First Man (17 page)

She shivered with small tremors as I touched her, circling the hard peaks with my tongue. “Adam!” I could hear the strain in her voice, the desperate need that surprised her with its sudden urgency. My hand dipped lower, finding that warm, sweet place between her milky thighs. Her hips bucked upwards at my touch, and she cried out my name a second time as I brought her to a shattering release.

The diffused glow of the streetlights filtered through the windows, and the shadows grew across our skin as dusk deepened into night. We who clung to words and books like long lost friends made love in that half light, silent except for our breath and the crackling music of the record. There were no whispered declarations of undying devotion that night. Even then, we both knew that the stolen moments wouldn’t last.

The cold winter winds had blown back into Portsmouth, and a thin dusting of snow covered the ground again, forcing the students grudgingly back indoors, but all their grumblings couldn’t dampen my mood.

It was strange being back in the classroom with her the following Monday. I wouldn’t quite call it surreal, but it was an odd juxtaposition, seeing her studiously taking notes in jeans and a royal blue sweater as I droned on about
The Scarlet Latter
when she had been naked and moaning my name in my bed a few hours ago.

Of course, I was well aware of the effect I had on her as well.

We had been stretched out in my bed, exhausted and finally satiated. I had glanced at the clock and the glaring red number read 9:14. “You should be getting home,” I said grudgingly, making no move to let her leave.

She kissed me and whispered “I can stay” against my lips. “I told you, I like to be thorough. Officially, I’m staying at Angie’s tonight. So I can stay.” She paused and, seeming almost shy, added on, “If you want me to.”

Shyness and self-consciousness seeming ill-fitting on Ember. “I want,” I growled, the smoldering heat between us springing into a full flame. “I more than want. Stay forever.”

“I love your accent,” she said. “I don’t know how I manage to get a decent grade in your class. Every lecture, all I could do is hope you’d call on me so I could hear you say my name again.”

“I’ll remember that,” I breathed. “Ember.”

My mind wandered as I continued my lecture. I had never been a teacher that stayed at my desk and lectured from behind a podium. I infinitely preferred patrolling the room. It kept the usual teenage antics at a minimum and forced the students to at least pay enough attention to ensure I didn’t sneak up on them.

I’d given this particular lecture every year with few variations, but this year the familiar speech on sin and punishment hit a bit too close to home.

“
The Scarlet Letter
can be considered a feminist novel. Agree or disagree?” I waited, giving the class a chance to answer but every student found themselves deeply engrossed in the contents of their backpacks or notebooks. “Ember? Any insight?”

She sat up a bit straighter. I could see the dark circles under her eyes that were, no doubt, mirrored in my own. We’d stayed up far too late last night, but I couldn’t bring myself to regret the lost sleep. “Absolutely,” she replied, “Hester Prynne did her best in an unthinkable situation. She had to overcome constant public humiliation and abuse from everyone around her while trying to raise a child alone in a harsh environment.”

I nodded, pleased with her quick answer. “Exactly. Thank you, Ember,” I said, putting a bit more emphasis on her name that necessary. The look on her face showed that she was well aware of what I was doing. “By her status as a fallen woman, Hester actually gained freedoms that the good and honest women of Boston did not. She no longer had any fear about crossing those boundaries because she had nothing left to lose.”

Once I had been that person with nothing left to lose. I’d lost my family piece by piece and consigned myself to a life as a wander. I’d met Lily and lost her in the same year, along with the so-called normal life I’d been building brick by brick beside her.

And now Ember. She’d stormed headlong into my life without worry or fear, unjaded by the loss and tedium that had dogged my steps for too long.

She had breezed into my office just a day ago, the hem of that mesmerizing dress floating around her knees like a wreath of flame, and the look she gave me was of someone who’d lived much longer than the short 18 years she’d had on this planet.

“Take me home, Adam,” she had said, twisting her fingers through mine. There had been no doubt whose home she meant.

The sheets on my bed were soft Egyptian cotton and the palest shade of blue I’d ever seen. Sometimes I doubted the color, wondered if they were really white and my eyes were tricking me. We didn’t have many days like this, days when there were no staff meetings or doting parents, no tests to be graded or papers to be written. When we weren’t teacher and student. When they just
were
. We spent entire afternoons tangled in those sheets, the pale fabric deepening the color of her skin and making even her light hair look dark against its pristine weave.

The stereo was always on after that first night. Ember’s latest obsession was working her way through my entire music collection. She rarely recognized the music emanating from the speakers but she always liked it. Much of it was strange, alternative rock, indie bands with names that screamed underground. Half the albums weren’t even in English. I’d picked them up over the years, buying whatever record or CD had an interesting cover, a fact that surprised Ember.

“It’s just hard to imagine you being fond of anything from this century.” Sprawled across the bed, wearing nothing but one of my worn grey t-shirts and a satisfied expression, she listened to the band of that afternoon - Hawksley Workman, an odd Canadian alternative band that I was strangely fond of.

“You do realize I am only 33,” I said, dryly, twirling a strand of her hair around my fingers.

“But your tastes are definitely a bit more early Roman Empire than that.”

“I’ll give you that.”

Ember had endless amounts of curiosity about the artifacts that peppered my apartment. She scrutinized the books and journals that lined my shelves and begged for the story behind every random object. Anyone else might have perceived her constant study as nosiness, but Ember only wanted to understand me. As a man far too prone to secrets, I couldn’t fault her methods.

“What’s this?” Her fingers traced over the small blue and gold statue of a falcon. “It’s Egyptian style,” she murmured, thinking out loud. “Horus?”

“Correct,” I said, slipping the comfortable teacher mask on as the memory flooded me. It was our first full day in Cairo, and Lily had been overwhelmed with the sights and sounds of the city. We had wandered through the marketplace, and the statue had caught Lily’s eye. She hadn’t had much practice with haggling yet, so she paid far too much for the small figurine. It had sat on our windowsill for the rest of our stay, placidly watching over us, until I numbly stuffed it in my carry-on before I flew to Greece alone.

Ember watched the cascade of emotions across my face. “What was her name?”

I looked up, startled. “How did you-?”

Ember gently put the statue back down on my desk. “Teachers are worse gossips than students, and my locker is right next to the faculty lounge. That new art teacher still has a bit of a crush on you, and Mrs. Watson was telling her that she was definitely barking up the wrong tree. They all have some theories.” Ember quirked a smile. “’He must have some terrible tragedy in his past to be such a loner.’ They’ve made you out to be a bit of a Byronic hero, cloistering himself away in the snow after the loss of his love.”

Ember’s eyes studied my face before continuing. “They’re not wrong, are they?”

Closing my eyes, I nodded. “Her name was Lily. She died.” I opened my eyes to see Ember still watching me, waiting for elaboration. “We were together for a little over a year when I lived in Atlanta. She was sick, but I didn’t know about it to the very end”

“She never told you?”

“No, I found out. Sometimes I wonder if she would have ever told me, if I hadn’t forced her hand. I doubt she would have. I think she would have continued the ruse until her body gave out.”

“That’s awful.”

I shook my head. “You’re young, Ember. She was too, and she just wanted to stuff as much life as possible into those last few months instead of wasting them on tears and hospitals. I can’t fault her for that.”

Ember sat next to me. “I’m sorry,” she said, with the slight stiffness to her voice that comes from having no true experience of loss.

“It was a long time ago.”

She took my hand, twining her long fingers though my own. Her head rested against my shoulder, and we just sat together, the room silent except for the low hum of the stereo.