This Much Is True (10 page)

I miss Holly. I miss my twin.

There’s nothing anyone can do about that. Spending the sexiest night ever in my life with an amazing guy like Lincoln Presley is not going to change that one life-altering truth.
Holly is gone. Gone forever
.

I turn away from him in order to hide my face for a moment in a desperate attempt to regain my composure. He seems to sense I need a minute or two alone.

The music stops. I automatically lift my head and covertly study him as he stands there just watching me from across the room looking a little less certain as to what to do. “You know what I think?” he finally asks.

I’m out of sorts, reeling from the discovery of this personal truth about myself, but he waits for my answer. “What?” I finally ask and manage to hold my breath at the same time.

“I think you should
stay
. Whatever it is…” He gets this knowing look like he already knows my pain, which is weird because I haven’t talked to him about the accident. I don’t remember much of it. I try not to remember anything about that day.

He starts again. “Wherever it is you need to be…can wait. Right now, I want you here with me. Can you stay? Will you…stay?”

I suppose it’s the way he asks that has me vacillating with my plan for a hasty retreat from his home. I stand there—assailed by equal doses of loss and guilt. All these jumbled thoughts swirl around me as I contemplate all the lies I’ve told him tonight and just as swiftly along comes the realization that I still have this surprising profound attraction for him and that a big part of me doesn’t want to walk away from him quite yet. The fact that I still hold this unfathomable attraction for him is disturbing on too many levels for me to assimilate at this particular moment but I do manage to shake my head side-to-side. “No,” I say without much conviction.

Here’s the truth: I am the female version of a heartbreaker. The one that everyone says is too dedicated to ballet, too self-involved to ever care about anyone else besides herself. I’m the rebel. The bad twin. I am Tally—the loner, the party of one. The love and leave ‘em prototype. Heartless. That is me. I have no time for romance, flowers, or relationships. I like one-night stands with plenty of sex and no promises of a future. I like the lies I tell. I’m comfortable in telling them…most of the time. This is me. Okay, maybe, this is me acting out, but I like it like this. I have been this way since I was fifteen. Only the stakes have gotten higher. The love game has become so much more complex. Sometimes, it’s even dangerous. I shiver at the thought of the foreign stranger in the Caribbean. I can’t remember his name. I was with him for a few nights, and I can’t even recall his face or remember his name. Shame seeps in with the admission, but then some sense of self-preservation rolls in behind it.

Play the game, Tally.

Everyone who plays it with me knows the rules. We know exactly how the game is to be played. I don’t stay overnight. I don’t cuddle. I let them into the physical part of me, and then I let them out. That’s it. That’s all there is.
This—
whatever
this
is—has to stop. This is a dead-end road that I am unwilling to go down.

I ready myself to give this very speech to him aloud, but I make the mistake of looking at him. Lincoln Presley has this expectant look. He looks hopeful as if I will not hurt him.
Don’t look at me like that. Don’t make this into something more than it was. It was sex. Nothing more. Nothing less.

And yet.

It’s not the physical aspect of him that seems to be luring me in now. No. It’s the sincerity written all over his face. It’s the memory of his unexpected kindness that he’s shown me in the darkest times of this night. It’s the underlying truth of him that has me feeling this forceful need to reach out to him, even while, deep inside; I begin to panic. I need to leave—
to escape
, really.
Now.

And yet.

I step toward him instead, but even as I do this, my mind rattles off all these self-preserving commands:
Just walk out the door. Walk away, Tally.

And yet.

He extends his hand towards mine. My fingers find his. I close my eyes to escape the allure of him, but instead it draws me in closer. I’m compelled to move further into his arms by some unknowable force.

“Stay,” he whispers against the side of my face. He kisses my right cheek and then leans the other way and trails his lips along the sensitive spot at my throat.

This?

This is seduction at its finest.

My heart races out of control and this whole part of me gives way.

“Stay with me.”

“No.” I don’t sound convincing. I sound weak and out of control. “I should go.”

“I know. But what’s the worst that could happen?” He laughs a little against the side of my face. “What’s the worst that could happen?
Holly
…stay with me. What are you so afraid of?”

“Falling. Failing. Losing. Those are the big three. They’re practically interchangeable and apply to every aspect of my life.”

He pulls me tighter into his arms. “Me, too,” he says, breathing the words into my hair. “Stay with me for a while.
Please
. You make me feel unafraid.”

“I do?” I look up at him in surprise and study his face for a long while.

“
Yes
. Please stay.”

