Page 26 of Taming His Teacher

“Angel, I got something for you. For us. I want you to know how serious I am about this. Maybe I never fully committed to this marriage, but I have now. This thing with Lana, it’s over. I know you lost the baby, but we can make another baby. Later, when we’re ready. You’re so beautiful, Erin, and we both love it here. I want this to work, I do. So I got this, to tell you so.”

He pulls out a box from his pocket. When he opens it, my eyes almost fall out of my head. It’s a ring with a not-small diamond. How did he—

“That’s what I did, right after I left you yesterday. We’ll have to get it sized, obviously, it’s not going to fit, but it’s for you. I got it for you. Here.”

His tone is strained, a frantic used-car salesman trying to land a whale. Or wring any sale he can out of whatever desperate, gullible fool walked onto his lot. He takes my limp hand and slides the ring on my finger. It’s too big. Of course it’s too big. My hands are tiny and the diamond looks enormous and gaudy.

“Will, I…”I don’t want to be married to you. We gave it the old college try and it hasn’t worked out. It wouldn’t have worked out even if it were for the baby, and now we have no excuse to try to make it work. Please, stop.“I need to lie down.”

“Of course you do. Come on.”

He walks me back to the bedroom and stands in the doorway while I slide off my shoes and climb into bed, pulling the covers over myself. The ring, weighty on my hand, drops into my palm when I tilt my fingers and I discard it on the bedside table. I roll away from him and huddle under the blanket. He leans over me to kiss my cheek.

“We’ll talk when you wake up. I love you, Erin.”

I shut my eyes and try to block out his words, preferring to lull myself to sleep with the sensation memory of Shep’s hand in my hair.

I hate spring. Or should I say,sbrigh. Because that’s how it sounds through my horrible allergies. This is the first year I’m thankful for my allergies. At least my stuffy nose, runny eyes, and clogged sinuses can be blamed on something other than heartbreak. I spent the two weeks of spring break—even the one I was supposed to be on my honeymoon—mostly huddled in my bedroom, binge-reading romance novels to restore my faith in humanity.

That and thinking about Shep. I hadn’t heard from him, hadn’t expected to, but hoped I would. But what would he say? Drop me an email?Dear Ms. Brewster, Hope you’re feeling better after I watched you lose a baby. XOXO Shep? Leave a voice mail with his typical terse words: Ms. Brewster. It’s Shep. I was thinking of you. I hope you’re okay.

All so inappropriate.

In the meantime, Will has been attempting to court me; bringing me flowers and takeout. The flowers are roses, flowers you’d give anyone because you don’t know any better to get them what they’d actually like. They’re bloodred, the color of passion and love. I’d lain in bed, staring at them, wishing they were pink or, better, lilies. I love lilies. He’ll learn, right? Will will learn. I hope he can be taught. To pay attention, to care. That it’s not the grand gesture of a diamond ring, but showing up every day and learning your partner’s minor chords that says love, devotion.

The boys coming back has provided a distraction from the emptiness in my belly, the void in my heart. I’ve given away my one precious life to poor choices and bad fortune and I’m stuck. At least I can be on the Hill, the real love of my life. I let the strong grip of routine and the hum of other people’s lives comfort me as I sniff myself to sleep at night, hoping Will won’t notice because I can’t stand the thought of him comforting me.

* * *

Shep

Fort Lauderdale is hot. Hot and sticky. I try to enjoy it after the torture that was being home for a week. I’d worked as much as I could while I was there. They’re always glad to have me because I’m fast and accurate. My boss was pissed I’d only be there for the week, but he’d taken what he could get.

Caleb had shot up another inch in the two months I’d been gone. Kid’s a beanpole. He’s too skinny, and the happy glow he’s always had is fading. I don’t know if it’s malnutrition because fresh fruit and vegetables are way more expensive than a twelve-pack of ramen and when you’re trying to feed a teenage boy, volume counts more than quality, or if it’s that the shit that surrounds him is catching up with him, dulling his shine.

Bottom line is it doesn’t matter. I need to get him out of there sooner rather than later. While I’m here, I borrow Lucky’s cell, telling him I need to call home but really call Northwestern. I get my adviser assigned early and try to work out how to graduate in three years. I’d love to spend four years kicking back and fucking around, enjoying myself like my trust fund friends will be. Everyone who comes back to visit says college is a breeze after the academic boot camp that’s four years on the Hill. That sounds fantastic.

But not as good as getting a real job and maybe getting Caleb to come live with me. All my AP classes should help, but three years means no double major, no studying abroad, declaring my major pretty much the second I step foot on campus. Good thing I already know what it is.

I’ve had a lot of great teachers over the past four years, but having Erin in class solidified my goal to be a teacher. A math teacher. Everybody hates math, but not me. There’s always an answer. More important, a right answer. If you work hard enough, you can find it. For the next three years, I’m going to work my ass off. So for tonight, I should enjoy.

Right on cue, there’s pounding on my hotel room door.

“Shepherd, stop jerking off and let’s go. It’s dinner. They’re taking us to Benihana. You know what that means.”

At least Lucky knocks in case I was rubbing one out. I wasn’t. Haven’t been. Not because of a lack of opportunity, although four to a hotel room does cramp your style. At least it should. But that’s not the real reason. It’s because the last time I saw the source of most of my jerk-off fantasies, she was sick and I was helpless. That’s enough to throw cold water on my simmering hormones.

Lucky bursts in and starts doing some ridiculous hip-thrusting dance to a rhythm no one else can hear.

“Throwing knives and setting stuff on fire?”

“Geishas, man, geishas!”

I shrug off the beat-up tee I’ve been lounging in and pull on a polo shirt I found at the church tag sale a few weeks ago. Navy blue, Ralph Lauren. Two dollars. Perfect. “There aren’t geishas at Benihana.”

He freezes, his pelvis mid-thrust. “You’re breaking my heart, Shep. Think I can at least get a glass of sake?”

“Have you ever had sake?”

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