“Cyn, listen.”
“No.”
This time, I’m not waiting for someone to let me down. I won’t do this again. I won’t fall for someone only to find out that I’m not important enough to them, that they’d sacrifice our relationship—or whatever this is.
“I want you to leave,” I say slowly, evenly. My voice is measured and steady, despite the strength of emotions rushing through me.
For a long moment, Smith doesn’t move. When he finally does, he presses his lips to my forehead and I close my eyes again. I don’t open them when I feel him pull away or even when I hear his footsteps moving back toward the door. I only open them when I know he’s gone, when the front door has been opened and closed behind him and I hear him descending the wooden stairs outside. The thunder and lightning from last night have ceased and it feels like a metaphor, as though his leaving my life means the danger and electricity disappear along with him.
When I open my eyes a minute later, they’re filled with tears. The last time I cried before meeting Smith Asher was when my father moved to Holly Fields. Now that I’ve shed this many tears for Smith, I guess I realize what I’ve known all along—that saying good-bye to people I care about can bring me to my knees quicker than anything else.
I lie back, and, despite it being morning, I pray for sleep. The kind of sleep that won’t bring me visions of Smith and his smile and his touch back into my mind. I wish for the blankness that comes with a dreamless slumber. I can’t think of anything more sad and less hopeful than wanting to stop dreaming.
Well, except maybe the sound of Smith’s truck engine roaring to life in the parking lot, then disappearing as he leaves my life for good.
***
I don’t think I really believed he’d dropped out until he doesn’t show up to school on Monday.
And Tuesday.
And Wednesday.
By Thursday, I’m absolutely miserable, thinking I’ve ruined some man’s life by forcing him to abandon his education.
Jeremy, however, doesn’t seem to notice my general down-in-the-dumps attitude. He brings me coffee on Tuesday morning, and, at lunch duty, he chatters on about things that feel completely irrelevant—a vacation he’s taking with his college buddies to Colorado, a bike he’s been looking at buying for month. Just stuff that feels ridiculously unimportant and like the furthest thing from what I want to be hearing about.
Then again, it does distract me from thinking about Smith—so, there’s that.
“Are you chaperoning the game tomorrow night?” Jeremy asks on Thursday as we leave the cafeteria. I shake my head.
“I wasn’t planning on it—I’ve got a couple weeks left of student teaching, and I need to start getting my portfolio together to turn in to my advisor.”
“Aw, come on.” He elbows me gently. “It’s the play-offs. The students are so excited about it. And it’s probably the last event you’ll get to attend as a student teacher.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Hey, I’ll even drive you,” he offers. “I’ll pick you up at six, we can grab something quick to eat, then we’ll be at the game by seven. Faculty have they’re own section, so we don’t have to worry about seats.”
I frown. “If we’re chaperoning, why do we need seats?”
Jeremy shrugs. “They call it chaperoning, but really I think it’s just so the staff can get into games for free.”
I let my eyes slide over the room of students, most of whom are talking and laughing and acting seemingly carefree. It would be nice to feel that way again. It would be nice to do something fun.
“Alright,” I say. “I’ll go.”
“Great—anywhere you want to eat? There’s a good brick oven pizza place that just opened up.”
I shrug. “That’s fine.” Maybe it’s a dick move to let him buy me dinner. At this point, the distraction and the company alone are enough for me to accept his invitation.
Jeremy starts talking about his favorite kinds of pizza and how his old hometown had the best meatball subs, and I try exceptionally hard to pay attention, to laugh at the right spots and nod at others. I ignore the niggling fact that conversations shouldn’t be so high-maintenance.
Unfortunately, my lack of social skills follows me all day, even to dinner at Holly Fields. As we eat, Dad rambles on about how glad he is that my student teaching is almost over, and I can only manage to chew and swallow.
“Princess, all I’m saying is that I’ll feel a lot safer when you’re out of a school that requires police officers on campus.”
“Gary, I think she likes it there,” Rocky drawls, stirring a spoon through his mashed potatoes. “Give the girl a break.”
“Please,” Dad snorts. He holds his fork up and points at me. “This girl’s too good to be associating with criminals.”
Finally, I manage to speak up.
“Daddy, they aren’t criminals—most of them are just kids. In fact, I’ve seen many of them really flourish in the last few months—you’d be surprised. You should give them a little more credit.”
“Well, whatever,” he sort of grunts. “I’ll just be glad when you’re out of there.”
After dinner, I walk Dad back to his room and watch a half hour of the History Channel while he gets his blood sugar measured by one of the nurses. Once I’m sure he’s settled for the night, I slip out and let the door shut behind me with a quiet click.
“Cyn?”
I turn to see Wyatt wheeling his way down the hall. He smiles up at me, fiddling with the handbrake on his wheelchair as he comes to a stop.
“You leaving?” he asks. I nod.
“Yeah—Dad needed some blood work done tonight and you know how he feels about needles.”
Wyatt laughs. “Did he squeal like a little girl again?”
“Nah—it wasn’t that bad. Shots are worse.”
He shakes his head, still chuckling.
“Listen, I was wondering if we could chat for a minute.” I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s already past nine and I need to wake up tomorrow at five a.m. Still, when I look back at Wyatt, there’s something about his expression that makes me think whatever he has to say to me is important.
“Sure,” I finally say. “What’s going on?”
“Let’s go sit.”
He takes his time moving his hands to the wheel guards and pushing himself along the hallway. I walk slowly, a step or two behind him, and watch his arms as they flex and straiten with each rotation of the wheel. His biceps are huge now, although his arms were always pretty muscular—probably from drumming. He’s made so much progress in the last few months. It’s amazing to watch how much physical therapy can actually do.
Wyatt turns into one of the common areas, a living room-like set up with couches and a TV. A few people are sitting on one side of the room, playing cards, but the rest of the space is empty. He wheels over to an armchair and gestures for me to sit.
“So, I need to ask you a favor,” he says when I’m seated.
“Oh—okay, shoot.”
He lifts a hand to his lap, flexes his fingers, then clenches them. He seems to take his time formulating the words he wants to say.
“I want to get out of here.”
My brow furrows. “Like—tonight? You want me to take you out?”
He shakes his head. “No, I mean move out of here. Permanently.”
I blink at him.
“What do the doctors say about that?”
Wyatt lets out a hard, choppy exhale.
“They say I’m physically doing very well, but they’re still concerned about the brain swelling and what could happen if I were alone and there was some kind of flare up or something. They don’t want me to leave for at least another six months. Maybe longer.”
He reaches up now to run a hand through his hair.
“I can’t stay here,” he says, so softly that I almost don’t hear the words. I shift forward and reach out to take his hand.
“Wy, I don’t know what I can possibly do to help you. I’m sorry.”
“Well, that’s where my favor comes in.” He looks down at his lap, at our clasped hands, then back up at me. “I need a tutor.”