Where You Are (17 page)

Read Where You Are Online

Authors: J.H. Trumble

BOOK: Where You Are
8.25Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“Dang this stuff makes a lot of bubbles,” he calls out.
I laugh to myself and turn the toaster oven on low, wrap the meat in foil and toss it inside.
I'm watching some breaking news on CNN when he emerges half an hour later. His white dress shirt is unbuttoned and hanging loosely over his trousers and he's holding a Binky up by the plastic handle, a grin playing across his face.
“Ah, so that's where I left it,” I say, plucking it from his hand and into my mouth as I make my way back to the kitchen. I lay the Binky on the counter. “Feeling better?” I ask over my shoulder.
“Yeah. Has Tom Cruise come out of the closet?”
I glance back at the TV. “If he did, I don't think it would be breaking news. What do you like on your burger?”
“Whatever you got.”
I settle next to him on the futon. He takes the stacked paper plates and separates them on the sofa table. I hand him a cold can of Coke. He sets the can down next to his plate and picks up the ticket stubs from a pewter tray where I dump my pockets at the end of the day. “The Iron Maiden concert,” he says, looking at them. He fans them out in an unspoken question.
“I went with a colleague.”
“Male or female?”
I wonder if this is a loaded question. “Female, actually. Ms. Went.”
He sets them back in the tray and picks up the blank notebook I had placed there. I curse myself for not throwing it away. Robert fans the pages. His eyes are slightly puffy and the edges of his lower eyelids are tinged red. He sets the notebook back down and takes another sip of his soda.
On CNN, Wolf Blitzer is soliciting Sanjay Gupta's opinion of some protests somewhere in the world.
“Aren't you worried about my being here, in your apartment and all?” he asks.
“A little.”
“Then why did you bring me here?”
I think about this a moment before I answer. A few days ago this would have been out of the question. A few days ago all I could think about was my career, my reputation, how a scandal might affect my daughter.
But when he'd showed me that notebook, something about those blank pages had written something on my heart, and there was no unwriting it. I could have taken him to a Starbucks half an hour away to talk, someplace where no one was likely to recognize us. We could have sat in his car in a parking lot somewhere. But I'd taken him here, right into the lion's den, so to speak.
The fact is, he was crashing, and he needed a soft place to land. It was just that simple.
“Because,” I say, turning to him, careful to keep my eyes above his shoulders, “I'm more concerned about you at the moment than I am about me.”
He locks eyes with me, and I think he's going to cry again, but then his eyes drift down to my mouth, and an alarm goes off in my head.
“Eat or you're going to hurt my feelings.”
As he picks at his burger, I realize I have no appetite either. I focus on the TV, but I am keenly aware of him next to me. “How about some ice cream?” I ask after a while.
“Moo-llennium Crunch?”
“Ah, you were paying attention. Lucky for you, I haven't opened it.”
I stack our plates and dump them in the trash under the sink and find a couple of bowls. I've got the ice cream carton open, and I'm looking for the scoop with the sugar cone handle that Kiki likes when my phone signals a text.
If I said you had a beautiful body . . . ?
I laugh when I read his text. I know what comes next. “Country Western? Argh, you're killing me.” I glance over my shoulder. He's leaning against the facing that delineates kitchen from living/sleeping quarters.
“They're not lyrics,” he says.
I know that. I can see it in his eyes, soft and pleading. I smile at him again like he's joking around and turn back to the ice cream. “One or two scoops?” I ask stupidly.
“Can we just talk about this?”
No, we can't.
I scoop up some ice cream and release it into one of the bowls.
“Please look at me,” he says quietly.
“Do you want ice cream or not?” I ask lightly.
“Please.”
“Robert, do me a favor, will you? Button your shirt.”
“Why?”
“Do you really have to ask that?”
“No,” he says, “but I want to hear it from you.”
I realize I've got a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the counter. In the bowl, the lone scoop of ice cream is melting around the edges. I can't do this. I can't look at him. He sees right through me. Part of me is glad that he knows, and part of me is terrified about what he'll do with that knowledge and whether or not I can put on the brakes if it comes to that.
“If I button my shirt, will you talk to me?” he pleads. When I don't respond, he says, “I'm buttoning it, okay?”
After a moment, I pick up the scoop from the counter and set it back in the carton, then turn to him, my eyes fixed on the linoleum floor.
“I think there's something going on between us. The way you look at me.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, I can hear the frustration in his voice. “I just want to talk about this. Why can't you look at me? I'm not a kid. I'm eighteen. And look around. There's nobody here. Just us.
Dam
mit.” In my peripheral vision I can see him hold his hands out, then drop them limply again to his sides. “I think I'm in love with you, Andrew, and I think, maybe . . .” He mutters a
fuck
. “Just tell me I'm wrong, and I'll never mention it again. We can go back to where we were. Pretend like this never happened. But I need to know. Please. Please, just tell me.”
I don't respond. I don't know how to respond. I won't deny it, but how can I confirm it either? The silence stretches out between us. I'm afraid to look at him.
The heater kicks on.
Finally, he turns away. “I'll drive you back to your car,” he says quietly.
“Robert . . .” He stops, and I lift my eyes to him. I want to reach out to him. Instead, I grip the counter behind me more tightly. I'm about to make an admission I have no business making, but I can't let him go like this. I take a deep breath and allow myself a small smile. “The minute you walk down that aisle with a diploma in your hand, I'm going to be all over you like glaze on a donut. But until then—”
I don't get to finish because he's there, his hand over my mouth, his eyes searching mine. Every neuron in my brain, every nerve ending in my body fires at once. A war wages in my chest—the teacher who knows this is wrong, and the man who aches to hold him close. With his free hand he touches my cheek, my jaw, my neck. I won't touch him. I won't. But I know this too: I won't stop him from touching me. He releases my mouth.
“Robert . . .” It's a plea. For what, I'm not sure. He uses both his hands to draw my face to his, and when he presses his mouth to mine—tentative at first, and then desperate—I can't help but respond in kind. It's wrong, and it's right, and it takes every ounce of my willpower to finally bring it to a stop.
“Shit,” I mutter, pressing my forehead to his and grasping his wrists to pull his hands from my face. “We have to stop.”
“I don't want to stop,” he says breathlessly, pulling his hands free. His mouth is on my neck now as one hand works its way up my shirt. My stomach retracts, and I feel the gap between my waistband and my abdomen. A groan escapes. I can hardly think as his hand grabs at the hair on my chest.
When the rational part of my brain finally surfaces again, I put the palm of my hand against his chest and create a narrow distance between us. “We
have
to stop.”
 
