Tru Love (First Love Book 1) Page 4

  He laid it on thick, but the ladies didn’t seem to notice.

  They clucked around Genny, wondering aloud at how she managed to survive such a horrible day. They got off with two hours of detention to be served on consecutive days, the days to be determined through a conversation with their parents.

  As they walked away, Genny asked, “Does that always happen?”

  “What?” Like he doesn’t know what’s she’s talking about.

  “You smile and common sense becomes a casualty.” She can’t keep the annoyance out of her voice. “Like sun on snow.”

  “You don’t melt.”

  “No,” Genny agreed, then lied some more, “And I never will.”

  “Good. I like to work for my rewards.”

  Her cell phone rings and Genny shakes herself loose, once again, of Truman Lennox’s influence.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s mom.”

  I know. “I have caller ID.”

  A long pause. “Are you getting snotty with me?” her mother wants to know and Genny cringes. All along she’s been the kid without attitude. The kid easy to raise (well, except the incident with her father’s car and a few other minor scrapes). The one person in the whole world who makes her mother feel lucky.

  “Sorry,” she mumbles. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “You’ve had a bad day,” her mother says.

  The school told her mother about her near-miss with the Mercedes and hinted about a possible fall out with Hunter—thanks to talking with Serena—before Genny even got back to school.

  “Why aren’t you here?”

  “Sorry, baby. I’m tied up. I’m waiting for a call from Brussels. I can’t blow this off. Eat without me, OK?” Her mother’s voice is hesitant. Guilt. “Will that be OK?”

  “Sure,” Genny says. She doesn’t want her mom to feel bad, but she does want her home.

  “I promise, if the call doesn’t come through in an hour I’ll come home anyway, and then we can talk.”

  Genny likes talking to her mother. She’s good with the boy stuff. She even earned an A-plus for the sex talk she gave Genny at age nine, then again at twelve. And fourteen. And again two months ago.

  “Sounds good,” Genny says.

  “I love you,” her mom says.

  “Me, too.”

  Genny drops her phone on the couch, then sits down and rummages through the paper sack for the plastic utensils. She doesn’t really know what she’s going to say to her mother—what bothers her more, breaking up with Hunter? Or her attraction to Truman Lennox?

  Why does Truman bother her?

  Because he’s divine? Serena’s description, but very accurate.

  Because he always seems to be laughing at her?

  Because he’s saved her life twice? Which really puts a cramp in her mental image of herself as invincible.

  Because he always seems to be there?

  Yes, he’s very annoying. For all of those reasons.

  And then she slipped her hand into his. It was a brief touch, just long enough for him to help her up from the bench, but it was electric. Her heart stopped beating, and the pulse in her wrists throbbed for a long time afterwards.

  She never felt anything like that for Hunter.

  She looked up at Truman. He wasn’t smiling. His jaw was as set as stone, and in his eyes she saw the reflection of herself, her lips parted, her eyes flared. She looked both scared and ready.

  Ready for him to kiss her. And wanting it to happen. It was all over her face and as easy to read as a party invitation.

  “Breathe,” he said. The word was whispered, soft but a command all the same, and Genny complied.

  By then her lungs were burning.

  For once, he didn’t laugh. His hand contracted around hers and then he pulled away.

  She doesn’t plan to tell anyone about that moment.

  But then of course she’ll probably never figure out why he didn’t take what she was offering. He seemed to want exactly that, right? Wasn’t he attracted to her after all?

  Her cell rings again, scattering her thoughts, and Genny checks the screen. Her father. She left him a message earlier to let him know she was OK. He was playing—in Montreal—and gave his phone to one of the assistant’s. The guy was clearly president of the Ben Vout fan club. He insisted on writing down—word for word—everything Genny said. It got so laborious, she finally complained about using up her minutes.

  “Your father is Ben Vout,” he answered, like Genny didn’t know that or the amount of money he made.

  “Yeah, but a kid has to have rules. I get five hundred minutes a month.”

  The guy grunted and Genny said good-bye.

