This Much Is True (7 page)

“No. I’m pre-med at Stanford, but the major leagues are interested. The draft is coming up. We’ll see what happens with baseball soon enough,” he says, looking a little uneasy.

“Stanford. Nice. My dad went there. He’s a doctor—a surgeon. They’d like me to consider Stanford, but I like NYU…” I shrug with nonchalance and have to hope he won’t ask me anymore and wonder why I brought all this up to him in the first place. I’ve sent in registration papers for NYU, but I won’t have time to go there.
But isn’t that what a twenty-year-old would be doing? Going to college?
Desperate at my over-sharing ways, I switch topics. “Dad saves a lot people—most of them anyway.” I turn, look at Linc, and frown. I’m momentarily stopped by all these thoughts of Holly that unexpectedly come rushing back at me in saying this.
We can’t save everyone, now can we?
“Is that what you want to do? Save a lot of people?” I can’t keep the sadness out of my voice.

“Saving people is the ultimate,” he says with this disquiet. His grey-blue eyes darken, and he gets this intense look.

I’m not completely sure what I’ve done or said to upset him as much as I have myself. I automatically step back from him, intent on fighting the demons plaguing me from the inside alone. Our unsteady breaths begin to match up, and I look at him in growing bewilderment.

“I don’t need saving.”

“No one said you did.”

“Really? No one said anything to you at the party? Marla didn’t talk up my particular assets? Lay the Landon girl because she fucking
needs
it.”

“Who’s Marla?”

Oh shit.

“I’m Holly and definitely not the one you want to get involved with.” I start toward the door. For some unknowable reason, he scares me. I feel out of control. This whole scene has become too much, and all I want to do now is leave. Then I remember my bag. I put it on his bed at one point. I close my eyes for a second, willing myself to get it together. I turn around and face him. “My bag. I need it. It’s got my stuff.”

He’s just staring at me—wary, of course—because I’m sure I sound like a flipping lunatic.

“Stay. I’m scared, too, because baseball is my sole focus.” Then, he shakes his head and gets this apologetic look. “Med school is a plan B. I’m trying to finish early with an undergraduate degree in biology, but it doesn’t really matter. My dad is intent on me having me play in the Majors…Baseball is my sole focus. If all goes according to the plan, I’ll get drafted in the first or second round, play in some minor league working up to triple-A ball and eventually make my way up to Major League Baseball in the next couple of years.
Baseball.
That’s all there is. That’s the way it has to be.” He gives me this quizzical look as if to ensure I’ve heard all he’s said. Then he slowly appraises me just like before. It’s disconcerting as if I’m auditioning for some kind of part. He shakes his head and slowly smiles. “We should go.”

“We should go,” I echo his words, defiantly lift my chin, and look right at him. “Most definitely.”

He doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. He seems to be wrestling with indecision. Frustrated by his silence, I turn and start toward the door again.

“You’re an incredible dancer,” he says from behind me. “But you
know
that.”

I glance back at him again with a little smile and then turn to face him more fully. “I’ve been told…I have talent. I’m expected to be the next Polina Semionova.” I smile wide and laugh at his confused face. “And you don’t even know who that is.” He gets this sexy half-smile and shakes his head side-to-side, looking apologetic. I nod and flip my hand toward him. “That’s
big,
like Major League Baseball kind of big, Elvis.” I shake my head at him. “Look, I don’t want anything from you.”

He looks relieved at what I’ve said and I battle this distinct feeling of crushing disappointment at seeing it. “And you shouldn’t expect anything from me, either,” I say more unkindly than I intended.

Now he looks surprisingly disconcerted by what I’ve just said. I take a step back from him because, for some reason, I’m on edge again. As a counterbalance for feeling so mysteriously out of control, I put my hands on my hips and breathe out, daring him to come closer, daring him not to.

I hesitate and weigh my options—
leave or stay
.

I’m not really sure what I’m doing here any longer. Seducing guys is normally the easy part. I get what I want. They get what they want. We move on. One night together, here or there; sometimes not often, a party or two afterward together; and then there is the inevitable ending. Because nobody gets that I have dance class.
All the time
. That I don’t ever have a night off. That I don’t eat often. That I rarely drink. That I do little else but dance and train.

Sure. People admire the dedication but then they resent it.
And me.

