“Okay, okay.” He holds up both hands. “I get it. I’m sorry.”
“No, you don’t get it. That’s the whole point.” Furiously, I stomp over to my desk. “You think that you can just do what you want, and maybe you can. But I can’t. This is my life. My life. Don’t you get that?”
“Yeah, Hyacinth. I get that. Trust me.”
He’s gone a little quiet, but he looks anything but repentant. In fact, now he just looks pissed.
“You may not think I ‘get’ your life, but here’s one thing I get for sure—you have absolutely no idea what you want.”
I open my mouth to protest, but no sound comes out. Instead, I say nothing. Instead, I watch him walk away from me and out of my classroom. It isn’t until the door shuts behind him that I whisper aloud to the silent room.
“I want you.”
Chapter Twelve
The Power of Distraction
Four more weeks. Four more weeks. Four more weeks.
This is my new mantra. I just have to get through the next month. Yesterday afternoon, I met with Caroline for my second evaluation and she assured me that everyone was pleased with my performance.
“You’re going to be a great teacher, Hyacinth,” she’d said, patting my hand. “You just need to believe in yourself.”
I’d nodded and smiled, pretending that I was completely focused on the words she was saying and not the memory of Smith’s mouth and hands and body on mine.
For the remainder of my student teaching, Caroline assigns me to lunch duty, which is both good and bad. It’s good because it’s a distraction—it prevents me from zoning out and thinking about things I shouldn’t be thinking about while I eat my bologna and cheese sandwich.
It’s bad, however, because I’ve been assigned to the first lunch shift—the shift Smith attends. Since he’s only a half-day attendee, he’s been lumped in with the open campus students who go to the community college in the afternoon. The work-study program eats on first lunch, too, so the cafeteria gets pretty crowded.
I’m sitting at the faculty table, watching a group of sophomores conduct some sort of disgusting snack cake eating contest, when a tray clatters onto the table next to my brown-bag lunch. I look up, and Jeremy Christopher smiles down at me before plopping on the bench.
“Hey, fellow lunch-duty buddy.” He nudges my arm with his elbow. “Nice to see you out and about—you usually eat lunch alone.”
I smile back at him. “I usually grade through lunch—I can get a lot done with a half hour of peace and quiet. But I suppose I couldn’t have a full teaching experience without witnessing the cafeteria in all its glory.”
I gesture to the Tastykake table, and Jeremy makes a face.
“Well, then maybe getting assigned to chaperone lunch is a good thing,” he says before digging into his spaghetti.
I watch him from the corner of my eye as he chews and swallows. There’s something about Jeremy that’s just rich—like he’s stronger than he seems based on the depth of his features. I can’t imagine why I wouldn’t have noticed this about him before—except, of course, for the fact that my eyes and attention have been completely preoccupied with another guy. Maybe—maybe it’s time for me to be a little less concerned about Smith Asher and a little more open to . . . other options.
“Is there something on my face?”
Shit.
“No—sorry. I just zoned out there for a minute.”
His mouth twitches with a tiny smile and he digs back into his noodles.
“Would it embarrass you, Hyacinth,” he says slowly, “if I said that you can stare at me for as long as you want?”
I look over at him and raise an eyebrow. He gives a little shrug.
“Just saying.”
He takes a big bite of his food, then glances around the room. I suppose I should probably be doing that, too, considering I’m supposed to be keeping my eye on things. I look over the crowds of students—some at tables, some standing in line for their lunch—and I pretend like I’m not looking for someone specific.
At least, not until my eyes fall on him.
Smith’s standing with Cherry again, and I can feel my lip begin to curl. Jeremy takes one look at my face, then follows my gaze.
“Oh—that girl.” He rolls his eyes. “She sure can pick ’em, huh?”
I bite down on the inside of my bottom lip and try to steady my voice. “What do you mean?”
His eyebrows rise a bit and he takes a sip from his water bottle. “What? You don’t know the deal with Smith Asher?”
I give a little shrug. “I guess not.”
He snorts a little, then shakes his head. “I don’t know him all that well, but his brother, Eric, seems to think he’s on a bad path.”
“Eric? He’s the—uh—SRO, right?” I ask in what I hope is a casual tone.
Jeremy nods.
“Yep. Apparently, Smith is a big fuckup—trouble with the law and all that. I’m pretty sure he’s been arrested before.”
I bristle at this. Sure, Smith had told me that there were some brushes with the law in his past. But, I wouldn’t call him a fuckup by any stretch.
“I’ve never seen that side of him,” I say, hoping I sound indifferent. “That doesn’t sound like the Smith I know.”
Fantastic. This just keeps getting better and better.
“So, Hyacinth . . .”
I glance over at Jeremy and he leans in a little closer.
“I was wondering if you wanted to, uh, go out sometime. With me.”
I blink at him. Then I blink again. It’s the last thing I expected him to say.
“I mean, I know you’re busy with student teaching and you’ve got a lot going on—I just thought maybe we could get dinner or something.”
I force myself to consider the offer. I’ve been so embroiled in drama and ridiculous Smith Asher nonsense, Maybe I should let myself have some fun. Go on a date with someone who actually has a high school diploma. And actually hasn’t, apparently, been to jail.
“I’d like that,” I finally say quietly. “To go to dinner, I mean.”
“Sweet!” Jeremy’s brown eyes light up from within and he grins at me. “Are you free Friday?”
I pluck a pretzel out of my plastic bag. “Yeah, actually, I am.”
“Then it’s a date.” He suddenly stands up and gives me a little wink. I can’t help but smile as he strolls out of the cafeteria, then shake my head. He is charming, I will give him that. And a nice distraction.
But when the bell rings to end lunch and students begin pour out of the cafeteria doors, I find myself locking eyes with Smith again. He’s coming closer and, when he’s a few feet from me, he narrows his eyes.
“So you and Mr. Christopher, huh?” he says under his breath.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mutter. Smith snorts.
“Please. You were practically sitting on his lap and dry humping him.”
I stiffen and start to move away, but he blocks my path.
“He’s a tool.”
I glare at him.
“At least he’s not a student,” I say, practically spitting the words.
I try not to think about him watching me as I walk away. I try not to think about my exit as a retreat. Instead, I hold my head up and force myself to move slowly through the crowd of students. I need to put as much space between me and Smith as possible.
Somehow, I don’t think it’ll ever be enough.
***
“Cheers!”
Rainey holds up her cocktail, and Carson and I follow suit. We all take long sips of the sweet-and-salty drink.
“Man, whoever thought of Margarita Mondays is a genius,” Carson says, glancing around the La Tolteca dining room in approval. She grins at me as I go in for a second sip.