Page 35 of Falling for Carla

“I guess I’m sensitive about the possibility of abusing my authority as your teacher.”

“Drake, we’re fine. The only thing that I didn’t like the whole time I’ve been here is that you shut me out. You wouldn’t talk to me.”

“When I talk to you it makes me want you more,” he said. Whoa. I felt that in my chest, felt my mouth fall open. “Everything you say, I’ve been listening. I have a hard time not answering you or having conversations with you, but I have to keep that distance between us, for my sanity. You haven’t done anything wrong. I have. I’m the one who risked my job and your degree and future career because I wanted you. I understand the repercussions. I would rather sit here and suffer with your delicious food and your voice and you trying to reach out to me and not being able to reach back---I’d rather do that than do something that could hurt you in the long run.”

“There isn’t a long run, Drake. If life has taught me one damn thing, it’s that. There’s just tonight, and that’s all. One minute you’re alive and busy and have all these plans, the next minute your kids are throwing a rose into your open grave. One minute you’re walking to class, the next minute some car tries to run you down or some guy tries to cut your throat in an alley by the bar. The world isn’t safe, not for me, and the people in my family don’t live to a very old age thanks to the profession my father chose. So don’t talk to me about my future. Don’t talk to me about the long run. Tell me about tonight,” I said.

I tried to meet his eyes, but he shook his head. He wasn’t going to tell me about tonight or what we could have together. He was too tangled up in his code of ethics to seize the moment. I respected him and his values. I just wished he’d live for today, that he’d understand what I was saying and let us have what we could in the time that we had. Defeated, I took my plate to the sink and started cleaning up.

In a few minutes, he came and stood at the sink beside me. He took a dishcloth and dried the pans I’d washed and put them away.

“I don’t mind doing this. You don’t have to help,” I said. I knew my voice sounded a little sad. The fact was, he rejected me. I had told him what I wanted. He had declined. So having him stand at the counter drying dishes felt too close, too intimate considering the boundary he had placed between us.

He poured us each more wine and handed me a glass before picking the towel back up.

“I’d like to help. If you don’t mind having me hang out in here for a while. It’s better than answering emails in my room.”

“Is that what you’re doing in there every night?” I asked. “I might have imagined you doing a lot of pushups. Or watching telenovelas on TV. Secretly knitting blankets for the needy. Alphabetizing your shoes.”

“How do you alphabetize shoes?” he asked, puzzled.

“By brand, I guess. I was just kidding,” I said.

“I know,” he said, nudging his arm against mine almost affectionately. “So was I. Your picatta was terrific. I have to say the spaghetti and meatballs were my favorite. What’s your favorite?”

‘That lemon pasta. The really simple butter and lemon and a sprinkle of Parmigiano-Reggiano. My mom used to make it for me when I was little. I was pretty picky, but I’d eat that practically every night. Until my dad found out I was getting special treatment and needed to grow up and eat what everyone was eating.” I grimaced at the memory. “But it’s always been my go-to comfort food. That and bread. What about you? What’s your comfort food?”

“Mixed nuts, like the kind that come in a foil sleeve by the checkout at the gas station,” he said.

“Wow. Fancy,” I teased.

“Yeah, the height of sophistication. But when I was going to the academy, I worked nights at a convenience store to pay my way. I usually ate those for supper because they were cheap. And mostly, it’s just broken peanuts and some salt in the bottom, but one or twice in a bag, I’d get a cashew or a macadamia nut, something really good. And it was the smallest surprise, just something unexpectedly good. But there were days that I was so tired from doing the academy work all day on two hours of sleep and then working all night, and it would give me some kind of reminder that there was good stuff coming. This was just a hard season.”

I swallowed a lump in my throat. Here was this man who had barely said four words to me for weeks on end, and he just shared a really personal story about when he was discouraged and found something good in his struggle. It was beautiful and I had a hard time not wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing him. I wanted to. Something in that story, the weariness and misery and also the spark of determination, the willingness to revive on the slightest encouragement--it really spoke to me.

“Those moments tell us a lot about ourselves,” I said. “When I lost my mom, I wore this light blue scarf of hers. I wouldn’t take it off. I tied it around my waist as a belt or wrapped it around my hair. I had to wear it under my school uniform because I got dress-coded so many times over it. I remember having to change for gym class and trying to keep it hidden, and just aching while it was stuffed in my locker. Like it was the last piece of her.”

“Do you still have it?” he asked me.

I shook my head, swallowed hard.

“I was a mess back then, and I stayed out all night, seduced my bodyguard to keep him quiet, did all kinds of crap. Just trying to survive, trying to numb the pain for a minute. My dad got sick of it. He was used to getting whatever he demanded, and I had yelled back at him, even when he backhanded me and knocked me down. I had forgotten to hide my scarf. I had it tied around my neck but it was showing.

He yanked it off me and said I was ridiculous and that my mother would be ashamed of the way I acted. He threw it in the fire. I think that was what finally broke me. That stupid scarf that I’d been holding on to. He dragged me back when I went for it. I would’ve put my hand in the fire to get it. I fought him. That’s how I ended up finishing the school year with a tutor at home and my jaw wired where it got broken.”

“He broke your jaw. Your father,” his voice was ice.

In response, I lifted one shoulder in a shrug, the same kind of shrug my mother used to give when my aunt would say she heard my dad had another mistress in the city. The resignation of a woman who grew up, “in the life,” the shrug that says, “what ya gonna do? It’s the way it is.”

But I watched Drake’s knuckles go white on the edge of the counter. There was so much visible tension in his arms and back, the way I could sense the crackle of tension from him. He was tightly coiled, ready to attack, trying to master himself, to take command of a body trained to fight. I saw the heavy breaths heave his shoulders, two and then three, and as if by sheer force of his will, I saw his body relax.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Why? You didn’t break my jaw. I told you, I freaked out and fought him.”

“So it’s your fault? Was it always your mom’s fault too?” he asked, understanding too much. I blinked away the sting of tears, lifted my chin.

“We knew what he was and how to tiptoe, how to keep him happy. I broke those rules when he didn’t like my behavior and I shouted at him. He punished me.”

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