True L̶o̶v̶e̶ Story (2 page)

“We don’t say
Crap
; we say
Crack
.” I recite.

“We don’t say
Shi
—” I clamp his mouth shut before he can say the rest. “We say
Shoot
,” he finishes, muffled. He kisses my hand and I am sinking, sinking fast. My stomach is back on the ground, and my heart is in my throat. I’m not sure how long his mouth mesmerizes me. His tongue flicks around my middle finger, and I’m jarred awake. I rip my hand away.

“Oh, Spar…” he begins.

“You know what? We’re stuck on this flight together. I don’t want to talk this way anymore. We can talk about other things. Like—what’s new with you? Or, what’s happening with your career? How is your mom? Things like that … the rest, I just do not even want to hear come out of your mouth. Got it? And if you can’t keep your end of the bargain, I can ignore you the rest of the flight. Deal?”

His eyes are dancing, and I want to smother him with the airsickness bag. Yeah, I can’t say
barf
bag
either,
okay? I have this thing about words. Sometimes it feels like a disease; other times, it feels close to a gift when I’m writing and come up with meaningful words instead of slang drivel. Disease or not, my editor appreciates it.

“Deal,” he says and he reaches out to shake on it. His rough hands feel like home, laying claim on me all over again.

I gradually thaw just enough to carry on a conversation. I figure for all the times I’ve wanted to know where he was, what he was doing … this is my chance. I can pick up the hurt again later. The rest of the flight breezes by in fast-forward. We talk about the details of his career, although I’d kept track of a lot of it online. Ian’s a professional musician and has spent time in both L.A. and New York playing on any and everyone’s projects. He’s considered the best guitar player out there; guitar companies vie for him because Ian Sterling playing their guitar
one
time will increase their sales by insane percentages. But even more than that, his songs … he can write a song like no other. And then there’s his voice; it’s raspy and intimate, unique. He tells me about his new friendship with J. Elliot, his lifelong idol.

“Working with Elliot has been a dream. He’s really pushed me to do a solo project with the songs I’ve written over the last few years.” He does his anxious hair tug thing and looks at me, watching for a reaction.

I know what this means, but don’t acknowledge it. I’ve known it would come to this. The songs he wrote for me a couple years ago will be playing every time I go to the mall, every time I turn on the car radio and probably in a cute romantic comedy that I need to avoid. Ian Sterling has been successful for years, but with Elliot behind this project, he will explode. And I’ll be the roped up ball of sadness. That’s what my future holds right there. Little prickly threads of devastation hanging out of my gnarly, ransacked heart.

“You deserve all the royalties. Every single song is about you.” He leans over and rests his forehead on mine. “God, I want to kiss you.”

My eyes close and for a moment, I just inhale him. How many times have I dreamed of being this close to him? I feel the pull he’s always had on me and am tempted to give in one more time. Sanity fortunately returns. I shove him off, and he holds up his hands as I stare him down. “Fine, fine! I’ll behave!”

Relentless. I’m torn between throwing up and making out with him in this tiny airplane.

“What are you doing in New Orleans? Besides being by my side day and night?” He smiles as my eyes narrow. “What?” he asks with a shrug. “It’s a reasonable question.”

“Tessa’s getting married on Saturday. I’m the maid of honor. There’s a lot to do in the next five days.”

“Ah, Tess. I’ve missed her.”

“Me too.”

I lean my head back on the seat again. Ian is staring me down and I’m exhausted.

“Sparrow, we don’t have much time left on this flight.” He presses his eyes with his fingers and takes a deep breath. “Give me your number. Please. I promise I won’t … well, I can’t really promise that. Just say you’ll see me again while you’re here.”

“It’s not a good idea.” I shake my head, as much to myself as to him.

“Well, my number is the same. I will never change it. You know, hoping one day you’ll call and say you’re taking me back,” he says earnestly.

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re delectable.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“You’re edible.”

 I sigh, frustrated and turned on.

“You know it’s true.” He inches closer.

“No, I can’t really say that I do.”

“Well, I can.”

“Ian!”

His eyes are distraught when he looks at me.

“Sparrow, I know you’ve already heard me say I’m sorry, about a thousand times … but if you can’t hear anything else, hear this … you changed me. Please let me…”

I hold my hand up and look straight ahead. It helps to not see his face. “Don’t. Just … don’t.”

His face crumbles and I think I see his hand tremble as he runs his fingers through his hair. His eyes fill and for a moment, he doesn’t look nineteen. He doesn’t look thirty. I see what he will look like at sixty and it torments me.

The plane is already beginning its descent. I look out and see the lights of the city and think about how I’d give anything to get lost in Ian’s words. It’s a powerful feeling, to know this magnetic, dangerous, quirky, beautiful, sexy … man wants
me
. Agony is almost worth it if I could just be with him.

It’s as if no time has passed at all. I see with sickened clarity that I will never be over Ian Sterling. Never.

He’s watching me, waiting for me to say something. Just one word to give him hope and we will be back in our own little world of love and lust and banter.

I turn to face him and he looks at me with expectancy, willing me to let him back in. Willing me to say yes…

I shake my head and the cobwebs clear. I remember. I remember it all. I want him to hurt.

“How’s Laila?”

- 2 -

5
⁺
years ago

The Meeting

It’s hard being a pastor’s kid. My dad pastors the largest non-denominational church in San Jose, CA, and even though I’ve always been proud of my parents, the pressure can be overwhelming at times. If you want to know the job of a pastor’s kid, it’s this: be perfect.