Robert
 
“I don't want to stop.” I withdraw my hand and reach for the buttons on his shirt, but he locks his fists around my wrists.
“Stop,” he says firmly.
He's breathing heavily, and when he shivers, I can't help but smile.
“Okay,” he says, closing his eyes for a moment and pursing his lips. When he opens them again he smiles back at me and shakes his head slowly. “So much for my timeline, huh?” He takes a deep breath and blows it out through fluttering lips. “I'm taking you home.”
I don't want to go home. I don't want to be anywhere that he's not. He doesn't give me a choice, though. He slips past me, grabs my keys off the table, then opens the door—“After you.”—but he's still smiling. It's this impish, guilty little smile. I growl my frustration and walk through the door.
I drive, but every chance I get, I glance over at him. He watches me, thoughtful, still smiling. All I can think about is what it would be like to get him naked. I wonder if he's thinking the same thing.
I pull into Aunt Whitney's street. It's not quite dark yet, and a number of cars are still parked in her driveway and at the curb. I ease the car down the street until I locate Andrew's. I pull up to the curb behind him and put the car in park.
He's still smiling like the Cheshire Cat. I laugh. “So what do we do now?”
He exhales, then looks off down the street, then back at me. Still smiling. My heart swells because I had something to do with that smile. “New rules of engagement, okay?” he says.
I'm not sure what he's talking about, and I'm not sure if I should agree, so I just wait.
“First,” he says, finding my hand on the gear shift and linking his fingers with mine, “you delete every text, immediately. Sent and received. If my name is still in your contacts, get rid of it. You can memorize my number. No friend requests on Facebook, don't follow me on Twitter, and no more lunches in my classroom.”
“Okay.”
“And no more lingering gazes in the classroom. You want to look at me . . .” He pauses a moment and looks away, shaking his head like he can't believe he's saying this. When he turns back, his face is more serious, but soft. “You look at me in your dreams. As far as everyone else is concerned, you are my student. And that is all you are. Four months, baby. Okay?”
He called me baby
. I nod, and a tremendous relief floods through me.
“And I want you to keep seeing Nic, at least for a while, okay?”
I let out a groan and drop my head back against the headrest. That is asking too much.
“I mean it, Robert. You're going to go on being that little twerp's boyfriend until graduation. Got it?”
I let out a huff. “Okay.”
“And I'm going to spend more time with Ms. Went.”
“What? Mr. Redmon already knows—”
“Mr. Redmon doesn't really know anything. And neither do those kids. And if they think they do, then I'm going to give them a reason to doubt.”
“Anything else?”
“We play it cool, okay? No taking risks. I can't bring you to my apartment again, not yet, and you can't just drop by. I don't want Maya asking a lot of questions if you make a surprise visit when she's there. She already knows there's a guy. But I haven't told her everything.”
Everything, as in the fact that I'm still a high school student? He doesn't have to spell it out for me. But then I fix on the other bit of information.
She already knows there's a guy.
I smile at that thought.
“And besides,” he adds, gripping my hand more tightly, “I cannot guarantee that I will continue to behave honorably if I spend time alone with you.”
He glances up and down the street, then leans across the console and kisses me. Behind him, his hand finds the door handle. He pops it, and he's gone.
Four months. Glaze on a donut.
Chapter 21
Andrew
 
