Page 35 of The Boy Who Loved Wicked
“Yes, and I’m sure she’ll be fine as well.” I worried about Emily too. We weren’t ending things on bad terms, but I kept talks involving her to a bare minimum with Phoenix. It would stay that way at least until the papers were signed and his mind was at ease. “Do you have some news for me?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re a bad liar, Mr. Michaelson. Don’t make me punish you,” I said with a lowered voice, and his mouth parted, his cheeks changing color.
“How did you know?” He gestured for me to let him down. I went to check the pizza while he headed to the hall.
“Did you forget that I’ll be taking over as director of the department next fall? I know everything.”
He came back with a sealed envelope in his hands. “How long are we going to have to hide, Bash?”
Reality had a way of crashing in, disrupting a good time. I set the pizza on top of the stove. “For a while. The university has a strict ban on student-teacher relationships, even if the latter doesn’t hold a supervisory position over the former. There are no mixed words or loopholes in my contract. It’s forbidden.”
“So even once the semester is over—”
“We can’t.”
“But we will, right?” His voice became shrill.
“Yes,” I confirmed, because for Phoenix, for us, I’d be willing to take any and all chances. “I could be fired still, and have my license revoked. And this would definitely become a scandal of great proportions. But aside from being ethically questionable, I can’t be arrested for it at that point.” I hated the look of despair on his face, so I didn’t bother mentioning that a thorough investigation could trace back to when our romantic relationship actually began, and that could stir up a whole other host of problems. “You may change your mind about us and that will be a moot point, so no need to fret about it now,” I cajoled, and he gave me the same exasperated look he always gave when I spoke about him being young and possibly wanting different things in the near future. The thought made the space between my brows hurt. “Why haven’t you opened it?” I brought us back to the letter.
He stacked his hair atop his head and wrapped a band around it before picking up the letter and flipping it around in his hands. “I’m nervous. What if I didn’t get in? What if you were right about that damn essay I insisted on writing on Pythagoras?”
“The essay was brilliant, and you won’t know until you open it.” I reached into the cabinet for a couple plates. “You’ve been accepted to the university. They’d be fools not to allow you into the course as well.”
“Do you already know what it says?” There was an undercurrent in his tone that said he wouldn’t like it if I did.
“I only know that the letters went out. I don’t have access into any more information than that at the moment.”
He studied my words. “But you will eventually have that type of access?”
I didn’t point out that I had that type of access now into his high school records. If he didn’t latch onto it, no need to pour gas on the flame. Leaving high school represented a new level of independence for Phoenix. It also, in his mind, represented the end of our unbalanced power dynamic in a sense. A dynamic I had to constantly remind myself I shouldn’t love. One that gave me control I shouldn’t want. While the stakes for our discovery were higher right now, and the cost greater, it would be our equal footing later on that would make or break us in a way. “I’d never use my position as a weapon to gain or maintain power over you, Phoenix.”
“I know.” The letter fell face up again as his hands dropped to his lap. “It’s just, I want to succeed on my own merit. I know college will be more challenging than high school. I don’t want you to ever step in.”
So that was his concern. “You will succeed on your own steam, Phoenix. I promise.”
With a hard nod, he ripped the letter open like a Band-Aid from a wound and read while I plated the food and pretended to be calm. The letter slid from his hands, and he turned pensive. The ceramic dishes I held clattered to the marble countertop when I could no longer take the suspense. “Are you going to tell me or not, Mr. Michaelson?”
The corner of his mouth ticked upward. “I got in,” he whispered. Then a little louder, “I got in!”
I hadn’t felt that proud in years, if ever. He jumped from his seat and ran around the island, leaping into my arms and kissing me like a wild monkey before going quiet.
“What is it?” I asked, placing him back on his feet and looking over my shoulder to where his horrified stare was trained.
“The pizza is black.” He went over to investigate.
I cleared my throat. “Oh, well yes. I might have left it in too long. But that’s only the top layer. We can scrape that off with a butter knife,” I muttered. He pushed at one of the oversized cuts of tomato, and it popped, causing us both to jump back. Cooking wasn’t my forte, but pizza was a memory that brought him immeasurable happiness and nostalgia, so I’d tried a recipe I found. “I’m sorry, Phoenix—” My apology was cut short when strong arms wound around my middle and eyes that were the kaleidoscope to a soul too good for this earth bore into mine.
With enough feeling to make a man like me feel made anew, he said, “Thank you, Sebastian.”
Chapter 12
Phoenix
“Life contains but two tragedies. One is to not get your heart’s desire; the other is to get it.”
~Socrates
