Page 36 of Taming His Teacher

“I got a job, Dad. I’m going to teach math on the Hill.”

He’ll be so fucking proud of me he’ll hang up.

Chapter 12

Erin

He’s here.

I knew he was coming today, had to be coming today. It’s the last day he could possibly come. I’m surprised he didn’t come sooner. I don’t think he went home. Home’s never seemed like a place he liked very much. From the little I know, I don’t blame him. So why did he wait until the last minute to show up?

It doesn’t matter. He’s here and I can’t wait to see him, talk to him, hear his voice, and I hope, watch the way his face will light up when he sees the ring on my finger is gone. As is Will. Not only did we divorce, but he’s moved on to another school, this one in Connecticut. I hope he’s happy there, I do. He’s not a great guy, Will, but he’s not evil incarnate or anything. He’s not malicious. He should come with a warning label, that’s all: Single-Use Only.

But Shep. It’s foolish of me to think he won’t be attached. He’s not engaged or married; it would’ve been in the bulletin. He’s young for that, but it’s not out of the question. He’s so serious and steady it wouldn’t surprise me if he decided what he wanted and locked it down as soon as possible.Mine.So a serious girlfriend? Definite possibility.

I’ve been squirming in my apartment, not able to keep still, counting down the minutes until the first faculty meeting of the school year starts. I’m not usually anxious about these things, but then there’s not usually the promise of Zach Shepherd. I did not, absolutelydid not, change my clothes three times. I thought about jeans and a T-shirt. That’s what most of the faculty will be wearing before the kids get to school and we have to cram ourselves back into dress code the same way they do. But it didn’t look right. So a swishy skirt, camisole and cardigan it is.

I’m fidgeting on my couch, checking my bag for the zillionth time: notebook, check; laptop, check; writing implements, check. I’ve got everything. It’s a quarter to four. I’ll get to the faculty dining hall five minutes early. Fine, fine. I haven’t been so nervous since my first day of teaching. Every year it gets easier, the flutters in my stomach dampened, but it’s still hard. Teaching is so hard. It’s a hard job for anyone to do well, but it is the exact opposite of my natural inclination to stand up in front a bunch of people, teenage boys in particular.

It’s worth it, though, to see the light bulbs go on over their heads, to watch them out the window as they leave class and high-five each other because they aced a test, and—my favorite—their serious conversations when they’re trying to help a struggling classmate understand something. It makes my heart burst.

Speaking of. I take up my bag and skitter out the door, down the steps. I’d asked to move. I don’t want to keep living in the apartment where my marriage failed slowly, painfully, inevitably. But not this year, due to staff changes and housing needs. Maybe next year.

The end of summer is coming. It’s hot, but the breeze is cooling off, and everything is saturated with color and scent like a bowl of overripe fruit. I traipse across campus, keeping an eye out, but I don’t see Shep’s tall, broad, dark form, only the familiar stoop and creak of some of the older teachers. Usually I’d stop to chat, but there’ll be plenty of time for that at the cocktail party afterward.

I’ve reached the brick building, its trademark ivy hanging over the walls, and let myself inside, where the air conditioning hits me full in the face. The faculty dining room is crowded with people greeting each other and catching up on summer happenings. A lot of them teach at summer programs at other schools or lead travel programs, work at camps. Some stay here and run the sports camps, others have vacation homes they retreat to. I was here, playing administrator and helping with class scheduling and curriculum development. Looking around, I don’t see Shep, so I find an empty seat to sit in while I bounce my heel against the worn carpet. Where is he? He’s got five minutes left according to my watch. He was always the punctual sort.

When I look up from my watch face and out the window, a navy blue Volvo sedan, not new, pulls up in one of the spaces behind the dining hall. When the driver’s side door opens, it’s him. It’s really him. I’ve thought of him often since he left—more since he was here in the spring, giving me a more vivid picture to pin my hopes on. He’s here. Wearing khaki shorts and a polo shirt, shoving sunglasses over his forehead. Oh my.

He grabs a backpack, the same one he had as a student, and hefts it over his shoulder before shutting the door. I lose sight of him then and count how long it takes him to make his way inside. Through the basement door in the back, up the well-worn steps with the sandpaper treads, down the carpeted hallway, through the tiled student dining hall and…

He’s here. In the doorway. His blue eyes scan the room and stop ever so briefly when they get to me. I smile and start to lift my hand in a wave, but his face darkens and then his gaze skims over the rest of the room. There’s one word for how I feel in that moment; the second I’ve been looking forward to for months, that I’ve—if I’m being honest—anticipated for years. The moment when there was a possibility of Shep and I being together. I thought it would be exciting, thrilling, but instead the artificially cold air is heavy in my chest. One word.

Devastated.

* * *

Shep

I am such an asshole.

A cowardly, gutless douche bag.

I could have come earlier. Days earlier. Weeks, even. I mean, was it nice to make some extra cash working at the club and tying up loose ends before I had to leave? Yes. Could Mordecai have done without me for the past several weeks? Definitely. Summer tends to be slow. People are on vacation, spending time outside, and frankly, leather and latex get damn hot in the sweltering Chicago heat and humidity. I’m not squeamish about bodily fluids and odors—you can’t be and work at a fetish club—but August is a lot for even me to take. Mordecai gave me those hours as a favor.

Most of them were more like therapy than me doing anything useful. Mordecai knows about Erin. He’s the only one who knows about Erin. She’s been a frequent topic of conversation over the past few months. Our most recent, most painful, conversation had taken place a couple of weeks ago while we did a super-thorough cleaning of the restraints that get used in the club. Q-tips and everything.

“Why are you still here, man?”

“I don’t need to be there until the last day of August.”

“Need, sure, but youcouldbe there. You’ve wanted to go back since the day you left. So what’s holding you back?”

I’d lowered my head, concentrating really fucking hard on getting a tiny piece of grime that was wedged under a buckle I’d polished.

“It’s her, isn’t it? Erin? Are you afraid to see her?”

“I’m not afraid,” I’d scoffed. “She’s not rabid or anything.”

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