So. There are no promises. No phone calls. No texts. No birthday cards. No love notes. No flowers. No dates. No prom. There is only dance class and training; and rehearsals and performances. A decade of those. A decade of life on a stage or in a class. Five picture albums capture every performing moment and every starring role I’ve ever had, but little else, because there has been nothing else in all that time. Because when you’ve got the talent you have to constantly train for it and perfect it in order to reach and remain at the top—the most exceptional level of high achievement.
Always.

Surely, the baseball player knows this.

It was easier to conduct these superficial encounters in New York last summer. Marla and I soon discovered after our arrival there that everyone was on their way to being someone else. The superficiality of it all was not lost on anyone in that town; there, everyone seemed to know that relationships were deal-breakers on the way to fame and fortune.
Surely, Lincoln Presley knows this, too.
Because who has time for such a distraction? The rules—in perfecting a God-given talent and ultimately seeking fame—are known, followed, and kept. Things are casual, however physical, and definitely noncommittal.
The way things are.

Even so, here in Palo Alto’s hometown sphere, the moral considerations for casual sex and no commitments have become strangely confusing. I’m caught between who I was before Holly died and who I am now
. Is there a difference?

The old Tally needed casual sex; wanted it, in fact. I was noncommittal, detached and uninvolved. That’s all I asked for and needed.
Then.

And now?
I steadfastly hold on to the belief that there can be no commitments of any kind beyond ballet because I don’t want any complications. I still say
no
to most phone calls, to most texts, to most movies, to most parties, to all school dances, to all Friday-night football games, to all prom and dinner dates. What’s the point of going to dinner with someone who is just going to end up questioning why I don’t
ever
eat anything?

Complications.

I don’t need them. I don’t want them.

I am so right about this.

“Would you like to go out sometime? Not this weekend.” He shakes his head side-to-side and looks apologetic. “I fly out to Tempe, Arizona tomorrow, after my game. And then we have regionals next weekend, but I know this great Italian place we could go to sometime, and maybe we could catch a movie or something afterward.”

It takes a full minute to comprehend what he’s just asked me. I take a step back and eye him in disbelief. “Are you asking me
out
? On a
date
? To
dinner
and
a movie
?” I’m incredulous that he’s somehow guessed at my most recent and truly errant thoughts.

“That’s about the safest thing I can think of…to do…with you.” He half-smiles and looks a little dazed and unsure of himself at the same time.

“The safest thing?” I wave my hand around his bedroom. “I don’t
do
dinner or go to movies. And this is a strange conversation to be having
here
in your
bedroom
.”

“How about now? Did you eat dinner?” He moves swiftly past me, opens the door, and starts down the hallway.

“No.” I follow him more out of curiosity than anything wondering why we’re talking about a future date and dinner.

“Did you want to go back? To the party?” he asks, turning back to me briefly.

I don’t answer. No. I just slowly trail after him and watch him as he makes his way to the kitchen.

“
Yes.”
I finally say, with this discernible, petulant whine. “I want to go back to the party.” I cross my arms across my chest, but he essentially ignores what I’ve just said and keeps on walking. “I don’t eat, actually,” I say airily.

True.

He turns back to me again, shakes his head, and gets this secret smile as if I just presented him with the ultimate challenge.
And maybe I have.

“Bring it, Elvis.”

He laughs.

* * *

This sure thing has taken an odd turn.
All I can do is helplessly watch as he places a saucepan on one of the burners he’s lit, deftly gathers a few things from his Viking refrigerator, wields a knife across a red bell pepper and white onion, and eventually adds it all to the pan.

Soon, the sizzling sound of vegetable sautéing in cooking oil dominates the space between us. He’s humming and seems to concentrate on the food preparation rather intently and generally won’t look at me. Intrigued by his surprising culinary efforts, I take the opportunity to study him, while he chops up raw chicken and adds it to the mixture. He drizzles in some balsamic vinegar from a fancy green bottle and minces up garlic and throws that into the saucepan as well. Within twenty minutes, the food smells delicious, and I secretly acknowledge that I’m starving, and he’s cooking me dinner, and I like that about him, and it’s this unexpected, incredible turn-on.
Whoa, Tally, slow down. It’s dinner, not a date. Focus. Breathe.

“Can I ask you something?” He looks straight at me from across the granite countertop, where I sit precariously perched on one of the kitchen stools. His smile gets wider because he’s caught me openly staring at him. I blush. “Has anyone ever cooked for you?”

I cannot think up a lie fast enough. I’m trapped into responding, undone by the honesty I see in his face as he awaits my answer. I haven’t even begun to contemplate why it’s important to him. “No one has ever cooked for me. Usually…we do the deed, and I’m on my way.”

