. And that’s her biggest worry.

  He nods and decides, “Good. Caution can take us the distance, and that’s what I want, Genny.”

  “I think I want that, too.”

  “So we move forward in slow motion,” he reminds her. “Until further notice, it’s hand-holding and a few kisses that will keep our blood flowing.” He steps back and leans against the open door. “Anything more requires a rational conversation and mutual agreement.”

  “What do you see for us,” Genny asks. “Up here.” She taps the soft skin at his temple.

  “The future is in constant motion,” he reminds her. “People change. Their minds. Their hearts.”

  “Is that what happens?” she presses. “Do we change our minds?”

  “If we move beyond what we’re ready for,” he says, “we’re over.”

  “Did you see that happen?”

  “I’ve seen it both ways,” he admits. “But the closer we become, the less I see.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe because we’re closer to making a move that will change us.”

  “I don’t want that,” she says. She wants this moment, and the feelings she has for Truman to flow into the future.

  “It’s impossible to stay the same,” he says. “We’ll grow closer and that will make us stronger, or it’ll tear us apart.”

  “And it all comes down to pacing?”

  He nods. “Exactly.”

  He gazes at her a moment longer, thoughtful, the calm expression on his face unmoving. She wants to run her fingers over his cheek, feel again the warmth of his golden skin under her fingers, but that would probably be against the rules. And it would definitely undermine her resolutions. Yesterday, she

  promised not to tempt him. Last night, after he walked her home, she lay in bed promising herself that she wouldn’t rush anywhere anytime soon. She knows it will be a challenge.

  “Why are you OK with that?” she says.

  “I believe in us. We’ll learn to trust each other, and our feelings. We just need to give ourselves time.”

  That look is back in his eyes, intense but seeking to reassure her.

  “OK.” She wants to believe, too. Most of the time she’s already there.

  He reaches for her shoulder harness and pulls it over her lap, connecting it. Then he shuts the door and walks around the hood of the truck. The sun warms his skin and turns his eyes to jade.

  Genny feels but ignores the stares they receive as she and Truman make their way from the student parking lot to the green belt outside the school. She can’t as easily disregard the comments she overhears—just pieces of conversation, but the most cutting remarks she’s heard in a long time. She knows Truman

  hears them too. She feels his body grow tense beside her and a few times his hand contracts around hers until she gasps in protest.

  “Sorry, Genny.” He loosens his grip but pulls her closer.

  The girls think Genny is either easy or on the rebound. The guys think Truman is either a super hero—he got the ice princess to melt a little—or a chump headed for heartbreak.

  Genny tries to lighten the mood. She tips her head back, until her hair is brushing his shoulder and her lips are just a few inches from his ear, and whispers, “But you are my super hero.”

  Target accomplished. After a moment of stunned silence, Truman laughs. It’s tighter than usual, but the building pressure is shattered.

  “I don’t like them talking about you,” he says.

  “We’re of interest today,” Genny reasons. “We might even make the top ten list next week. But after that, our fifteen minutes are up.”

  “So our strategy is to ignore these morons?”

  “Or have fun with them,” she says, thinking back to Mrs.

  Lombardi’s advice. Of course, Genny no longer wants to make Hunter roll over and beg for another chance, but it might be worthwhile to play their audience.

  Truman holds the door open for her and Genny slips through, her shoulder brushing against his chest. She blocks her physical reaction to his closeness by thinking of Elmer Fudd. Another trick she came up with in the middle of the night, tuned into old TV. It doesn’t work as well as she hoped. Truman wouldn’t look so bad in a hunting cap.

  This makes her smile and Truman ducks his head and asks for her thoughts.

  “Have you ever been rabbit hunting?”

  His eyes narrow, expressing his puzzlement. “No. Why?”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “Ever stutter?” She’s laughing now and the tension in Truman’s jaw eases. His smile is genuine.

  “Exactly who are you describing?”

  “Did you get Looney Tunes in Scotland?”

  “Crazy people? I don’t think any country is exempt.”

  Genny almost doubles over with laughter. She leans into his side and welcomes the strength of his arm as it wraps around her waist. When she gazes up at Truman, his eyes are warm and indulgent. He waits for her to explain.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” he invites.

  “Elmer Fudd,” Genny confesses.

  “The guy with the gun? Bugs Bunny’s nemesis?”

  “It wasn’t a comparison, though,” she rushes to assure him. “At least, not an effective one.” But then she stops and thinks about how easy it was to move away from the warm flush his closeness gave her and into a normal conversation with physical awareness existing only at the edge of her awareness. “Correction. It did work.”

  “What worked?”

  “Well, I did lay awake last night trying to figure out a way I could keep my resolutions.”

  “What resolutions?” he presses.

  He stops their forward progress and turns her so that he’s leaning against the wall outside their history class and she’s standing directly in front of him, with nowhere to look except at his exceptional chest, or up and into his hypnotic gaze.

  She chooses his eyes, that way she can watch his reaction to her words.

  “Not to tempt you,” she reminds him. “But also to stay true to my feelings. Everything about you fascinates me, not just your body. That just gets in the way sometimes. So I’m trying to ignore my body’s response to yours.”

