Page 27 of Taming His Teacher

“No. But it sounds good, doesn’t it? You’re supposed to get knocked on your ass from a glass.”

“Go for it, man. But don’t cry on my shoulder when Coach busts your ridiculous, drunk ass and you get expelled two months before graduation.”

“You’re no fun, Shepherd.”

He scrubs a hand through my hair from the back and I shake him off, saying “Come on, man,” though in my head I’m thinking I can’t afford to be fun. I shove my keycard into my pocket and swat him upside the head. Benihana sounds really fucking good.

Chapter 8

Erin

Graduation. It’s bittersweet as a faculty member to watch the kids stand up and receive their diplomas. Most of whom I’ve taught, seen while I’m on duty down at Turner, or sat with over twice-weekly formal dinners in the dining hall. I know them all by name. It’s not hard when there are seventy-five of them.

They don’t wear caps and gowns, but grey slacks and their navy blazers with the Hawthorn crest embroidered on the breast pocket. Nor do the faculty don academic regalia. Thankfully. I’d be sweltering in this heat. It’s bad enough in the skirt suit I’ve put on for the occasion. The boys file up one by one to accept their diplomas from the Headmaster, and I’m surprised by the tears that prick at my eyes. The boys receive their diplomas in the manner they’ve lived the rest of their Hawthorn Hill careers, the class clown as obvious as the valedictorian.

They all look happy. All except Shep. His jaw is tight when he accepts the leather folio and a firm handshake from Headmaster Wilson, and he doesn’t look out into the audience or pump his fist when he has tangible proof he’s a graduate under his arm. My applause is more than polite for him, which it has been for all of “my” seniors, but perhaps even a titch louder for Shep. Am I allowed to think of him as Shep now? How many times do I have to tell myself to not think of him at all?

But it’s nicer to think of him than the other thoughts that are swimming around my head.

Will didn’t come home last night.

He’s sitting beside me, showered and shaved, dressed in the suit I’d taken to the cleaners to be ready for today. He’s sitting beside me as if nothing’s happened. As if we woke up in the same bed this morning, as if we’re an established faculty couple who’ve been sitting beside each other at graduations for years, and will continue to sit next to each other until one of us drops dead.

The last boy takes the stage to get his diploma, and when he stands with the rest of his class, the crowd erupts. The cheers, whistles and general mayhem is good cover for Will leaning over and saying, while still in the middle of a round of applause, “We need to talk.”

“Yes, we do.”

“Your classroom?”

“Fine.”

We sit while the Headmaster makes his last remarks and when he’s finished, the crowd disperses like a dandelion. Will and I get blown apart on waves of conversation and congratulations. It takes me half an hour to make my way through the swarms of families and boys milling about. I’ve met most of the parents before, and I make pleasant chit-chat while my heart is hammering.

My pulse pounds against my skull, my ribs, my wrists, the backs of my knees while I plaster a smile on my face and make inane conversation. Small talk isn’t easy for me under the best of circumstances. Parents’ Weekend and visit days leave me wrung out and exhausted, and the strain of imagining what Will wants to talk about is making it worse. The more time I have to worry about this, the more freaked out I get. By the time we’ve glad-handed half the crowd and sneak away to my basement classroom, I’m light-headed with anxiety. When we’re inside, Will pulls the door closed until it latches.

I have a view of the swarms of be-suited gentlemen and sundressed women and girls who look out of place here. There shouldn’t be so many of them fluttering around, their voices too high-pitched to be bouncing off the brick and ivy-covered walls. I stare at them, trying to reconcile their presence, but I shouldn’t try too hard. They’ll be gone in a few hours and then I’ll be back to the minority, even when all the boys have left.

Will’s cleared his throat, expecting to draw my attention. I don’t turn. I’m going to hang on to any scrap of control I have over this situation, so I ignore his guttural plea. I’ve been standing at the window, watching the celebration, but my legs are leaden. It might be a good idea to sit down. I drag myself over to the chair behind my desk and drop onto the wood, warmed by the sun filtering through the window and worn by generations of math teachers who’ve come before me. The terrible ergonomics are a point of pride.

“You wanted to talk?” My voice has detached itself from my body. It’s doing a pretty good impression of someone who doesn’t give a care.

“Erin, I…”

Will’s got a big enough ego that it’s rare for him to sound genuinely contrite. It’s usually in a way that screamsI’m apologizing because I know you think I’ve done something wrong and it’ll be easier for me to smooth this over and not deal with you being pissed off anymore if I pretend it’s rational.But there’s a cold streak of genuine remorse that sets off a chain reaction through my body.

“I’ve been…”

“You’ve been what?” The bottom’s dropped out of my stomach. I can’t believe this is happening. The diamond on my finger glints in the sun and shines a mocking beam right into my eye. “You’ve beenwhat, Will?”

The coward looks at the floor. “When I said that Lana and I were over, that was…less than the entire truth.”

Oh? Tell me more.At my lack of audible response, he looks up like a dog expecting to be met with a steel-toe. Except I’m not the kicking type. I’m the kicked.

I should be glad. He’s been honest with me. A lot of men would’ve carved another notch on their belts, zipped their lips along with their flies, and hoped their wife would never know. It’s not the first time Will’s carved this particular notch. Does it even count as a separate betrayal? At this point it’s the reopening of an existing wound. Do I want to keep walking around with this sore that refuses to heal?

I should muster a “Screw you” or a “We’re over” or something brave and pithy that will make him sorry hethoughtof a woman other than me, never mind had sex with her. I hook the low heels of my shoes over the rung at the bottom of my chair and pull as hard as I can, exerting the only force I have control over until my thighs shake with strain and I have to let go.

“Okay.”

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