Page 28 of Taming His Teacher

He looks at me like I’ve recited the Gettysburg Address or some equal non sequitur. I should yell. I should do something else. Someone with more self-respect would punch him in the face. But I’m worn out and what energy I have left shouldn’t be wasted on reactionary jibes at the man who promised to love and honor me and has done everything but. The boys who worked so hard for me and say their shy and earnest thank-yous, or who swing me around in exuberant and slightly mortifying hugs, they’re who deserve any feelings I can muster.

“Later.”

“Okay. Angel, I’m—”

I close my eyes and shake my head, heavy with disappointment in the both of us. “Don’t.”

When I open them again, Will nods and heads for the door. I want to throw a piece of chalk at the spot at the crown of his head where his hair is thinning, point out his vanity and flaws in a petty cat scratch of bewildered rage he’d brush off like a fly.

When the door latches behind him, the tears slip from my eyes. I wrench my ring from my finger, leaving red marks, and fling it across the classroom. It makes a satisfying clink as it bounces off a window and skitters who knows where over the carpet. Despite knowing this is probably best for all involved, I can’t help feeling shitty. He may not have been perfect, but he’d been another brick in the wall of my life that I’d built.

Now it’s crumbling. And I’ve gone and thrown a two-carat diamond across a room. I scramble to my knees and go in search of the ludicrous shiny bauble. I’d told him it was too much, but he’d insisted. I’ll return it, if this is the end, despite it being well within my rights to keep. If I can find it. I don’t want his money, or really his parents’ money. I’m on hands and knees, butt in the air, sinuses thick and burning with tears forced forward by gravity, reaching under a radiator for the trinket, when there’s a knock at my door.

I’m so startled I forget I’m cowering under a desk and slam my head hard against it in my effort to be upright.

“Son of a—”

I crumple to the ground, a mess of snot and wrinkled summer-weight wool. Tears of pain join the pity party in my eyes. This is too much.

In a second, dark grey trouser-covered knees appear in my field of vision.

“Ms. Brewster? Are you okay?”

Shep. Of course it’s Shep. This day should get a lot worse. My eyes travel up to his face while he lays a hand on my shoulder.

What’s called for here is to sniff, extract myself from under the desk as gracefully as possible, stand up, brush myself off and assure him,Of course, Mr. Shepherd. I dropped my ring and it rolled under the radiator. You surprised me. Congratulations and best of luck at Northwestern. Good day.

But what comes out is “No,” as I burst into tears. Most teenage boys would stutter and back away, possibly offer some tissues at arm’s length while looking around desperately for someone else,anyoneelse, to please do something with this crying woman. But it’s not Jeremiah or Caldwell who’s kneeling beside me. It’s Shep.

I bury my head in my hands as weeping racks my body. I can’t stop the flood, but Shep is undeterred, his hand resting on my arm. My tears come hard and fast, hot moisture rolling down my cheeks, off my nose. One unfortunate drop streams into the hollow of my ear.

When I gather up the reins of my outburst, Shep is still on his knees beside me, stroking my arm with long, firm passes. I shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as I am, so I jumpstart the rational part of my brain. I cannot, cannot lose this job. I can’t leave here. Especially now. If Will and I are getting a divorce. Are we getting a divorce?

I don’t refuse when Shep offers me a hand. I take it. It’s callused from long hours wielding a lacrosse stick, and warm. He helps me sit up, laying his free hand on the top of my head to urge me out from under the desk without banging my head again. God help me, I lean into his touch instead of away like I should, wishing his fingers would curl in my hair and hold firm.

“Erin?”

He’s said my name twice before but the way it rolls off his tongue like he’s said it a million times imprints itself in my memory. Ignoring the low glow in my belly, I extract myself from his grasp and wipe the tears from my cheeks with my hands.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Shepherd. Please forgive my…lack of decorum.” The understatement of the year colors my cheeks, and I hope he can’t feel the heat radiating off of me. A shallow line forms between his brows. I want to rub it out with my thumb. Nothing should mar his skin, especially not wrinkles from dealing with his ridiculous teacher. “Shouldn’t you be out celebrating?”

“I have to go. My parents want to get home tonight.”

He has that tight look on his face as he looks down at the carpet, the one he gets when he thinks about home, his family. He’s disappointed and he’d rather stay to hang out with his friends and go to the wild off-campus party that’ll be happening later. The faculty pretend not to know about it, but we do. But he’s a dutiful, respectful son and he’s not going to argue. What he’s not saying is that his dad probably has to work at the feed mill early tomorrow morning. No time to take vacation days to let your son go to some outrageous, alcohol-fueled party with his aristocratic friends.

“I wanted to say good-bye, though. And thank you.”

His dark blue eyes have swept up to my face. I wish we could say the words we really want to say.

“It was my pleasure.” My face flames with the truth behind my words. It was my pleasure to see him every day, his easy, solid manner an anchor in the sea of volatile testosterone, his handsome features a pleasant place to rest my eyes. His very existence proof that there are good men in this world. “I’ll miss you.”

My confession flips a switch. “I’ll miss you, too.”

He kneels up and sets a foot flat on the floor. Instead of standing, he leans forward and presses a kiss against my lips as he slips his hand into my hair.

I’m startled, but his fingers sculpt around my skull and brook no argument. My eyes go from wide-open to slackly closed as his mouth meets mine. This feels right in a way kissing Will or my boyfriends never did. But my pliancy is shattered by how not right it is to be making out with one of my students. Under a desk. In my classroom.

I wrench myself away and drag oxygen into my lungs as if it will save me.

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