  “By thinking of Elmer Fudd?”

  “It’s working,” she points out.

  “Great.” But he doesn’t sound enthusiastic. “So I should throw up a mental picture of Olive Oil anytime I want to kiss you?”

  Genny shrugs, clearly not liking the comparison, and Truman laughs. He traces the curve of her cheek with an index finger.

  “It’s OK Genny. We could use a little help,” he says, then shakes his head. “Elmer Fudd. You couldn’t do better than that?”

  They’re interrupted when Mr. Cooke peers around the side of the door.

  “Coming in?” he asks, poised to close the door.

  Truman straightens up. “Yes, Sir.” He places a discreet hand on Genny’s hip and guides her in front of him.

  The morning progresses in the same way. Truman walks her to class. He doesn’t kiss her, but he either takes her hand or places his in a neutral position on her body. In history class, he pays more attention to Genny scribbling notes than to taking any himself. In calculus, she works the problems on the board, but he finishes so much faster than her that she borrows his paper and follows the map of his reasoning to its conclusion, testing her skill against his and always finding his answers correct. So she copies them.

  By French class, Serena is no longer hinting for info about Genny and Truman, she’s demanding a full disclosure of the weekend, beginning with her father’s baseball game and finishing with up-to-the-minute facts.

&nb
sp; Genny tells her most of the details. She doesn’t talk about Siobhan—it’s not her story to tell—and she briefly considers filling her BFF in about Truman’s ability to see into the future, but she thinks Serena would have to see it to believe it. And then there’s the danger of her pal finding it so romantic, that Truman saw her, was drawn to her before even meeting her, that Genny may never hear the end of it. Of course she doesn’t drop a hint about exactly how close she’d like to get to Truman. That’s a topic that doesn’t need fanning.

  “It’s happening so fast.” Genny worries her bottom lip with her teeth.”

  “Passion,” Serena concludes. “It’s about time. Puts what you had with Hunter to shame, doesn’t it?”

  Passion. Yes, and Genny never wants to live without it.

  “I haven’t really thought about Hunter.” She feels a few twinges of guilt about that, and some wispy, wish it could have been different thoughts about trying to rebuild their friendship. It’s not like they went so far they can’t turn to a new page. Already, Genny feels more for Truman, and shared more with him than she ever did with Hunter, the boyfriend.

  “I saw him earlier,” Serena reveals. “You had eyes only for your novio, but you walked right past him and Hunter’s face was like watching an avalanche.”

  “I’m sorry about that.” She doesn’t want to hurt Hunter. She doesn’t want him to want her anymore. She misses his easy companionship, but not the time they spent trying to have more than that.

  “He was his usual sunny self, then his face got this punctured look and turned white and sickly.”

  “He wouldn’t even talk to me on Friday,” Genny says, feeling defensive.

  “I’m just saying, the boy was full of regret.” Serena stares at her a moment, then she reaches over and squeezes Genny’s hand. “Serves him right, mija.”

  Genny pretends to gaze at the list of irregular French verbs in her open text book. Her lips twist in frustration as she contemplates Hunter’s feelings.

  It’s not her fault.

  He broke up with her. Although it was probably only a matter of time, and exposure to Truman, before Genny would have ended things with Hunter. She would have tried to save their friendship, though.

  She did try, she reminds herself. He blew her off.

  “Go back to thinking about Truman,” Serena says. “I like you a lot better when you’re glowing like a radioactive mushroom.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The kitchen island is covered with all of the ingredients listed on the back of the Nestle chocolate chip bag. Genny found a mix master hidden in a cabinet and pulled it out. The beaters are already attached. She purchased a set of measuring spoons in the grocery store, but not a measuring cup and she can’t find one among their collection of seldom used gadgets.

  “How many tablespoons are in a cup?” Genny asks. She remembers learning the number back in middle school.

  Serena is perched on a bar stool, her legs crossed, and makes a show of looking behind her for whomever Genny could possibly be talking to.

  Genny places her hands on her hips and waits her out. Serena has to know something about cooking.

  “My parents don’t let me in the kitchen,” she finally says. “They don’t want me to get any ideas.”

  “About what?”

  “Becoming subservient.”

  Genny rolls her eyes. “You have never cooked anything, ever?”

  “Of course I’ve cooked. Anything that requires a can opener or a few minutes in the microwave and I’m your girl. It’s the way of the modern woman.”

  “Your mother—” Genny begins.

  “Is an amazing cook,” Serena agrees. “But she’s determined not to pass the genetic deficiency into the next generation.”

  Serena examines her nails. “Let’s go to the salon. My paint is chipping. And on the way back, we can stop at that little bakery on Union. They have to-die-for cookies there. He never has to know you didn’t make them yourself.”

  “He’ll know,” Genny mutters under her breathe, even if his vision doesn’t reveal it. Truman has a way of knowing everything about Genny before she knows it herself. “Besides, I want to make them myself.”

  She hopes Serena doesn’t ask her to explain that, because Genny hardly understands it herself. What is the big deal, anyway? She’s no Betty Crocker and that’s never bothered her before.

  Serena reluctantly admits, “I know a little something about Biscochitos and empanadas.”

