I’m going to have to quit—that’s all there is to it. I’ll make an excuse to Mr. Weathersby and I’ll ask to be reassigned. Hell, I’ll move my ass to kindergarten if that’s what it takes to get away from this disaster.
I try to take a few deep breaths, try to focus hard on the flecks of the linoleum or the porous surface of the cinder-block walls—anything but my rising panic. Sure, I might have said that being challenged was a good thing for me, that maybe I didn’t need to be so perfect. But, shit, that was all bullshit and bluster. I never would have taken this job had I not thought I’d ace it as much as anything else. I can’t imagine failing at anything, but especially this. And, yeah, maybe quitting is a drastic step. But . . . I mean, there’s a part of me that would rather quit at something quietly than fail at it spectacularly.
God. Just hearing myself acknowledge that makes me feel like the biggest pussy ever.
It takes a minute for me to notice that there’s an insistent buzzing coming from my desk drawer. Sighing, I pull out my purse and dig through it for my phone. There are three unanswered texts. Two are from my dad.
Are you coming today?
Hello?
And one from Carson.
You up 4 wine-a-ritas 2nite? Let’s head to La Tolteca & get our drink on! Thirsty Thursday, baby! 1 more day till the weekend!
No, I’m really not up for wine-a-ritas tonight, though they are delicious. I need to get over to Holly Fields so that I can eat dinner with Dad, then I need to attempt to figure out this mess. Which, of course, I have absolutely no idea how to do.
As I head out the main doors toward the staff parking lot, my phone vibrates again—this time with a call. I glance down at it and I want to sigh, but I force myself to swallow it as I slide my thumb across the screen and put the phone to my ear.
“Hey, Daddy—I’m on my way.” Dad coughs for a second, then clears his throat. “Hey, princess—I’m sorry for bugging you.”
“No, it’s fine—I got pulled into a meeting. But I’m leaving school now.”
“A meeting already? You’ve only been working that job for a month. I suppose that’s bureaucracy for ya.”
I smile. Dad’s “Damn the Man” attitude is nothing new.
“It’s not technically a job, Dad. I don’t get paid or anything. It’s supposed to help me get a job once I graduate with my master’s.”
“And you said you’re down at the Franklin School, right?”
“Right,” I say, steeling myself for the lecture.
“You know I don’t like you in that part of town.”
“Well, I want to teach high school, and this was the position that was available,” I say.
Although I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here.
“Alright. Well, you said you’re coming now?”
“Yep. I’ll be there by”—I pull the phone from my ear to look at the time—“five thirty.”
“Okay, well, you know where to find me.” He coughs again and I hear the phone sort of clatter against something—his nightstand, maybe—before the line goes dead.
I toss my phone into my purse as I reach my car, then start digging through the front pocket for my keys. I guess I don’t notice the footsteps behind me, which is why I jump a foot when I hear the voice so close.
“So, you’re a teacher.”
I whirl around. Smith is standing there, hands in his pockets, a half smile tugging his lips up on one side. His short-sleeved blue T-shirt is almost like a second skin the way it stretches over his muscular frame, not to mention how much it brings out his eyes, which flicker over me in a way that feels all too familiar. I step backward until my butt hits my car door.
“I’m not exactly a teacher,” I say slowly. “Yet.” My hands have found my keys now and they’re clenched around them hard enough that I worry I might draw blood.
He lifts an eyebrow and pulls his hands from his pockets to cross his arms over his chest. I try not to think of the Superman emblem.
“Doesn’t look that way to me,” he says.
“Well, it is that way.” I practically spit the words. “I’m a student teacher.”
“Ah.” He gives a curt nod. “So, then, I guess this shouldn’t be quite as awkward.”
I snort a laugh because, really, could this be any more awkward?
“You want to explain to me how you’re twenty-one and still in high school?” I ask, crossing my arms to match his stance. He shrugs.
“It’s a long story. Starting with the fact that I’m not twenty-one.” Oh, shit.
Please don’t be a minor, please don’t be a minor, please don’t be the oldest-looking minor ever to walk the planet, aside from LeBron James, who looked forty when he was seventeen . . .
“I’m twenty,” he supplies, rocking back on his heels. His grin is annoying. Like he knows I was worried.
“How did you get into the club?”
“Fake ID. Besides, I know the owner, remember?”
“Oh.” I swallow, unsure of what to say to that. Instead, I just shake my head. “Look, this is a huge mess, so all I ask is that you give me a chance to talk to Mr. Weathersby before I quit.”
He frowns.
“Why would you quit?”
I stare at him. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously.”
He takes a step forward and I stiffen. The car is still at my back and I can’t move any further away as he gets closer to me.
“Nothing really happened, Hyacinth,” Smith says, his voice low.
I laugh out loud. Hard. Hard enough that I snort.
Lovely.
“You seem to be forgetting how we were attached at the mouth on Friday.”
“Trust me.” His jaw flexes and I think he’s clenching his teeth. “I haven’t forgotten.”
Yeah. Me, neither. That’s the problem.
“Still, that was before,” he argues. “Before you were my teacher and I was your student.”
I swallow, hating how that sounds coming from his mouth and hating that I hate how it sounds.
“I’m not going to tell anyone,” he continues. “We met outside of school, we had a good time that really didn’t break any rules—certainly not any laws.”
A lump of emotion presses at the back of my throat. He doesn’t understand.
“Besides, it’s only for a few months,” Smith counters. “When June rolls around, I’ll have graduated and I’ll be out of your life.”
I swallow. When June rolls around, I’ll be done at this school, too. But I don’t tell him that.
Instead, I say, “I don’t know. I really think I should just cut my losses and quit.”
Smith steps back then and surveys me, eyebrows raised.
“I think the truth is that you find me attractive,” he says, smirking. “And that you don’t trust yourself not to do anything about it.”
I open my mouth. I close it. I clench both of my hands into fists so I don’t smack him because, if I hit a student, I would definitely get in trouble.
“You’re wrong,” I manage to say through my gritted teeth. He shrugs and steps away.
“Okay. Whatever you say.” He starts to walk over to where I now see a large black Ram truck parked.
“You didn’t leave your number,” I blurt out. He turns and stares at me.
“What?”
“Last weekend.” I swallow hard, feeling my cheeks begin to redden. “You didn’t leave your number.”
Smith tilts his chin up and meets my gaze. I have to force myself not to look away.
“Well, all things considered, Miss Hendricks, I think it’s probably better that I didn’t.”
I guess I can’t argue that point, no matter how much I want to.
“Look, Hyacinth . . .” Smith trails off, then scrubs a hand over his head. “Seriously, I’m not going to tell anyone about what happened at the bar. Or after. I swear to you.”