One True Thing (2 page)

“Pretty sweet,” he says, squatting down to get a better look at the pipes.

“It is,” I say, kicking one leg over and straddling the seat. I’ve always wanted a bike like this, and every time I see it, my heart gives a leap. Must be what it’s like to fall in love.

“Don’t let Coach see this,” Mitch says, standing back up. “He’ll crap himself.”

“It’ll be fine,” I say. “Haven’t wrecked one yet.”

“You need something to sit on the back of this,” Mitch says, patting the empty seat behind me. “Speaking of…I’m meeting Nina down at McCarthy’s in a couple of hours. You should come, she’s got some seriously hot friends. Good way to get the week started.”

“No, thanks,” I say, pretending to wipe something off the speedometer dial. This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation and I hate evading him but I have no choice. “I’ve got some stuff to do.”

“I’m starting to think you don’t like my girlfriend,” Mitch says.

I glance up, worried, but there’s a look in his eye that tells me he’s only kidding. I wish I could tell him the real reason that I don’t want to come, except that it has everything to do with Nina and he’d never understand. “It’s not that. Maybe after the game next weekend?” I put that out there knowing I’m just going to have to come up with another excuse.

“I’m going to force it one of these days,” Mitch says, backing up while I kick the bike to life. There’s a loud roar that drowns out any further conversation as I settle on the seat and pull the throttle.

I wave to Mitch as I ease the bike out of the parking space, hoping he’s cool with it. It’s not like I’ve made so many friends here this year that I can afford to piss any of them off. The off-campus apartment I’m renting with this guy Jessie isn’t all that far, but it feels good to be riding again. Unlike San Francisco where it’s always jacket weather, the warm Texas air rushes over my head and surrounds my bare arms despite the fact that we’re barely into March. We’ve had helmet laws in California for as long as I can remember and it feels weird to ride without one, but I’m only going a couple of miles. I run one hand over my head, the short, bristly hairs feeling like suede—just another way I’m trying to fit in around here. It’s tempting to pass the small, stuccoed apartment building next to campus and just keep going, gun the bike and keep speeding down the endless stretch of two-lane highway, but I actually wasn’t lying. I have some studying to do for statistics and if I don’t keep my grades up I’m off the team, so I reluctantly lay off the throttle and ease into the parking space under the shelter. I hate not having a garage for the bike, but at least it doesn’t have to sit out with the sun baking on it all day.

I’m reaching for the glass door to the building when I see her walking out of the laundry room, a basket of neatly folded clothes on her hip. It’s been days since I’ve caught sight of her and I realize now how much I’ve missed it. I wonder if she took off somewhere for the weekend, probably with a boyfriend, because there’s no way someone this hot is unattached. The thought gives me a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach and I try to erase it. I don’t want to wreck the fantasy I’ve built up since the day she moved in.

“Thank you,” she says, as I hold the door open for her, the soft Texas twang in her voice making my heart beat faster as she brushes by me, her dark brown eyes fixed on the ground. Jenna Taylor. Dance major, sophomore, comes from somewhere outside of Abilene—way outside according to Jessie, one of those towns that has only four stoplights and a Dairy Queen with a sign that congratulates the FFA on their livestock win. About as far from San Francisco as you can get.

“No problem,” I reply, following her through the door. We approach the stairs to the second floor together, but I slow my pace so that she can get ahead of me, hoping that I don’t look like a stalker and that she doesn’t notice that I’m sneaking looks at her ass as she walks up the steps. And it is a perfect little ass. Jenna has a way of moving that’s more like gliding than actual walking, her feet turned out just slightly in that way that dancers have. She’s wearing baggy sweats that sit right at the place where the two dimples on her lower back meet her spine and a workout top holding her small, perky breasts that leaves little to the imagination. I can see the muscles in her back move as she walks and that turns me on more than anything, so I shift my eyes up to the expanse of bare white skin on the back of her neck, covered by a few light brown tendrils of hair that escape from the loose bun on top of her head. Even at her messiest, Jenna is perfection. But I can’t talk to her, there’s no point. There’s too much I’d have to say, too much I’d have to give up to make it real.