I’m overwhelmed by his honesty and the deep-seated fears we share. I bury my face into the base of his neck and feel his pulse against my lips. I ignore the rising guilt that tries to attack me from all sides in realizing he doesn’t even know my real name.

The truth is simple. He moves me. He makes me feel something. He makes me believe in the good of life again and that alone proves too much to resist.
So, I stay
.

* * * *

CHAPTER EIGHT

Linc ~ Thank you, Elvis

S
he left a note. I chastise myself for expecting more from her. Still, I trace her seductive handwriting and ponder the three simple words she’s written:
Thank you, Elvis.

For a few minutes, I begin to wonder if she remembers me from the day of the accident. But then I decide,
no
, probably not. It’s just the crazy connection she made between me and my last name. It’s strange though that she would call me that.

Some small part of me begins to wonder exactly what I was supposed to believe is true about this girl. She’s this enigma to me. An enigma, I’m intent on getting to know better because I still don’t have a clue about her—except maybe her name now.
Holly.
I want to see her again.

I spend an inordinate amount of time in the shower recalling every aspect of her—about how vulnerable she was at times yet, at the same time, how closed off emotionally she seemed to be. She was uncomfortable when I tried to reach out to her, even at her most vulnerable point. She seemed to acknowledge our amazing connection but remained unaffected by it. Her dedication to ballet was obvious. It was when she seemed to come alive and was more open with me last night in sharing her greatest fears, which surprisingly mimic mine. Even when we were going at it for a third time, I noticed how distant she seemed, unattached and unmoved by it all; but then I’d looked into her beautiful eyes and glimpsed her sadness. All I could think of was to try to reach her and take the pain from her, if only for a little while. It’s what I’ve wanted to do since the first time I saw her. I still feel this urgent need to protect her somehow from the torment of grief because I know what it can do. There were more than a few times I almost confessed to knowing about the accident, of having been the one who carried her away from the car just before it exploded, of knowing about the loss of her sister. Even now, I feel a little guilty for not having been more forthcoming with her about who I was in relation to her and the accident. At one point, I asked her more about how she’d broken her ribs in the first place, but she effectively shut me down about that. The truth is it doesn’t matter. I
know.

And, this girl had me hooked the first time I looked into her eyes three months ago. I am way out of my depth with this girl
Holly.
Way out.

Last night, I kept thinking as I watched her dance and saw her face change with a cascade of emotions from sadness to serenity that I could reach her somehow. I could
save her
even though she’d mocked me earlier about doing this very thing. I couldn’t help but notice the dark shadows beneath her make-up after she’d washed it all off in the middle of night. After disappearing for a long ten minutes, she’d slipped back into my bed, but her absence had been long enough that I’d begun to wonder if she’d gone, left me, actually. That was the first time I experienced the unfamiliar ache at the possibility of her leaving. Loss, a long-held fear, I know well. It beat like a drum inside of me even then.

It’s true—even though she’d stayed—some part of me already recognized how deeply affected I would be by her absence. The loss of her. It was more than a premonition even then. After her prolonged absence behind the bathroom door and this building fear that she was already gone, she’d quietly reappeared. I pretended to be asleep just so I could continue my covert study of her. I wanted to savor the essence of her, in all aspects, without her paranoid questioning of why I would be doing such a thing. She was elusive, like a rare butterfly I was unable to fully capture. I listened intently for her low sighs as she drifted off. I was somehow lulled into this absurd wishful thinking that she would stay, that I could keep her here. Maybe forever. Eventually, fatigue overtook me, too; even though I fought to stay awake so I wouldn’t miss a single stolen moment with her. The familiar chants lulled me to sleep.
I have a game. I need sleep. All there is…is baseball.

Yet, in the light of day, at half past eight, all I have left of her is this note.
Her fucking note.
A note that doesn’t tell me anything and simply thanks me.
Thanks me.
She didn’t even sign her name. For some reason, this bothers me on a whole separate level.

I stand still for a long time, holding the note, and let it all sink in. Her leaving is almost palpable like a gale-force wind that’s rolled into my life in the span of a single evening and left behind all this incalculable destruction, both inside and out. Yes, the tempest has passed, but the air around me feels different. I can hardly breathe. Nothing is the same without her. As the lone survivor of her particular storm, I begin to wonder just exactly what I’m supposed to do now.