Yes, I know I've crossed a line. But . . .
1.
Robert is eighteen, a fully consenting adult by law.
2.
He initiated the relationship; he pursued me. I am not complaining; merely making an observation.
3.
In four more months, our teacher-student status won't even exist anymore.
4.
I'm crazy about him. I can't help that he came into my life four months too soon; he stole my heart when I wasn't looking. That I don't want it back even if he's willing to hand it over.
5.
If I had a chance for a do-over, or an opportunity to make corrections like I give my students when they screw up a test, I'd take a pass.
I even think that Maya would approve of the person I've chosen, though she might not be too keen about the circumstances. I think I can trust her, and I consider taking a left at the next traffic light and heading over to her house.
Maybe I just want someone to share the burden of my secret with. Maybe I want to be told that the heart trumps the law. But I don't make the left turn.
Being careful means that no one,
no one,
can know. In June I will shout it from the rooftops—
I love Robert Westfall!
—but for now, I have to think of ways to sweep a branch across my tracks.
I call Jennifer Went. Let them gossip about that for a while.
“Hey, partner!” she answers, brightly.
“Hey,” I respond. “You up for a movie tomorrow night?”
 
Robert
 
It's dusky out, but finding Dad's grave is easy. I follow the crushed grass to the mound of fresh dirt that marks his resting place. The plants have been removed—probably softening all the stark places in Aunt Whitney's house—but the cut flowers and sprays remain, arranged around the grave and over it. I want to know who they are from, but all the cards have been removed.
I know my aunts and my grandmother will miss my dad. He's their baby brother, their pet, her son. His absence will leave a huge hole in their lives.
I loosen a calla lily from a spray and run my fingers over the waxy petals.
I think about the way my heart thudded in my chest when Andrew held me to him as I cried, and the way my eyes stung at how good it felt to know he wanted me as much as I wanted him. The way his skin felt, the way his lips felt, the way his hand felt gripped in mine.
I'm more concerned about you at the moment than I am about me.
I swipe at a fresh tear that rolls down my cheek.
Sprinklers switch on in the section across the narrow road from me, and crickets begin to chirp as the dark gives way to the sodium vapor lamps warming up and buzzing at the edges of the cemetery.
I drop the lily in the dirt, then I pull the notebook from my pocket where I'd stuck it as I left Andrew's apartment. I toss that in the dirt, too, and take a deep breath to steady myself.
 
I'll keep you my dirty little secret.
Ha, ha. I believe I've seen that one before. Delete, okay? Xoxo

Other books

A Writer at War by Vasily Grossman
Flight to Darkness by Gil Brewer
Under a Dark Summer Sky by Vanessa Lafaye
Endgame Vol.1 by Jensen, Derrick
Cornucopia by Melanie Jackson
Get What You Give by Stephanie Perry Moore
Secret Desires by Fields, Cat
Gillian’s Island by catjohnson