Starting Over (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

I
f I get out of here tonight without falling asleep, it will be a miracle. It’s Josie’s Back to School Night, which I attend every year during the first week of school, at which I sit in each of her classes to meet her teachers as they give the rundown of the year’s classroom objectives.

It sounds awful to say, but some subjects are
sooooo
boring. Like this next one. It’s science, according to her schedule, and the teacher will probably drone on and on, and if last year is any indication, he’ll look like Bill Nye the Science Guy. Usually, two minutes into the presentation, I’m fighting to stay awake.

Walking with my head down, I trek through the throng of parents until I’m sitting toward the back of the classroom in a seat that was not made to fit an adult’s body. Absentmindedly, I start to thumb through the packet of papers, left on each of the desks by Bill Nye, when I hear the door shut and a man’s voice say, “Good evening, parents. Welcome to my science class. My name is Mr. Thomas.”

My head perks up because that voice . . . it’s like nothing I’ve ever heard before. It’s smooth and decadent, like a shot of perfectly aged whiskey that when it hits the back of your throat, the warmth that spreads to your body and makes you want to curl up into a blanket after stretching your limbs like a cat taking an afternoon nap.

And the visual of Bill Nye, sorry, Mr. Thomas, matches the voice, which never seems to be the case where men are concerned. At least I’ve never seen it happen anywhere as perfectly as this man right in front of me.

He’s tall, very tall, and broad shouldered but not bulky or anything, more like athletic. He looks as if he spends a lot of time carrying things, which has paid off in spades from the way his muscular arms flex underneath his clothes. His jet-black hair is combed back perfectly, and there’s not one stray hair that I can see from where I’m sitting . . . and I’m really looking. His wire-rimmed eyeglasses only prove to showcase his equally dark dead-of-night brown eyes. Oh my,
Sherlock
was right: brainy
is
the new sexy.

But the pi
è
ce de résistance is the clothes. My God, the clothes. My most naughty teenage fantasy made real: he’s wearing a tweed suit like an old-school college professor. Like Professor Indiana Jones himself came to life and stepped off the movie screen and is now standing right in front of me in all his adorably dorky, aloof hotness, packaged perfectly in the guise of a random science teacher in Anytown, USA.

Mr. Thomas is drop-dead gorgeous. And I’m so going to get an
A
in this class.

Wait! What the hell am I thinking?

I’m not getting an
A
in anything. I’m just going to chalk up this little drool fest to the fact that I’m not usually attracted to men I meet. I do have very singular tastes and apparently this man fits into my tastes quite well. Perfectly, actually. Like a glove.

Jeez! There I go again.

Okay, Vanessa
, I think to myself as calmly as possible,
stop thinking about Mr. Thomas like he’s grade-A meat and listen to what he has to say.

“I’ve left the class syllabus on the desks for you to take home and review, and if you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to send me an e-mail,” he says with quiet authority. “Also, today your children should have brought home a consent form for you to sign and turn in by the end of next week before we begin working on our first lab assignment.”

Consent form? Josie didn’t mention anything like that when I dropped her off at my brother’s house so her aunt Julia could babysit while I was here tonight.

A hand shoots up on the far side of the classroom. Mr. Thomas nods subtly in the person’s direction. God, he’s smooth.

“What is the consent form for?” the parent asks.

“It’s simply to allow your child to use a Bunsen burner during my class. If you choose to say no, that’s fine too. We can work around it if need be.”

Mr. Thomas shoves his hands in his pants pockets, which doesn’t help me in the slightest while I try to keep my composure. Because it only accentuates his athletic frame and showcases how well he wears his suit even more.

I scan the room to see if I’m the only person entranced by this man, and lo and behold, I’m not. There is another woman leaning forward in her child-sized seat, who looks as if she is in rapt attention. If there was a nuclear bomb going off outside, nothing would disturb her from the more than obvious leering she’s giving this guy. She’s wearing head to toe coordinated shades of brown, even going so far as to top it all off with a fake flower pinned in her hair in a dark chocolate color.

Then I realize I must look like that to anyone who happens to spare me a fleeting glance. So I quickly turn my head back to Mr. Thomas just when he’s looking right at me.