  “Chocolate chip cookies,” Genny insists. “They’re America’s favorite cookie.”

  “Well, I’m from a good Mexican family. We don’t make chocolate chip cookies. How about Mexican Wedding Cakes? Get him thinking in the right direction?”

  Serena waggles her eyebrows at her.

  “You’re ridiculous.”

  “And you’re starting to sound desperate.”

  Genny plows her hands through her hair. “I think I’m the only seventeen year old alive who can’t get beyond ‘set the oven temperature to three-seventy-five.’”

  “So what? You want to spend your life in the kitchen?”

  Genny pulls the stainless steel bowl from the mixer and cracks two eggs into it. She adds a stick of butter and a teaspoon of vanilla, then places the bowl back on the stand and lowers the beaters. What happens next is mind-numbing. Genny turns on the appliance and the bowl spins around like a piece of melting pottery on a wheel. It tips so far to the side that the eggs fly out, looking like a large, one-celled creature. It lands on Serena’s lap. Genny pulls the plug from the socket and catches the bowl before it can fall to the floor, but the damage is done. Serena peers out from her raised arms and takes one look at her jeaned thighs, oozing with the yellow-brown mucusy substance.

  “My. Lucky. Jeans.” Serena stutters each word.

  Genny uses a dish towel to wipe at the egg. “Sorry,” she mumbles, realizing too late that she’s rubbing the egg in not off. “Take a pair from my closet,” Genny offers. “Those cargo Levi’s you like? They’re yours.”

  Serena’s face brightens. “Really?”

  Genny nods. “You’re holding out on me, though,” Genny insists. “When you come back you have to help me. Really help me.”

  “And the jeans are mine, forever?”

  “There yours forever if the cookies pass a taste test.”

  Serena rolls her eyes. “Anyone can make chocolate chip cookies.” She hops from the stool and disappears up the back stairs.

  Genny pulls the Lysol wipes out of a drawer and cleans up the mess. By the time Serena is back, looking better in Genny’s jeans than she ever did, she has everything ready to go.

  “You look like a goddess,” Genny says.

  Serena waves off her comment. “No need for flattery. One batch of chocolate chip cookies coming up.”

  “But it’s true.” Sometimes Genny feels too thin and too splintery next to Serena.

  “It’s my Mexican DNA,” Serena says. “Gives me curves. Right now they’re in all the right places, but come see me after I have a baby or two—I’ll be fighting to hold onto what I have. Victor included.”

  Serena nudges Genny aside and starts filling the bowl with ingredients. She has the eggs, butter and sugar whipped into a frothy paste and is measuring flour by the tablespoon into the bowl before Genny comments.

  “Has Victor asked you to marry him?”

  “We talk about it like it’s a done deal,” Serena reveals. “But he’s not allowed to ask me officially until we’re in college.”

  “Why?”

  Serena’s smooth face twists into a frown. “My father’s decision, but he’s made me a deal I can’t refuse. Graduate from college first and he pays all the bills, tuition, room and board, books. If I maintain a three-point five, the wedding is paid for, too. First class.

  “Here.” Serena hands Genny a large spoon. “Scrape the batter off the sides of the bowl.”

  “And do what with it?”

  Serena looks at her
like she has to be kidding.

  “Nope,” Genny admits. “I have no idea what comes next. Are we ready to put them in the oven?”

  Genny’s guess only makes Serena’s frown deepen. “Ah, the life of the rich and famous.”

  “Cut it out.” She’s seriously considering her mother’s suggestion. She might sign up for a cooking class. Maybe something exotic, like Indonesian cuisine. . .

  “Stop worrying,” Serena says. “Not everyone needs to know how to cook. Those days are long gone and good riddance, as my mama says. But you do want to tell Truman the truth—that you made the cookies yourself—so you have to contribute something.”

  Serena takes the spoon from Genny and instructs her to watch while she scrapes the bowl, turning the batter back into the beaters so that there’s a uniform smoothness by the time she shuts off the mix master.

  “Here.” She hands Genny the bag of chips. “Open and pour.”

  Genny accomplishes that feat with ease. She blends the chips into the batter then drops it by “teaspoonfuls” onto the greased baking sheet.

  “The next batch,” Serena advises, “make the cookies bigger. Truman’s a growing boy.”

  Serena sets the oven timer then turns to Genny, arms folded over her chest, and asks, “So why must you absolutely make the cookies for Truman yourself?”

  Genny shrugs. “His mother can’t bake. For years, Truman and his family have been tossing the cookies when she isn’t looking.” And it bothers Genny. “He’s so perfect,” she complains and she doesn’t want him to do that—protect her from herself. “I want to be good at something he needs.”

  “And he needs cookies?”

  “Definitely. I’ve never seen him eat anything sweet.”

  “A lot of guy are meat and potatoes,” Serena says, then changes the subject while a huge grin spreads across her face. “So, tell me, how perfect is he? You gave me so few details today.”

  Genny’s body flushes with warmth as she remembers Truman’s closeness.

  “You’ve never given me any details about you and Victor.” Not the truly personal details.

  Serena spreads her arms. “Ask away. I’m an open book.”