Page 40 of Taming His Teacher

* * *

Shep

Erin hustles down the narrow hall and I hope none of the doors open as she rushes by. It’s bad enough she’s so upset but the last thing she needs is one of the guys seeing her like this. I wait until she’s turned into the stairwell, a hand clamped over her mouth, before I shut my door and slide to the floor with the ancient wood against my back. I can see my drawings hanging on the wall over my desk, the ones she must have seen. I’m just glad my sketchbook was shoved under my bed when she came by.

Drawing Erin is not exactly a hobby of the past. I’ve got pages of pieces of her, ranging in time from the day I first saw her to yesterday. On the nights I’m not jerking off thinking about her—and who am I kidding, often on the nights I do—I draw her. Sometimes I try not to but it’s always the same: the slope of her shoulder against a bright blue sky while she sits in the bleachers, a drift of her hair as she walks down to her classroom on a windy day, the clutch of a pen in her hand while she takes notes in a faculty meeting.

If I thought avoiding her day in and day out, watching her laugh and smile and chat with other people, listening to her teach her classes through the horsehair plaster that separates us was bad, I was right. But this is a hundred thousand times worse. Knowing she had to screw up the courage to confront me, forced herself to walk up all those stairs to knock on my door, hope in her heart that maybe it didn’t have to be this way or maybe hurt sinking in her stomach because she didn’t understand what she’s done wrong. Because she’d make it her fault, I know she would. Will.

I scrub my hands through my hair and push off the floor to look out the window. There she is, like I knew she’d be. Running across campus with her hand still covering her mouth, probably trying to contain the tears because I made her cry. I watch her make her way across the quad and into Sullivan, catch a fleeting glimpse of pumping legs through the window that looks into the stairwell that leads to her apartment. It’s like watching a replay of four years ago. The buildings are different, but the small, pained shape of her hurtling across campus is the same. A knife twists in my gut that I have anything in common with Will Chase.

It’s for the best. She’ll stay away from me, get over it, find some nice vanilla guy who’ll tell her she’s pretty and make love to her. Not someone who wants to pull her hair, spank her until she cries, bind her up in black leather, and have her up the ass. In all fairness, I’d tell her she’s pretty, too, because she is. She’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. And I’d tell her I love her, all the time. Because I do.

I want to destroy something. But knowing I don’t have the cash handy to fix anything I break, I strip off my jeans, throw on some shorts and head down to the gym to lift. Because lifting weights is the simplest thing in the world and everything else is too complicated.

* * *

Erin

It’s the day of the fall art show. I used to half-love and half-loathe this day every year. Loved it because remembering the pencil drawings Shep did of me gave me a thrill. They’d been beautiful and took my breath away when I came into the alcove, unsuspecting. But after seeing them in his apartment when I confronted him last week—a glaring reminder of how he used to feel about me but doesn’t anymore—that makes me sad, too.

I guess that just leaves the loathing. I’ve hated it because that was the night of The Mistake. Having what was supposed to be meaningless sex with Will is the most foolish thing I’ve ever done.

Even though it was a Mistake, with a capital M, I do wonder. What would’ve happened if I hadn’t had a miscarriage? Would we have scrapped and struggled our way to a happily ever after? Or would it have been equally as disastrous, and having a baby would’ve made it all the harder to leave? But I do think of that tiny lost life from time to time. There was a reason I miscarried: the baby wasn’t viable and I can’t count how many people have told me it wasn’t my fault and it doesn’t mean anything. I believe them, I do. But I also want to mourn and no one wants to hear that, either.

So my emotions are already running close to the surface as I shower and dress. I put on my purple ballet flats and a new dress I bought over the summer because it looked cute when I tried it on and I couldn’t remember the last time I bought a dress. While I was preening under the flattering soft lights in the dressing room, I did not, absolutely did not, picture myself sitting across a candlelit table from Shep, peeking over my menu to see his trademark gravity applied to picking out his entrée. Flushing when he caught me staring. “Accidentally” grazing his ankle with my foot under the table because we’d be sitting so close together our knees would touch.

I had none of those thoughts then and I’m not having them now. Nope. And none of the sadness that wrings my stomach out like a damp hand towel because that will never happen.Stay away from me, Erin. His words echo through my head as if he were standing behind me, leaning over my shoulder and saying them into my ear. It’s harder than usual to apply my eyeliner and mascara because tears are making a break for my cheeks, but I manage and then I’m set to go. Is it selfish and awful of me to hope Shep won’t be there? It would only take a scrape of a razor to make me bleed and Shep’s always been more of a cleaver where my emotions are concerned, for better or for worse. I don’t know what it is about him that hits me so hard, but… Battered. That’s how I feel as I wander about my apartment for a few minutes before I can’t procrastinate any longer.

I’ll put in my appearance, make sure my students who had invited me see me there, glad-hand any parents who’ve shown up and then I’ll come home. I’ve got a book waiting under my bed for me. It’s one that’s supposed to be especially filthy. I’ve been saving it as a treat and I’ll earn it if I can get through tonight without bursting into tears.

* * *

Shep

“Hello?”

“Caleb?” The voice on the other end of the phone sounds too old, more like one of my students than my brother, but when he says, “Zach!” I know it’s my stubborn mind insisting he’s still six like when I left home and not about to turn fourteen. He could be one of my students next year.

“How’s it going?”

There’s a pause, too long, before he says, “Fine.”

“Dad there?” That would explain why he wouldn’t want to say much.

“No.”

“Mom?”

“No.”

“So what’s up?” Another silence so long it makes me want to get in my car and drive straight to Shamokin to shake the answer out of his head. “Caleb. Tell me. Now.”

“I got my mid-semester grades.”

“And?”

“I’m getting Cs in social studies and English.”

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