The corners of his mouth tilt up in a friendly smile that sends a tingle up my spine and makes me smile right back at him, which is so unlike me, but I can’t seem to help myself. In fact, I’m so enraptured by him that it’s as if there is no one else in the room. For one fleeting moment, the world seems to fall away, and it’s just the two of us in this classroom with only the sea of desks between us. He’s about to say something to me, and I’m waiting with bated breath until a woman’s shrill voice breaks the spell.

“Oh, Mr. Thomas,” the woman says. I turn my head even though I already know it’s the other woman in the class who is entranced by him. “I was wondering if you were looking for any parents to volunteer to be class parent? I would be so happy to lend a helping hand.”

A couple of parents sitting near me chuckle and joke to each other in hushed voices about how they bet she wants to lend a helping hand. It’s at this point that I start to gather my things and decide to be the very first person out of this classroom as soon as he dismisses us. Because the last thing I would want is to be the butt of any joke if they saw me looking at him like I’ve been. Or if they even catch a glimpse of my face, which must reflect what I’m sure is a tell-all look of complete adoration.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he responds to the woman diplomatically. “But thank you for volunteering.”

Mr. Thomas then turns his attention to all the parents and says, “Thank you so much for coming out tonight, and I very much look forward to teaching your children this year. Good night.”

Like I have ants in my pants, I make my way to the door and out of the classroom as fast as I can, trying not to sneak one last glance at Mr. Thomas and failing miserably. But he’s surrounded by a sea of people, so I don’t have to acknowledge him. What would I say anyway? I’m horrible at that kind of stuff, and my game is not the kind that people equate to swagger. It’s more . . . Monopoly. Lest I forget, he’s my daughter’s teacher. So there is no scenario in the world where it would be okay for me to even toy with the idea of a relationship with him. It’s unethical and just plain wrong.

Plus, Josie would kill me! Oh my God, would she ever.

I laugh to myself as I make my way out of the school and into the parking lot, which is already overflowing with parents rushing to get home to their families or trying to get home in time to watch
American Idol
, which starts in about fifteen minutes, according to a few parents I overheard. I roll my eyes, since I gave up on that show years ago when they were obviously choosing the wrong people to go to the next round. I would be so incensed while watching it that I could barely function, much less sleep after an episode. So to ease my escalating blood pressure and to ensure that my neighbors wouldn’t call the police due to high-pitched screaming and yelling and carrying on, I did everyone a favor by quitting while I was ahead. My blood pressure thanks me every day.

I pull up to my brother’s house a short while later, and when I approach the front door, I can hear my beautifully adorable, deliciously sweet, and cherubic two-and-a-half-year-old niece, Violet, giggling clear as a bell, followed by Julia’s loud, booming voice shouting, “Violet! You need to put your pajamas on
over
your pull-up, not the other way around! Alex, help! I’m tagging out! It’s your turn!” These days, I revel a little in seeing Alex and Julia go through the same exact struggles I did years ago with Josie. Only Violet doesn’t belong to me, so I can laugh about it. Heartily, I might add.

My brother, Alex, shouts back, “You can’t just tag out! This isn’t WrestleMania!”

I’m practically doubled over laughing as I slip the key they gave
me—in case of emergencies only, but these types of situations qualify—into the lock
and slowly open the door. Immediately I spot Violet sitting crisscross-applesauce on the foyer floor. She’s attempting to comb her freshly washed long, naturally curly, Beach Blonde hair with not much success, as both her parents are now calling out her name. She’s wearing Princess Elsa pajamas, but her pull-up is over them instead of the other way around.

“Hey there, Violet.” I crouch down to her level. “Whatcha doing?”

“Auntie Nessa,” she says with a big smile that makes my heart melt before she hands me the comb with a defeated look on her face. “I was trying to be a big girl. Can you help?”

“Of course, sweetie.” I take the comb from her and open my arms so she can climb on, and I walk her over to the couch. When I sit down, I stand her up in front of me. Her big blue eyes, which are as a bright as a cloudless sky, look back at me in amusement as I take in her outfit. “Now, Miss Violet, I know you know you’re wearing that thing wrong. So why don’t we fix it first?”