My parents are wonderful, loving people … just a little on the strict side with their only daughter. They adore me though, and unfortunately, they love to show me off. Charlie, my mother, is a force to be reckoned with—I think my dad is the only one who has ever been able to tell her what to do—and rarely at that. Otherwise, she rules with a pearl fist: smooth and white on the outside, but if you bite it, you just might wind up with a broken tooth. She knows how to get things done.

I’m pretty sure if Charlie has her way, there will be a wedding before I’m twenty.

I’m not blind; I know I’m not bad looking. I’ve had a few boyfriends in my short time of dating, but to my
parents
, I am absolutely gorgeous, unbelievably smart, the most talented girl EVER, and they want me to marry another equally gorgeous, smart, talented PREACHER.

I do not see preacher’s wife in my future.

People have been telling me I look older than I really am for the last four years. I’d like to think it’s because I act so mature, but something tells me that’s not it. At thirteen, I reached 5’ 9” and have hovered around there, add an inch or two, ever since. Dressing like an old woman might have also had something to do with it. All right, old woman might be a stretch—let’s just say, I dress about a decade older than most girls my age.

In just a few weeks, I will be moving across the country to start school at New York University. Taking my entire loose-fitting, conservative, and very proper wardrobe to Goodwill is at the top of my To-Do List. I’ll go shopping for a new, younger life once I get there.

I’m going through my massive collection of books when my mom knocks on my door and opens it.

“You almost ready for our lunch date?” My mom is always a little overly dressed, and one of her huge earrings threatens to blind my left eye as the light catches it just right.

“Yes, I just keep trying to weed through the books. I’m down to two boxes of books now,” I cringe. “I can’t stand to think of not having all the ones I want with me. A little bit of home…”

“Don’t get me crying, honey.” Charlie leans over and hugs me. “I’m just now making my peace with you leaving. You can’t take all your books too, your room will feel like you’re gone forever.”

“I’ll be back. I guess I should leave my favorite books here, so I’ll have a reason to come home,” I tease.

“Hey now…” She tweaks my nose. “Good thing your boyfriend’s staying behind … that should help entice you home.”

I think about that for a moment. Michael is quiet about the approaching separation lately, and it makes me wonder for the millionth time how the distance will affect us.

“Get ready, so we’re not all waiting on you. I’m excited for you to see Jeff and Laila. It’s been so long. And I know how much Michael is looking forward to meeting them. He’s supposed to be here soon to pick you up, isn’t he?”

“Yep … I’ll hurry.”

I’ve been dating Michael for the last four months. He’s twenty-two and beyond hot. Our four-year age difference would be a problem for some parents, but this is where my “maturity” comes in. Oh, and Michael is my dad’s right hand man and the youth pastor at our church. Problem solved.

I have a date with Michael later tonight, too. He’s been talking about a restaurant he wants to try in San Francisco. He’s also been talking a lot about meeting Jeff Roberts, now that I think about it. Jeff is an international speaker and has written at least three bestsellers. He and his wife have been friends of our family for years, but I can’t even remember the last time I saw him. I barely remember his wife at all.

I catch sight of the clock and jump up. After the world’s fastest shower, I look for something that doesn’t need ironing. I hate ironing. I put on a new fitted, short t-shirt dress that I bought last week on a whim. This is the exception to my All Things New in New York expedition. I just couldn’t help myself with this dress. It’s too cute and I’m so ready for a change.

I quickly diffuse my long hair and have the usual internal argument with my mother that I always have regarding my hair, only it’s typically not internal. She prefers my hair up because I look older, or calmed down with hot rollers. My naturally curly hair makes her nervous. It’s too wild, too “wanton.” Her word, not mine. But secretly, I think it really might be my only sexy feature, at least of the ones that show. Or maybe my mom put that in my head by using the word
wanton
.

Michael has been exploring more of my “sexy” features lately when we make out. With all the layers and such, I’m not sure how he will ever find anything at this rate. He has amazing patience; I’ll give him that.

I take one last look in the mirror, giving my hair a final fluff. Michael will most definitely approve of this dress.

I bounce down the stairs, suddenly feeling a bit excited about the lunch. I read Jeff’s last book and was impressed. Maybe I can get inside his head about how the writing process is for him. Do writers ever truly think they’re great? If so, I’d like to roam inside their brain and let all that self-confidence ooze over my guts and pores and cells. It would make writing a lot simpler.

Michael is just coming in the door. It bothers me slightly that he comes in without knocking. My parents keep the door unlocked most of the time, which is crazy, even in our nice neighborhood. However, my dad gave Michael a key before we even started dating, when he house-sat for us. My parents think nothing of it; in fact, they encourage him coming and going as he pleases. They see Michael as the son they never had. This concerns me, but only because I don’t want anyone to be disappointed if we don’t work out. I have a feeling if we did break up, they’d choose Michael.

He really is gorgeous. Michael is the first blonde guy I’ve ever been attracted to—I’m usually all about the tall, dark and mysterious. Michael is tall, blonde and there is nothing mysterious about him. He is so fun … so funny. Every girl sits up taller and giggles louder when he comes into the room. Even my mom. His eyes crinkle up when he laughs. I haven’t even started on his body. Oh my, the arms, the lower abdominals. I now know the term
V-cut muscle,
thanks to Michael. I didn’t even know I cared about all that until I saw him without a shirt and all of a sudden I did care. I cared a
lot
.

He asked me out a half dozen times before I said yes. If he’d just shown me his chest, we could have settled the matter much sooner. The fact that I’d be leaving for school troubled me, but there was also the little complication of getting involved with someone who worked for my dad … and the whole preacher thing itself.