Page 7 of The Boy Who Loved Wicked
My stomach dropped when Mr. Wicked stepped into the kitchen. “Mr. Michaelson? What are you doing here?”
“You two know each other?” Emily’s eyes volleyed between us. Her cheerful tone had flattened. And with both of them now in the room the atmosphere shifted. Dimmed. Like when Dad’s doctor would enter the room, and his eyes prepared us for the news of Dad’s latest test results before his mouth ever opened.
“He’s my student,” Mr. Wicked said, never taking his eyes off me. Trapped between their intense stares and my own nervous embarrassment, my fight or flight response kicked in. I leaned into the wall to keep from tipping over.
“Oh, what a small world. He’s also our neighbor.” In a sudden flurry of motion, she put on her blazer that lay strung across the counter, pulling her long hair out of the back of it and picking up her briefcase. “I’ve gotta head back to the office, Sebastian.”
That broke the hold his eyes had on me. “But you just got home.” His words implied a stunned disbelief, but the tone of his voice said he wasn’t surprised. As if he was only waiting to hear her excuse this time.
“Sorry, one of my cases took a sudden turn. It’s all hands on deck tonight.” She called back from the front door, “Nice to meet you, Phoenix.”
She was gone before I could return the sentiment.
Mr. Wicked stared at the closed door, a flurry of emotions playing out on his face. I’d been all but forgotten in the quiet. I wanted to make a move to leave, but that would’ve brought him back to himself, and I worried about how he would feel knowing I’d witnessed his sorrow. “I guess it’s her turn not to care,” he said into the room.
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean…”
He startled, then pressed his lips together. “Sorry, bad joke.”
Except, I didn’t think it was. A joke that is.
He wore gray joggers and a white t-shirt. Water droplets fell from his hair, staining the cotton covering his broad shoulders. He peered down at himself. “I wasn’t expecting company. Give me a minute, please.” He went upstairs, and I let go of my breath and took in the house. Open space, dark wood and warm-colored accents. The decor fit his temperament.
My curiosity took me to an end table near the sofa where a handful of books lay stacked, the spine’s facing outward. I read the titles, reaching out to adjust the top one.
“So, how did you end up in Emily’s clutches?”
I jerked upright, nearly toppling the pile of hardbacks, and caught my heart before it hit the floor. “Jesus,” I panted, rubbing my chest.
“Sorry. Emily swears I need a bell around my neck.”
A nervous laugh escaped me. “I got a little curious. This house has been empty for a while. She caught me sneaking around from the backyard.” My eyes snagged on his naked left hand. “Is she your wife?”
“Yes.” He followed my gaze, then balled his hand into a fist. “I forget to put it back on after my shower sometimes.”
Strange. He hadn’t worn a ring at school either.
He’d changed into slacks and a button up. “You didn’t need to change.”
“Nonsense. I wasn’t suited for company.”
We stood staring at one another. Him probably wondering how to get rid of me without being rude, and me feeling every bit the anxious, bumbling eighteen-year-old that I was. As much as I wanted to pick up where we left off in class and discuss his stack of books, I said, “Well, I guess I’ll get going. If you ever need anything, my house is the one behind yours, which I believe I already said.” And why would he need anything from me? Without his glasses, I could see the golden flecks surrounding his irises. His forehead creased as if I were a weird, clumsy puzzle he couldn’t solve. I lowered my burning face and headed for the door.
My hand curled around the door handle as he said, “Did anything catch your eye?”
“Excuse me?”
He nodded toward the pile of books I’d been observing.
“Macbeth,” I stuttered.
At that, his face lit up like a Christmas tree, the same way it did in class when I’d spoken of Plato. His transformation inspired my courage. I stepped back into the living room where the books were perched. With his hands shoved in the pockets of his pants, he floated over on light feet and grabbed the hardcopy on top, turning it over in his hands. “Are you a fan of Shakespeare?”
“Yes, although I’m only starting out.” I took the book he now held toward me. “My dad loved him. I didn’t get it as a kid, but I’m working through his extensive book collection now, and he’s got a lot of William’s works.” I ran a hand lovingly over the cover.
“Does he have that one?”
My neck warmed. “I might’ve gotten upset one day after he died and destroyed it.”