She nods her head in agreement and starts to giggle. “Close your eyes, Auntie Nessa.”

I shut my eyes for what feels like a whole five minutes as I hear my niece struggle to put her pajamas and pull-up on correctly. “Ta-da,” she says loudly. “You can open them.”

“Very good, Violet.” She still has her pants off and her shirt is hiked up now, halfway up her belly. “Can I help now?”

Violet turns around so that I can begin combing her hair. I hear the sound of footsteps approaching from down the hallway.

“There you are,” Julia says. “Didn’t you hear your father and me calling for you?”

“I want Auntie Nessa to help,” Violet says. Julia smiles and I swear it’s uncanny how much it’s just like her daughter’s.

“Do you mind?” she asks me while I’m still combing Violet’s hair.

“Not at all. I miss these days.”

Julia takes a seat on the other end of the sofa in exhaustion after picking up her daughter’s pajama pants off of the floor. “She is giving us a run for our money. Do they ever stop? I mean, I love her to pieces and everything, but please, tell me the truth . . . does it get any easier?”

“Nope.”

“Gee, thanks, Vanessa,” she says. “You couldn’t even lie a little bit to your own sister-in-law?”

“Enjoy it while it lasts, Julia. Pretty soon she’ll be going out with her friends and then off to college and then getting married and—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she says with her hands up. “Slow down there, Debbie Downer. Nobody’s talking about college and marriage. I meant just this phase where it seems like up is down and it’s the funniest thing in the world to her to drive her parents crazy.”

Smiling, I glance over to Julia, who looks like she’s been in a battle with a water hose. Undoubtedly, this was due to Violet splashing in the bathtub. “Maybe a little easier.”

“Can we trade?” she asks me with a devious grin. “I’ll take Josie and you take Violet.”

Violet snaps out of whatever spell she was under and jumps onto her mother’s lap. “No! I want to stay with you and Daddy forever!”

“Trust me, baby,” she says to her daughter. “Daddy isn’t going to let you out of his sight. Like, ever. You got nothing to worry about.”

“Promise?” Violet asks, worrying her lip.

“Promise, baby,” Julia says solemnly and places a kiss on her daughter’s forehead. “Now, do your mommy a big favor and put your pants on so you can get ready for bed.”

Violet practically bounces off her mother and comes back toward me with her pants in hand. “Auntie Nessa, can you help?”

“Of course, but first . . .”

I lunge for Violet and catch her unprepared with an assault of raspberries on her exposed stomach. She laughs and laughs and struggles to get me to stop, and when I do it’s only because she’s at the point where her laughter is almost silent and her face turns a slight shade of rosy red.

Pulling away but keeping her in my arms, I say, “You’re turning violet, Violet!”

“Yeah, like that’s not getting old after the first million times you’ve said it to her,” Alex says, appearing in the living room at the tail end of my tickling attack.

“Daddy!” Violet yells and raises her arms for him. “Help me, Daddy!”

Alex scoops her up easily in his arms and hugs her to him as if she were the most precious thing in the world. And when I look over at Julia, who is watching this whole exchange, her face is practically glowing in adoration of her husband’s love of their daughter. For a second I feel a hint of jealousy, because Josie has never experienced this. Granted, Alex has been her father figure since the day she was born and is the closest thing to a dad she will ever know in her life. To Alex’s credit, he has gone above and beyond anything I could have ever wanted for Josie. But at the end of the day, it’s not the same thing. And that makes me sad for her . . . for us.

“Will you put her to bed?” Julia asks Alex.

He nods, then bends down so Julia can give Violet a kiss good night. He does the same for me before setting off down the hall with her tangled up in his arms like a little monkey hugging a tree. Julia and I watch them walk away and hear Violet ask him, “Daddy, tell me the story about Max and the wild stuff?”

We don’t get to hear Alex’s answer, but if I had to guess, if she had asked him to jump off a bridge, he would ask which one and how high; that’s how smitten he is with her and how much Violet has him wrapped around her finger.

“I think my ovaries just exploded,” Julia says.