“Yo, man—what is up? I thought you said you was transferrin’ !”
“Yeah, just got in.” Smith shoves his hands in his pockets. “Should be here for the rest of the year, assuming I don’t piss off the wrong person or set anything else on fire.”
J. D. guffaws at Smith’s joke. Is it a joke? God, I hope it’s a joke . . .
“Fuck, I can’t believe you’re actually here. We’re gonna tear this shit up.” J. D. leans into him. “Man, the pussy up in here is like, off the fucking—”
Yeah, that’s quite enough of that. Noisily, I slide my chair back and half stomp toward the door. I cock a brow at both guys before grabbing the doorknob.
“Speaking of pussy.”
J. D. raises a challenging brow. I’m not going to bite. Instead, I narrow my eyes, first at J. D., then at Smith, then proceed to slam the door. Well, close it really loudly anyway. Class is in session around me. Slamming sure as shit would’ve been a lot more cathartic.
Once I’ve sat back at my desk, I exhale the breath I’d apparently been holding, then grab a stack of worksheets from one of the afternoon classes. I attempt to start grading, but the words don’t make sense.
All I can see is Smith’s face. His smile.
Dammit. I can’t let this man undo me like this. It’s like I’m giving him opportunities to mess with me.
Which is when I realize exactly what a week of detention means: me and Smith, alone in a room for thirty minutes at a time. For five days straight, not counting today.
I drop my head in my hands.
The hits just keep on coming and, apparently, I’m the one throwing some of the punches at myself. You’d think I’d learn to duck, at least.
Chapter Seven
Punishments
“So, what’s this total tragic emergency you’re complaining about?” Carson asks, flopping down on the couch next to me.
I sigh, tucking my legs up underneath me. The sweatpants and T-shirt I’m rocking aren’t doing my appearance any favors, but when I got home, I just had to change out of my school clothes. I felt like I needed to leave everything “teacher-related” in a pile on my closet floor.
“So, do you remember the guy I met at Cave?”
Carson raises an eyebrow. “Um, duh. Of course I remember him. I saw him carry your drunk ass through a club and out to my Jeep, then up three flights of stairs. Hell, the dude practically tucked you in and kissed you good night. It was pretty fucking hot, actually. You play a great ‘damsel in distress.’”
I snort. “Yeah, I’ll have to remember that for next time I make a total idiot of myself.”
She reaches for the bag of chips on the coffee table and digs inside. “So, what about him? Did you see him again or something?”
I close my eyes and let my head drop back against the couch.
“He’s in my class.”
Carson doesn’t say anything. When I open my eyes and look over at her, she’s playing with the remote.
“Did you hear what I said?” I ask impatiently.
She glances at me, then shrugs. “Huh? Oh, yeah—you’re taking the same class. Dude, so what? I mean, there are a lot of graduate students in Baltimore, Cyn. It’s a coincidence, but it’s not unheard of.”
“No.” I shake my head and take a deep, measured breath. “He’s in the class I’m teaching.”
I think it takes her a second to get it. When it hits, though, the horror on her face is unmistakable.
“Wait. The sexy guy from the bar is in high school? How the fuck is that even possible?”
“He’s only twenty. He never got his diploma and he’s finishing up his last few credits.”
“But—I mean, he’s at the Juvie Junkyard, Cyn . . .”
I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. “I know.”
Carson seems speechless, which is pretty amazing. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen that happen before.
“Well,” she finally says once she’s regained her ability to talk, “that . . . sort of sucks—but I don’t think it’s as bad as you think it is.”
I stare at her.
“How is it not as bad as I think it is? Oh, let me guess”—I snort—“it’s worse.”
She frowns. “No. I mean, look at the facts. He’s twenty, not seventeen. He’s in a class you’re teaching, but you’re still a student teacher. You aren’t employed by the school.”
“And your point is?”
She raises her eyebrows. “My point is that no one’s breaking any laws here. I know that’s what you’re thinking—the whole ‘teacher sleeping with her student’ scenario.”
“I didn’t sleep with him,” I mutter.
“So, it’s even less of an issue.” She stops and cocks an eyebrow. “Unless you’re telling me you want to sleep with him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Hyacinth.” Carson’s eyes are narrowed into her practically X-ray, “I can see right through your bullshit” vision. I palm the back of my neck, feeling uncomfortable.
“Okay, there’s an attraction,” I admit. “And that’s why this whole thing is a problem. I don’t want to leave my position—hell, Smith practically dared me to stay. But I don’t know how I’m supposed to go there five days a week and see him for an hour a day and not just . . .”
“Tear his clothes off?”
“Something like that.” I shake my head. “And not just act on . . . whatever this is.”
“Chemistry.” Carson nods knowingly. “It’s hard when you’ve got it with someone you shouldn’t.”
I throw up my hands.
“So, what do I do? Do I tell my principal that I need him transferred out of my class? Because then I’ll have to explain why. Or do I attempt to suck it up for an entire semester and hope to God no one finds out about one random night at one random bar that just so happened to involve a not-so-random guy?”
Carson hops up from the couch and rummages through her purse, then comes back with a bag of Milano cookies.
“I was saving these for an emergency,” she says. “I think this qualifies.”
“See! It is an emergency.” I sigh. “I really don’t know what to do.”
She sits back down next to me and grabs my shoulders, turning my body toward her.
“Listen to me,” she says. “You are the strongest person I’ve ever met and you’ve been through more shit in the last few years than anyone I know. Your dad’s accident, Brent leaving you . . .”
“Those two things have nothing to do with each other,” I grumble, crossing my arms. Carson gives an exasperated sigh.
“Look, your dad is thriving. You know that. You’ve seen it—hell, I’ve seen it and I’ve only been to Holly Fields once. I know that it’s hard that he doesn’t need you, but you don’t always have to be needed.”
That gets my back up a little. “I don’t need to be needed,” I argue. “I just . . . like to be useful.”
Carson shakes her head. “Yeah, but not when it is at your own expense. Think about the way Brent treated you—you stayed in all the time, waiting for him to get home from class or the hospital. You looked at graduate schools near the medical schools he’d applied to. We all saw the bridal magazines, Cyn.”
I swallow, then look down at my hands. Those weren’t meant to be public knowledge, but Brent had found them one night when Carson and Rainey were over, and effectively humiliated me by making it abundantly clear that we weren’t getting married. Not just “now” or “anytime soon,” but at all. Apparently, he didn’t believe in marriage, which was news to me.
“Look, Brent was a dick. We all knew it and now you know it, too. But you managed to get through a breakup of epic proportions, move your dad into assisted living, and still keep a 3.8 GPA on top of all of it. You are the definition of a fighter. You can’t bail out now. If you don’t get another position, it could change your graduation date and your whole future. It’s not worth it to risk that, right?”