I’d forgotten that he didn’t know.
“Easton?” he prompted, clearly waiting for an answer.
I swirled the glass in a circle, watching the brown liquid coat the inside. “Yeah, that story was never in the media, was it?”
In his Googling, he wouldn’t have come across it, because my family had kept it under tight wraps.
“What story?”
I took a deep breath and set the glass down on the floor, tucking my hands behind my head as I started.
“I wasn’t always the sophisticated, capable, and charming woman you see now,” I joked.
He walked around the desk, leaning against the front of it and staring down at me.
“No?” He played along.
I looked up at him and, after steeling myself, opened up to him. “When I was sixteen, I was very naive and sheltered,” I told him. “I didn’t know how to make decisions or question anything. I had never even been on a date, and if my parents had had their way, I never would’ve been.”
I stared ahead at the bookcase, remembering my perfect white house and my perfect pink bedroom and my perfect, strict schedule posted on the refrigerator.
“I was a twenty-four-hour tennis player, and the only people I spoke to were my family, newscasters, and my coach, Chase Stiles.” I looked at Tyler. “He was twenty-six at the time.”
His expression turned guarded. “Chase Stiles? Am I going to like where this is going?”
I gave him a soothing smile and continued.
“He was so devoted to me,” I admitted. “Always encouraging me and spending so much more time working with me than what he was paid for. He would buy me things, and I liked it, because I thought he was the only one who cared about who I was on the inside. He asked me about my interests outside of tennis.”
Tyler stayed quiet, and I hesitated, feeling my stomach knot as the old fear started to surface.
But I forced it out, keeping my eyes downcast. “I didn’t see it as wrong when he started buying me outfits.” I went on. “Tight shorts and sports bras to train in. And I didn’t think it was such a big deal when he took pictures of me posing in the outfits he’d bought.”
“Easton,” Tyler inched out, apprehension thick in his voice. He didn’t like where this was going.
I swallowed through the tightness in my throat, still not meeting his eyes. “But then he started getting familiar,” I explained, chewing on my bottom lip. “Patting me on the behind when I did well or hugging me for too long.” I blinked, pushing away the shame I felt creep up. “A couple of times he came into the locker room while I was showering, pretending it was an accident.”
At the time, I’d felt like it was my fault. Like I was enticing him, or that what he was doing was normal. We’d spent a lot of time together. Training, traveling… We were close, so maybe he was just a really good friend or someone, like my parents, whom I should trust to never hurt me.
“I didn’t tell anyone what was going on, and I didn’t confront Chase about any of it,” I told Tyler. “I just started getting more stressed, and I became angry. Very angry,” I added.
“I started refusing his gifts,” I continued. “And I threw fits when my mother would try to leave me alone with him on the court. After a while, I finally broke down and told them about his behavior.”
“Did he force himself on you?” Tyler bit out, his voice turning angry.
I shook my head. “No. But the behavior was escalating,” I explained. “My parents fired him, but they didn’t press charges. They didn’t want America’s next tennis darling tainted with a scandal forever preserved in the newspapers.”
I looked at Tyler and could see his fists balled up under his arms.
“And then, on top of that,” he deduced, “you lost your parents and your sister two years later. That’s a lot for a young person to go through.”
I nodded. “It was.”
Chase’s abuse, and my parents’ and sister’s deaths, had almost killed me five years ago. I dove into a world of turning chaos into order and building such a tough outer shell that nothing bad could hurt me again.
It wasn’t until recently that I’d realized, looking up at Tyler, that my shell protected me from all the good stuff, too.
“I started arranging and counting things as a coping mechanism, a way to have consistency,” I told him. “To know what I could count on. Awareness of my surroundings, everything in its place…” I went on. “I didn’t like surprises.”
“You needed control,” he assessed.
I nodded. “Yeah. After Stiles and then the accident, Jack and I tried to keep it going, but as you saw online, I couldn’t get it together. My game fell apart. We sold our house and moved here, so I could have a fresh start and my brother could pursue his own dreams finally.”
Tyler pushed off the desk and approached me, standing tall above me and looking down intently.
“And what’s your dream?” he asked.
I inhaled a long breath and took my hands out from behind my head. Running one up his leg to the inside of his thigh, I whispered, “To not want you as much as I do.”
The next week flew by, fall conferences having started, and I needed to get ahead on revising lesson plans that I’d already completed last summer.
I’d expected that to happen, as classes don’t always go according to schedule and certain changes I’d decided to make at the last minute needed to be accounted for later. I didn’t mind how my personal life had changed or even how unpredictable it had become, but I didn’t want to lose control of my career. Being a good teacher was acceptable. Being a great teacher was my mission.
My sister, Avery, had wanted to teach, but I’d finally realized that I, too, was made for this. I enjoyed seeing my students engaged and interacting, and the rush of finally seeing them make a connection, discuss it, and ultimately teach one another fed my desire to do this every day.
Tyler had been out of contact a lot, being held up in constant meetings and campaign planning. He’d also had to take a day trip to Toronto on Monday that turned into two days away. His brother had stayed with Christian, and although I knew Tyler hated leaving him, he called and texted him regularly to check in.
In my classroom, I set up the laptop, positioning it in front of the three chairs at the table. Christian sat in one chair, playing on his phone, and I checked my watch, seeing it was four oh two, past time for our parent-teacher conference.
I then glanced at my phone, seeing no missed texts, so I hoped Tyler was on his way.
Bringing up Skype, I decided not to wait for him. I dialed Christian’s mother, knowing that she was expecting my call.
I was in no rush to see her face-to-face, though. We’d spoken on the phone and had e-mailed several times. She seemed like a great parent and wanted to be kept informed of everything that was happening with Christian. She even belonged to the social media groups and participated.
I threaded my fingers together, trying to push down the uneasiness I felt at facing her.
“Hello?” she chirped, coming on-screen, and I forced a smile.
Of course she was beautiful.
Her long black hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, and her ivory skin looked impeccable.
“Hello, Mrs. Reed,” I greeted. “I’m Easton Bradbury, Christian’s American History teacher.”
“Nice to finally put a face with the voice,” she commented with a bright smile.
“We’re still waiting for Mr. Marek,” I told her, “but he should be along shortly.”
She nodded, an aggravated look crossing her face, but she recovered quickly.
“Put down your phone, Christian. I want to see your face,” she ordered her son.
He rolled his eyes and set it down.
“I miss you,” she singsonged.
“I know,” he sang back, and we both broke out in a laugh at his sarcasm.
They chatted for the next few minutes, and I updated her on what we were currently studying and what we hoped to have covered by the end of the year.
Christian and his mother got along great, and I started to wonder a lot of things as I sat there, observing them. I’d never had so many insecurities as I had with Tyler, and I didn’t like it at all.