  Now, she stares at the phone and wonders how much trouble she’ll get in if she doesn’t answer it. He already knows she’s on house arrest, so he wouldn’t worry. Much.

  Did her mother tell him about Hunter? The break up? Would her father want to talk about that?

  Yes. Yes. And yes.

  She answers anyway. Not to would mean another hundred years of knocking around the house by herself.

  “Hi, dad.”

  “Genny.” She can hear the relief in his voice. “Are you OK?”

  “Yes. How are you?”

  “Don’t try to change the subject,” he says, his voice stronger. He’s not usually so touchy; she wonders if they lost the game.

  “Sorry,” Genny says. “Sorry about today, too.”

  “Remember our deal?”

  She searches her brain for any possible matches but finds none.

  “What deal?”

  “The one where you don’t get into any trouble when I’m out of town.”

  “But I never get in trouble,” Genny says. Not anymore.

  Three years have passed since the accident with his Porsche, but her father continues to struggle with the possibilities: What if you weren’t wearing your seat belt? What if the car rolled? His current vehicle, a Ferrari, is started with a thumbprint scan.

  Genny listens to her breath whistle against her teeth as she exhales.

  “You’re right,” he says. “Not in a long time. So what happened today?”

  “I didn’t see the car coming, dad. I guess I was too preoccupied and didn’t even look before I started to cross the street.”

  “That’s not like you.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re usually careful.” Responsible.

  “That’s me.” Boring. “It won’t happen again.”

  “What about Hunter?” He says the name like it’s a brand of diaper. “You never told me you were dating. Every time I asked, it’s always been, ‘We’re just friends.’”

  “We were just friends,” she admits, “until two months ago. It was a bad idea. That’s all.”

  Her father digests that in silence, then asks, “What about this kid who saved your life today? You think he might want to sit dug out at our next home game?”

  Genny’s whole body rocks with a groan of protest, but she manages to keep it from hitting air. “He’s from Scotland,” Genny says. “They don’t play baseball there, do they?”

  “Invite him, Genny,” her father insists. “I’d like to thank him in person.”

  Great. “It was no big deal, dad.”

  “He saved your life,” her father presses. “That’s a pretty big deal to me.”

  Genny falls into a stubborn silence.

  “Invite him, Genny, or I will.”

  She mumbles something he takes as a yes then hangs up.

  Well, that settles it. This is truly the worst day of her life.

  Chapter Six

  Serena shows up before her mother does. When Genny opens the door, her friend is standing on the threshold, the keys to Victor’s souped-up nineteen eighty-two Cobra dangling from her fingers. She’s wearing a Cheshire grin.

  “You stole Victor’s car?” Genny’s voice is a wide arc of horrified surprise. Victor loves his car. Maybe even more than he
does his girlfriend.

  Serena pushes past Genny and pockets the keys.

  “What do you mean ‘steal’?” she says. “As soon as we’re married I own half, right?”

  “You’re seventeen,” Genny points out. “You’re not getting married until after college.”

  Serena’s plans are made. Victor is definitely the one for her, but so are college and a job her parents can brag about. A job not in the service of others. Both of Serena’s parents work in the food industry. Its long hours, little pay and no respect, according to Serena.

  “Victor needs to learn about sharing,” Serena says. “No way I’m marrying that boy until he knows all about what’s mine is yours.”

  Genny follows her into the living room. She can tell Serena is put out. She’s chewing her bottom lip and her voice is thin, her last words a whisper.

  “What happened?” Genny asks. “This afternoon you were in swooning mode. What did Victor do?”

  “He was raised with money,” Serena diagnoses and sits down on the couch. She shrugs out of her sweater and drops that and her purse on the floor. “Thai?” she asks, looking into the white cartons on the coffee table.

  “Help yourself,” Genny invites. “You’ve always known Victor has money. Why is it bothering you now?”