“Do the deed?” He gets this lopsided grin.
It’s charming.

“You know what I mean.” My face gets uncharacteristically hot.
What is going on with me?

“Do I? Is that what they say in Palo Alto these days?
Do the deed
?”

I can’t tell if he’s teasing or not. I’m not sure that it matters. The room’s suddenly become electrically charged with a lot of things being left unsaid between us and a lot of things that will never be said.

“Elvis,” I finally say, breathing softly. “I’m pretty much
a sure thing
…if you don’t piss me off,” I add, wagging my finger at him.

He laughs at the reference, playfully bites at my pointed finger but otherwise ignores my answer.
Again
.

Still, I manage a seductive smile because I’m rather enjoying this unpredictable cat-and-mouse game we’re playing. I gracefully slide off the chair and make my way around to the edge of the counter toward him, while he’s busy placing the sautéed chicken onto two gold ceramic plates using professional-looking, chef-style tongs as if we’re at Tamarine or something. The dishes remind me of the ones my mom had in college. They’re like a throwback to the eighties.

He hands me a fork and directs me back to my chair. His arm rests across my shoulders for an instant, and he gently pushes me down into the seat. “Eat,” he commands.

He goes around to the other side of the counter again—away from me—and holds his plate in one hand and eats with the other. He forks his food into his mouth slowly as if he’s in dire need of judicious concentration. He seems conflicted and looks away from me as if lost in his own thoughts for a few minutes.

I must admit I’m a little confused by this whole scene. By what I’ve said and the way he’s ignored what I’ve said.
Me. Sure thing. Let’s do this. The deed. You and me.
I guess I haven’t said that explicitly enough; and now I’m not sure where this is going, and I’m caught off balance.

I push my food around the plate and ponder my next move.

Should I go?

Or, should I stay?

He nudges my hand and then produces an empty wine glass and starts filling it with Perrier water. The green bottle is a dead giveaway.

“No wine?” I ask in confusion.

“I think that spiked punch did you in.”

“That’s what you think? So…what? The food is to
sober
me up?” I try not to sound personally offended, but I am. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“I didn’t say you did. It’s just…if things lead to something else; I want you to be awake for it.” His smile takes my breath and the propensity for a withering comeback line to what he’s just implied whooshes away from me. And so I shift my shoulders in response and Marla’s borrowed blouse, which is a size too big for me, slips off to one side, as if on cue. It’s an unexpected sexy move; and I let it go, although I notice Linc is taking it all in. He stares at me intently but looks a little self-conscious when I catch him doing it. I hold my breath in response and then slowly smile in triumph because I have his complete attention now. But then, he sets his cleaned plate aside on the granite counter-top and examines mine with apparent disappointment. He’s frowning, which makes me uneasy.

“Eat something.” He sounds a little irritated with me, so I force myself to take three bites in quick succession.

“Hmmm…it’s good.”

It really is good, and I try to hide my surprise that he has these extraordinary culinary skills as well as being this guy with these off-the-charts good looks. My stomach gurgles a bit, and I can’t quite decide if it’s really because I’m starving or his company. I take another two bites and then force myself to push the plate aside. The willpower comes from years of disciplined practice; plus, I have a newfound incentive to finish up. I’m intrigued by whatever this notorious baseball player has planned for me next. I guzzle the Perrier and wipe at my mouth with my fingers. He’s watching me closely as I finish. Unnerved by his intense scrutiny, I clasp my hands in my lap and look up at him with this coquettish
did-I-please-you-sire?
look.

He bursts out laughing. Eventually, I do, too. The tension between us eases for a few minutes while I help him clean up the kitchen and thank him profusely for the food. He gets this bemused look as he reaches into the freezer and holds up two York peppermint patties and then begins to thoughtfully unwrap the foil.

“I love these things. I allow myself two a week,” Linc says as he hands me one.

“I’ll just take a bite of yours. I don’t need one of my own. I’m in the middle of training so I can’t…” I grimace because I’m telling him way too much.

“Training for what?”

“Ballet. It’s boxer training, really. Well, the diet for it anyway.” I nibble at an edge of the York patty and hand it back to him.

“The Boxer’s Diet. The one where you lean out?” He shakes his head. “That’s too severe. You’ll strip more muscle than you should. What do you weigh one hundred and two on a good day? You’re too thin as it is, Holly.”