I want her to look back as I approach the door to my apartment, nosily fumbling for the keys to try to get her attention, but she stares straight ahead, her back tall and her thin, muscled arms gripping the laundry basket as she heads for her apartment at the end of the hall. I sigh as I take one last look at her and swing my apartment door open. Gotta keep my eyes on the prize. Jenna Taylor is just one more thing I shouldn’t be messing with this year.
 

Chapter
Two (Jenna)

Okay, I admit it. When I saw Tyler Branch pull up outside the laundry room window, I
might
have waited a few extra seconds for him to slide off his new bike and head for the building before I walked out. I purposely didn’t look at him as he held the door open for me because I already knew what I was going to see there. The blond hair he keeps cut almost military-short, the strong, straight nose, and then there’s his eyes. Green eyes like I’ve never seen before, so clear and piercing with a band of orange around the rim and blond lashes that almost disappear in the sun against his golden tan skin. He’s almost never without his gym bag but for some reason he always smells like soap and something else, something strong and spicy that gets me way down deep.

“No problem,” he answers after I say thank you and I keep my eyes firmly on the floor. I love the way he speaks, how deep his voice is and the flat, California accent he has—exotic but familiar at the same time. I can feel his eyes on my butt as he follows me up the stairs and I’m glad he can’t see the smile I’m trying to hide. I wish I was wearing something sexier than my laundry-day sweats and the workout top I’ve had on all day. I was at the studio most of the morning and I pray to God I don’t stink. Even though I’ve never seen him bring one back to the apartment, girls must throw themselves at him twenty-four hours a day. Not that it matters to me. After what happened with Jake last year, I definitely don’t need to be fixating on another athlete. No matter how hot he is. But looking is free.

Ty doesn’t say a word as we reach our floor and it takes everything I have not to glance back to catch one last glimpse of him as he disappears through his apartment door. Ty barely looks my way when we meet in the halls and we’ve maybe said ten words to each other the entire time he’s lived here which is exactly the way it should be. I’ve got to snap out of it.

I exhale as I close our door, loud enough to attract Courtney’s attention.

“Let me guess, you ran into Mr. Wonderful out in the hall,” she says, looking up from the papers she has spread all over the couch.

“Maybe,” I say, unable to stop the warmth that’s flowing across my cheeks. It’s embarrassing how my body reacts just thinking about him.

“Maybe nothing,” she says, shaking her head. “You have that stupid I’m-in-love look all over your face. Why don’t you talk to him already?”

“I told you,” I say, setting my basket down in the small chair we got out by the dumpster right after I moved in. “After getting screwed over by Jake it’s-only-you-baby Douglas last summer, I’m concentrating on my dance and that’s it. I’m not interested in Tyler. Or anyone.”

“Hmpf,” she grumbles turning back to her work. “If this is not interested, I’d hate to see you in love.”

I glance at the clock that’s on the microwave. “Crap, I’m going to be late.” I race into my room and toss the laundry on the bed, quickly changing into my grey leggings and shoving my leg warmers and shoes into my dance bag. I stop and redo my hair into a tight bun. You don’t want to be late for Madame Azarov’s class, but you also don’t want to come in sloppy—with two well-chosen words she’ll humiliate you so badly you might as well not show up at all.

I have ten minutes before class starts, so I decide to run the few blocks between here and the studio at the edge of campus. Not only is it a good warm-up, but it’ll save me the hassle of trying to find a place to park which would eat up precious minutes. I can see people warming up when I reach Madame’s studio, but she’s nowhere to be seen as I slip on my shoes and legwarmers and take my place at the barre.