It’s only later, after wandering listlessly around the guest house for another hour, after I eventually resign myself to the unenviable task of cleaning everything up and throwing away the empty champagne bottle we shared; after I wash the wine glass smudged with her lipstick; after I purposefully pick up and look through each and every one of the DVDs she touched and so casually left in a forsaken heap stacked precariously at the edge of the great room rug so clearly forgotten by her, which seemingly represents this wry reflection of myself that even I can admit to; it’s only after I pushed the heavy furniture pieces back into place and, in essence, effectively erase all genuine evidence of her incredible presence from the night before; yes, only after all of that, do I realize I have absolutely no way to get in touch with her.

I’m practically paralyzed with equal doses of disappointment and despair at the cruelty of this one indelible fact. Yes, this hits me hard because I
want
to see her again,
need
to see her again; and yet, I have no way to get in touch with her. I begin to wonder if that was her intention with me all along.

* * *

I race out of the guest house with an urgent need to locate Charlie. He’ll know what to do. He’ll have more insight as to who this Holly is because of her friend.
What was her name?
It started with an “M” or an “N”.
What did she say the friend’s name was?
Breathing hard from my jaunt across the massive lawn—a rather intense sprint from the guest house to my aunt and uncle’s palatial palace, I let myself in through the side door of the Masterson’s kitchen, bend over, grasp my thighs, and try to catch my breath.

Aunt Gina is busy at the counter stirring some kind of batter. She looks up at my hasty entrance and smiles.

“Hey, Linc. I was just going to come get you. Your dad called. I guess the Angels are sending a scout to your game tomorrow. He wants you to call him.” She makes a funny face and starts to laugh. “Sorry. Let’s start again. Good morning, handsome nephew. Happy Saturday. Have you had breakfast? Pancakes?” She points to her mixing bowl.

“Good morning. No breakfast. I was up late.” I hide my flushed face from her, but I see her get this mildly curious expression. She’s obviously cognizant of a sleep-over taking place at her guest house. To avoid further scrutiny, I busy myself with swiping whipped cream from one of the mixing bowls laid out on the counter and try to ignore her sudden interest. It looks like I’ll be missing another one of her fabulous dinners this weekend. “Have you seen Charlie?” I ask, trying to appear casual and disinterested.

“No. I thought he was with you last night.” She gets this impish look, purses her lips, and makes this judgmental clucking sound that only a mother or close aunt can make. “I thought the two of you were together last night at the guest house after the big party. I saw someone head out from there about three hours ago. Around six? When I was making coffee. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Which way? The person you saw. Which way did she go?” I don’t quite hide my desperation. My adorable aunt seems to notice it, too. She cocks her head to one side and studies my face intently.

“She headed east,” Gina says softly. “She was very pretty. Does
she
have a name?”

“Holly. Her name is Holly.” I try not to sound too forlorn, but I don’t think she’s fooled.

“Does she have plans?”

“For this weekend?” I get this wan half-smile and shake my head side-to-side. “I don’t know.” I glance out the kitchen window toward the path that leads from the guest house to the house in an attempt to put my aunt off from the conversation and somehow see if I can conjure up my mystery girl just by wishful thinking.

“For the rest of her life?” Gina asks.

I look over at my aunt, unable to completely hide this hollowed-out, just excavated feeling because that’s how I feel whenever I think about this girl or her damn note. “I don’t know.”

“Wow,” Aunt Gina says as she takes a step back and looks me over. “She’s the one, huh?”

“I don’t know,” I answer numbly. This helpless feeling stays with me. I am way out of my depth with this girl already. I can feel it.
Not good.

“Who’s the one?” Charlie saunters into the kitchen and grabs a bag of chips and loudly crunches down on his ready-made breakfast with his usual charm. He hugs his mom and replicates the whipped cream trick in swiping at the creamy foam, just like I did.

“The girl Linc met last night.”

“Who was it?” Charlie asks with indifference. After opening the refrigerator, he pours himself a tall glass of milk and quickly gulps it down and looks over at me and then his mom. “What?”

“She said her name was Holly,” I say slowly.

“Holly.” Charlie looks disconcerted for a few seconds. “I didn’t see her. Or
you
. For quite a long time.” He gets this wicked grin. “I had to clean up the whole mess without you, Prez.” He gives me a somewhat exasperated look.

“Not my party,” I say with a shrug. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay. Marla helped me clean up. Well, for a while—”

“Marla. Is that the girl you were with?” I ask.

“Not just any girl,” Charlie says, giving me this thunderous look. He seems to get more uneasy as his mother begins to take an interest in our little exchange. Charlie sets the bag of chips down slowly as if vying for more time. Then he slides his hands deep into the front pockets of his jeans and develops a keen interest in the kitchen floor, tracing the tile’s intricate pattern with his shoe.

