Page 35 of Wicked Scandal

“Oh, come on, Cat.” Wilder puts a hand on my upper arm and I roll my shoulders inward, eyes closing momentarily. I don’t dislike the way he calls me Cat. I should, but I like it better than Mrs. Jenkins or Mrs. J. Those titles come with the reminder that I’m an authoritative figure to Wilder, and also that I carry the last name of a monstrous man.

When I don’t respond, he begins to rub his thumb in small circles. “You’re too hard on yourself. Whatever it is you think people need to run from, might very well be the reason they gravitate toward you.”

I look up slowly and his hand gently falls to his side. Taking the focus off myself because it’s too uncomfortable, I move it to him. “What would your warning label say?”

“Puts on a good show while hiding his own inner turmoil.” He exhales heavily before continuing. “Walks the straight and narrow and pleases everyone else before himself.”

“Wilder,” I say softly as I rest my hand on his shoulder. I don’t know what to say because we share that same toxic trait. We are people pleasers before our own wants and comforts. I can attempt to give him advice, but that would only make me a hypocrite.

Instead, I just ask another question. “What sort of inner turmoil are you talking about? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he says with an upbeat tone. “Yeah. I’m okay. It’s just tough, I guess. You know how it is. You’ve been there. Graduating and feeling like you need to have it all figured out.”

I nod in response because I remember exactly how that felt. The thing is, he’s wrong and I was too. “I get it. But you don’t have to have it all figured out, and those who do probably won’t five years from now. All I can say is, follow your heart and it will lead you where you’re meant to be.”

“Is that what you did?”

I lower my hand, averting my gaze. “No. I’m one of those few who thought they knew what they wanted and years later they are exactly where they never imagined ending up.” I swallow the lump forming in my throat as I whisper, “Not in a good way.”

“You’re unhappy, aren’t you?” I can’t see his face, but I can feel his eyes boring into my soul. I get this feeling he knows more than he’s letting on, and I just don’t know what to say anymore. He keeps pushing and pushing and I can only build these walls around me so fast.

I gulp. “I’m…okay, I guess.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just takes a step back and sips on his coffee. I can still smell him from here. He smells so good. Woodsy—like musk, pine, and earth.

“Enough of this.” I raise my voice to a more chipper note as I hop off the counter. “No sulking. Only positivity for the rest of the day.”

He holds his mug out. “I’ll cheers to that.”

I clank mine against his, feeling a little more at ease.

“We can sit in the living room,” I tell him, wondering if that sounds too forward or if it’s weird to have coffee in the living room with your teacher. “I mean, if you want?”

“Works for me.” Without hesitation, he heads there. This is a tiny house so it is only a few steps, but I really enjoy seeing him comfortable enough to move around in this space.

I follow behind him into the small living room, and he takes a seat on one end of the brown floral-printed couch that I’m pretty sure is from the early 90s. I sit on the opposite end, curling my feet into a pretzel as I turn to face him.

Wilder sets his coffee down on the table in front of the couch, then leans back, eyes narrowed at me as he clears his throat. “Can I ask you a question?”

I raise my brows. “Sure. I guess. If I know you like I am beginning to, you’re going to ask anyway.”

He doesn’t miss a beat as he chuckles, then his voice becomes serious. “Why do you always wear turtlenecks?”

I nearly choke on my coffee. I wasn’t expecting that. “They’re comfortable,” I lie, wondering if it would be safe now to wear a normal shirt. The bruises were nearly gone yesterday, but I didn’t want to risk anyone seeing the remnants of them.

Wilder nods at my response, but there’s something about his demeanor that tells me he isn’t buying it. I have no doubt Wilder has grown suspicious of Troy after that evening last year, but he’s never expressed any concern other than asking me how I’m doing. In which, I’ve always told him I’m fine.

I am fine. I’m not dying. I’m healthy. I’m strong. It’s not like Troy would ever kill me, or seriously injure me. He just gets angry and I become his punching bag. It’ll get better once the election is over.

Changing the subject, I, once again, move the focus to him. “Any new jobs from your dad?”

“Not yet but he mentioned something big next week. Some speech he plans to give at the school board meeting.” He shakes his head. “I’m still not sure about this. I don’t even know why he asked me to take on a task that’s so important.”

I sip on my coffee as he talks, and suddenly the mood begins to feel lighter—relaxing, even.

“I am.” I shrug my shoulders. “I know you can do this. Your dad asked you because he knows you can too.”

“I guess,” he says dispassionately. “I mean, it’s only a few speeches and some articles. It’ll be over after the election.”

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