“Did you run all the way here?” the girl to my left asks, sweeping her body down toward the ground and placing her hands flat on the floor. She’s new this session—I haven’t seen her in studio classes before, but she’s obviously not new to dance. Her body is finely muscled and compact and her dark skin shines in the bright studio lights. Even in a tight bun, you can see the wave in her black hair and I wonder what it looks like loose and wild around her head.

“I had to,” I pant, doing some preliminary stretches. “I didn’t want to be late.”

“Good choice,” she answers, just as Madame’s voice booms across the room.

“Jenna! Nina! Do you have some wisdom that you’d like to share with the class?”

“No Madame,” we both answer and Nina gives me a sideways grin as she stands up straight at the mirror, eyes on our instructor. Madame used to dance with the Bolshoi and I always wondered how she made it from the pinnacle of the Russian stage way down here to Garvin, Texas, but it’s not the sort of thing you’d ask her in casual conversation. Not that I can imagine Madame ever having a casual conversation. Painfully thin, she must be somewhere in her fifties and despite the fact that all of us are taller than she is, none of us would ever talk back to Madame. Like me, most of the students in the elite class have dreams that are a lot bigger than Garvin, Texas and Madame has connections to the premiere dance companies all over the world. She’s the entire reason I came to Garvin State instead of going to New York like everyone said I should. Best not to get on her bad side.

As we work the barre, I watch Nina out of the corner of my eye. Her extension is excellent and as she executes an attitude, I’m amazed to see her lift her right leg almost parallel to her head in a seemingly effortless pose. This is obviously not her first rodeo.

“Jenna!” Madame calls and I whip my head forward.

“Oui Madame,” I respond.

“Perhaps you would like to demonstrate your work on the jete for the rest of us?” she asks, her eyes steady on me.

For Madame, a question is the same as an order, so I nod and take my place in the corner of the room. When the music starts I take two steps and execute a perfect grand jete in the middle of the wood floor, I can tell in midair that my split is level and the height is good, but when I land, Madame looks unimpressed. “Bon,” she says. “Again.” Four more times I wordlessly execute the jete, the last time I can tell that my body is tired and the back leg is lagging.

“You must be able to do several without weakening,” she demands in broken English. Occasionally she slips into Russian, but most of the time she speaks English with a smattering of French thrown in for good measure. “And your landing is heavy like the hippo. You need to be light like a feather. I want to see more work before the performance.”

“Oui Madame,” I say, bowing slightly and taking my place along the barre.

After an hour and a half of excruciatingly hard work, Madame excuses the class and I gratefully sprawl on the floor to take off my shoes.

“Your jetes were beautiful,” Nina says, sitting down beside me and slipping her street shoes out of her bag.

I glance up at Madame. “Not if she doesn’t think so.”

“Sometimes perfection is overrated.”

I laugh. Ballet is nothing but the pursuit of perfection. “Are you a dance major? I haven’t seen you in any classes before now.”

“No.” Nina smiles, her smooth dark skin getting red on her cheeks. “I wanted to be a ballerina once upon a time.” She looks around the room at the dozens of hopefuls. “Like every other little girl I guess. But now I’m an engineering major—I just like to take classes to keep loose.”

“Well, you should be,” I say. “You’re at least as good as anyone in this place.”

“I doubt that,” Nina says, hauling herself to her feet and pulling her bag onto her shoulder. I follow her out to the street. It’s gotten dark while we’ve been inside, but the temperature still has to be in the eighties somewhere. She pulls out a set of car keys and looks at me. “Are you doing anything? I was going to meet my boyfriend at McCarthy’s—you could come along.”

“No, thanks. I have a ton of homework,” I say, thinking of the English paper I still have to write for tomorrow. “Maybe next time?” I ask, hopefully. She’s cool and I don’t want Nina to think I don’t want to hang out with her. There aren’t all that many African American students at Garvin State—I think they used all of them on the school brochure that they send out every year—and it must be weird for her. I hold up my phone. “Let me give you my number and you can text me if you want.”

“Deal,” she nods, putting my number in her phone. “You going to be okay walking all by yourself?”