Page 3 of Your Only Fan
Isaac
It’s been almost two hours since my World Theatre class and Istillcan’t think straight. I wish I could say it was because I’d reached such a nirvana state of mind talking about my passion. And while it’s true there have been many occasions when that has happened in the past, that is not the case with my current class.
It’s been impossible to get a hundred percent carried away withhimthere. Every time I think I can do this, that I can focus on my lesson and not his beautiful, bright gray eyes, I’m proven wrong.
If I wasn’t so crazy about him, I’d be annoyed. But instead, I’m addicted, and that’s so much worse because he’s an addiction I don’t want to kick.
I park the car in my driveway and walk to my front door. The number six has fallen from its top screw so it now looks like I live at 19 Vaughn Street.
I need to fix that, I remind myself for the gazillionth time.
And yet, despite the rogue number, there’s a silver envelope waiting for me on my doormat with my alias written across the front.
I bend down to pick it up, and my whole body is electrified by the promise of what it contains.
When I get inside, I drop the silver packet at my counter and do my best to ignore it even though it feels as if it has a life of its own and is begging to be ripped open, but I know if I do, I’ll be busy for the rest of the afternoon.
I take a deep breath and make my way to the fridge.
Looking inside, the contents aren’t any more promising than I remembered. Last night’s Chinese, a carton of almond milk, and a jar of pickles.
I pick up the carton of shrimp fried rice and the stack of spring rolls and chuck them all on a plate and into the microwave. While I wait, the envelope still calls to me from my peripheral vision. It doesn’t speak, but it may as well have with how loud its presence is in the room.
Blinking away the temptation, I turn my gaze to the microwave and the flickering light as it heats up my food.
I need to fix that, too.
It’s been acting like a rotating disco for the past month, but I haven’t found the time nor the energy to unscrew it and change the lightbulb.
As the light continues to flash, my eyes blur and my thoughts go back to class and him.
Ezra.
He looked so bored in class today. He could barely keep his eyes open. So much for trying to be his favorite teacher.
I’ve resolved that since I can’t have him in any other way, then I can at least be his favorite professor.
But that’s easier said than done. Why would a guy like him—young, confident, handsome—ever look in my direction? I’m his teacher and he’s my student. Even if he’s so much more in my head.
Every time I teach his group, I have to make a conscious effort not to look his way or risk losing my train of thought, as has happened so many times over the past year.
Thankfully, after too many embarrassing moments, I’ve mastered the craft of treating Ezra Anderson as if he isn’t even there.
It’s necessary. I have another year of teaching him and there’s no chance I can go through with it if I act like a bumbling fool in front of him.
But at least here in my house, he can be mine in any way, shape, form, position, and room I want him.
My microwave beeps, bringing me out of my daze, and I carry my lunch through to the living room, the envelope calling me again like a siren, but I pointedly ignore it.
“We’ll play later, honey. Now, food,” I tell it and crash on my sofa.
I turn the TV on and National Geographic comes on midway through a documentary about endangered wildlife.
I attempt to distract myself with the happenings on the screen and enjoy my food, but the delivery mocks me with my need to open it.
My phone vibrates, and I look at the notification that comes up on the screen.
YourFan - Ezra Dixon posted a new video: “Quick jerk-off…”