  “It’s always bothered me,” Serena confesses. “Sometimes more than others.” She picks up a fork and a carton of yellow curry chicken, but ignores it when she launches into Victor’s most recent wrong. “You know he’s home with the flu. Poor boy. I saw him this morning and he was green. I mean, I was holding his head up while he puked into a basin. I dumped that in the

  toilet. I brought him a wet wash cloth so he could clean himself up. I was freakin’ Florence Nightingale.” She shoves a forkful of curry into her mouth and chews politely. After she swallows, she continues, “He calls me at school this afternoon, ‘Baby, can you pick me up some ginger ale?’ You know I don’t have a car. I walk over to Cala Foods, get a two liter bottle of the stuff and haul it over to his place, on the bus. And you know what he’s thinking? He’s thinking after all that, I’m going to walk home.”

  Genny hears the front door open and her mother hang her jacket in the closet, then continue through the house to the living room. When she looks up, her mom is standing with her hands clasped in front of her, a frown pulling her manicured eyebrows over her nose.

  “No, he didn’t,” her mom says, her voice tinged with outrage. She walks into the room. “I hope you set him straight, Serena. If you don’t correct him the first time, you’re going to relive this again and again.”

  Serena grins and pats her front pocket.

  “I drove off in his baby,” she says. “The boy told me to walk home. No, he wasn’t going to drive me. ‘I’m too sick, baby.’ No, he wasn’t about to let me borrow his car, even though

  I passed my exam the first time—it took him four tries—and I’ve never gotten a ticket. He has two. No one drives his car except him and his daddy.”

  Serena shakes her head and trades the chicken for a carton of garlic veggies.

  “I saved some for you, too, mom,” Genny tells her. She pats the available space on the couch, between her and Serena. “Sit down. Eat. Grill and torture me.”

  Serena’s eyes flare. “I can’t believe you cut out of school like that,” she says. “And that Mr. Divine followed you.”

  Her mother’s eyebrow shoots up. “Mr. Divine?”

  Genny shrugs, hoping to convey a casualness she doesn’t feel. “New kid,” she explains.

  Serena scoots over to give Genny’s mom room, then leans into her space as she reveals, “Truman Lennox. He saved Genny’s life this morning.”

  “The kid who knocked you out of the way of that car?”

  “Tackled me is a better description.” And yet she doesn’t remember feeling the impact with the pavement, only the strength

  of his arms around her and the hard wall of his chest under her. It wasn’t until later, when her palms and knees began to burn, that she knew she suffered an injury.

  “Genny,” her mother admonished, “I hope you were more graceful than that when you thanked him.”

  “She didn’t thank him,” Serena says, and laughter bubbles up her throat and into the air, like she’s spilling champagne.

  “I did, too,” Genny defends. “I thanked him later.”

  She was too stunned to form the words right after the incident, and too annoyed when her brain started working again. But she’s honest enough with herself to admit that she wasn’t very grateful when she spoke the words. And it took her far too long to do it.

  Her mother looks like she’s going to push the point further, but then changes her mind. “So what makes him so divine?”

  Serena pulls her legs up and wraps her arms around her knees. “His hair. It’s this crazy shade of red-brown. And his eyes. Dreamy. Chocolate. And deep. I would like to get lost in them for a little while.”

  She’s right about the eyes, Genny thinks. And the hair. But it’s more than that. It’s not even his shoulders, which go on forever, or his voice, which is smooth and warm and almost electric with his accent.

  It’s his hands, really, Genny decides. The way he touches her, like he doesn’t want to hurt her. Not like she’s breakable, but like she’s valuable.

  “You-who?” Her mother waves a hand in front of Genny’s face. “Where did you go?”

  “Sorry,” Genny feels the heat rush to her face and tries to cover. “I guess the conversation bored me.”

  Serena snorts and taunts her, “The whole cafeteria watched him follow you. He left that group of girls like they were disposable. Just shrugged them off. And some of them were seniors.”

  “Impressive,” her mother murmurs. “But what about you and Hunter?”

  Genny feels the sadness at a cellular level, that’s how total it is. She lost a good friend today and she says as much to her mom.

  “It may not be permanent,” her mom tries to console her. “Look at me and your father. We’re friends.”