“What
girl
?” Aunt Gina stops what she’s doing and looks over at the two of us intently. Then, as if to better ensure she has his full attention, she goes over and lightly taps Charlie’s shoulder with one of her wooden spoons. A fait de complete. It’s the Aunt Gina
I-will-not-be-left-out-of-this-conversation
move.

Surprisingly, Charlie hangs his head and avoids looking at her. “I saw Marla last night,” he finally admits.

“Marla.
The
Marla? The one from Paly a few years ago?” Gina asks in surprise. “Charles Michael Masterson, I will not stand by and watch you break that girl’s heart for a second time.”

“Mom, it’s not like that. Marla knows how things are.”

“I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation. That she came here, and you would—”

“Would what?
Nothing happened.
We
talked
. It was good to see her again. Same-old Marla. Same-old issues. Same-old fight at the end.” Charlie gets this dazed expression, and then he looks decidedly unhappy. “She has her plans. I have mine. We’re very clear about those.”

“What about her friend? What do you know about her?” My words come out in a rush before I can stop myself from asking.

Charlie looks uneasy. “I don’t know all of her friends—anymore. It’s been a few years since we were together. Maybe it was Marla’s friend Holly? But that would be weird because I thought she was still with Rob Thorn. They got together right before Marla and I broke up toward the end of my senior year. You…met a girl named
Holly
?”

“She said her name was Holly,” I say.

“Marla’s a senior at Paly, and she was in New York all last summer, I guess she still hangs out with—”

“
Paly
…as in our former high school?” I ask.
Holy shit.
This sick feeling becomes more insistent inside.

“Marla’s a couple of years younger than me. We started going out when I was a senior, and she was a sophomore.” He glances over at his mom. “She’s just about to graduate. In a few weeks, in fact.” He gets this look of defiance, but it doesn’t last long because his mother eyes him intently.

“You served
minors
at your little party last night, Charles?”

Charlie hangs his head. There’s no place to hide with that one. “It appears I did.”

“Do you like your life? The way you can come and go as you please around here? Getting your fine education at UCLA? Charlie, do you have any idea what would happen to you or your father and I, if a minor who’d been drinking—partying at our house—was then injured or killed on their way home because you just wanted to have a little fun?”

“I messed up, Mom.”

“No doubt about that,” she says sadly.

“Her friend is at Paly, too?” I choke on the words as well as the implications become somewhat clear here. It’s been five years since I attended Palo Alto High School. The math is pretty easy to do. I run my hands through my hair, as if this would somehow change his answer, while anxiety runs unchecked through all of me now.
This is unbelievable. Is it possible that I’ve just gotten duped by a girl still in high school, and she’d had the gall to leave me a thank-you note?
No wonder she did that. She probably thought it was fucking funny. She’s a girl—still
in high school—
still capable and willing to do childish things like that. Sleep with the college guy. Tell all her friends.

Aunt Gina eyes me closely now, while I struggle for composure.

“High school girls are a little out of your league at this point, Lincoln Davis Presley,” Aunt Gina says. “And your dad would not be pleased.”

I nod into the growing silence while she frowns with notable disapproval in my general direction. I wince because my morning is just getting worse.

“I’m not necessarily worried about either of those girls,” she says after a few minutes. “But the two of you?
Way
out of your league…and
trouble,
I might add. For both of you. Equally.”

“No lecture needed on that front, Mom.” Charlie glances over at me. He seems desperate to change the topic of discussion and get his mom to focus on something else—
anything else.
“You don’t look so good, Prez.”

Charlie has called me
Prez
since we were about seven or eight. He is about the only one I allow to call me that. Nicknames aren’t my thing. I don’t like them. This definitely came about from the constant teasing I experienced as a first-grader tagged with the double duty of a weird first name like Lincoln and a famous last name like Presley. Little kids had a field day with that two-pronged wonder, and my stigma with my names set in fairly early. Yet
her
nicknaming me
Elvis
didn’t exactly bother me.
I liked it. I liked her.
She called me
Elvis
. I close my eyes, remembering her smile. It was a thing of beauty, her smile—like one of life’s unexpected wonders. It’s right up there with pitching the perfect game or reaching the summit of Kilimanjaro—which I did three years ago—or falling in love for the first time—which I swore I would never allow myself to do—but I am pretty sure that this is exactly how you’d feel as if it was just the most beautiful and unexpected thing to ever happen to you.
Elvis.
She’d called me Elvis all night long. I usually hated it when people unwittingly associated me with the famous singer, but the girl from last night had said it with affection. I didn’t mind being her amusement for the evening—or forever, if I’m being honest.
What is wrong with me?