  Not really, Genny thinks. Her parents talk to each other, but only about Genny. They even make a point every year to sit down at the same table and eat a holiday dinner together, but again, Genny doesn’t think that would happen if she wasn’t there, too.

  “Hmmm,” Serena considers that. “I don’t know. If Victor and I broke up we couldn’t be friends. We were never friends to begin with.

  “Of course, he wouldn’t break up with me just because my mom wanted to meet his. My daddy wouldn’t let me out of the house our first date until Victor came to the door and asked if it was OK for him to take me to dinner. We didn’t have a second date until our parents talked on the phone.” She makes a face. “We’re pretty formal at my house.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with formal,” Genny’s mom says, and then she lets her eyes fall on Genny. “Hunter broke up with you because he doesn’t want me to meet his mother?”

  “Not really,” Genny says. “He broke up with me because it’s too soon for you to meet his mom. That was his excuse.” “That’s right. An excuse,” Serena agrees. “Remember that, Genny. If that boy really cared about you, like you were his one true novia, this parent thing would already be yesterday.”

  Genny’s mom nods, her blond hair falling from behind her ear and swinging in a perfect arc around her chin.

  “I have to agree with Serena. It shouldn’t upset Hunter so much. It’s not like his mom is Attila the Hun, right?” She spears Genny with her bright blue eyes.

  “She’s not like you,” Genny points out, gesturing with her hands toward her mom. “She’s not so put together.” Not as happy, either. “But there’s nothing wrong with her.”

  “Does she like you?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “It’s not Genny, Ms. Barnes. Hunter is lukewarm.” Serena places the veggies back on the table and abandons her fork. She raises her chin, purses her lips, and really digs into Genny, “Did he ever get you
r blood going? Make your heart beat so fast you were sure it was going to make a run for it?” Her words are more like accusations, full of the confidence of knowing, probably better than Genny, that passion wasn’t part of the equation for her and Hunter.

  Genny doesn’t know how to confess the feeling of relief she has now that the romantic part of her relationship with Hunter is over. Kissing him was nice, but it never went beyond the surface. She never felt it deeper. And she spent a lot of time trying to convince herself that the fire Serena and a lot of girls at school spoke of was fairytale.

  “I’ll miss him,” Genny says. She already does.

  “You’ll get over it,” Serena assures her.

  Her mom smoothes a hand over Genny’s hair and her eyes get all soft when they look into hers. “It’s true,” she says. “It may take a while, but it’ll get better every day.”

  Genny nods.

  “And you’ve got Truman to help you.” Serena grins then reaches into her pocket for her cell phone. She scans the call list. “I had to turn it off,” she explains. “He was calling every minute and the ringing was distracting me from my driving.” She laughs, and Genny hears the devil in it. “Thirty-seven times.” The air whistles between her teeth. “Let’s listen to the last one. See if he’s come to his senses.”

  Genny’s mom laughs, but snags the carton of snapper in red chili sauce and stands up. “I’ll leave you two to your woes.”

  She heads for the staircase but turns and smiles at Genny. “Come talk to me later,” she says, and Genny knows that she will, like she sometimes still does, curl up next to her mom in her big four-poster bed, watch an old movie with her, and talk if she feels like it.

  Genny sits back and listens to Victor’s voice, thin with remorse as he apologizes to Serena and asks after his car. At least he got the order right, girl first car second. She wonders if her mom is happy she and Hunter broke up. She won’t have to worry about Genny walking home after dark, and even though her mother doesn’t know enough to say it, Genny knows it’s true: A boyfriend would walk his girlfriend home.

  Opinions differ, but Genny thinks Sacramento Street is by far the best for free running. She’s not much of a daredevil and a span of more than eight or nine feet is too much for her to risk the fall. Here, apartment buildings are so close she doesn’t have to put full throttle into her leaps. So it’s more like a dance she thinks. Her parents wouldn’t agree, of course, and for a moment an image of their faces, creased with worry, appears in her mind. Genny quickly squashes it. Up here, it’s all about floating and nothing as heavy as a worry exists.