CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tatum
Blinking my eyes, I’m met with darkness. My head feels stuffed with lead when I raise it to look around. It pounds; a thousand drums beating within my skull. My sleeves are damp, and my face feels tight, puffy, swollen. Every muscle in my body is tense, as if I haven’t moved for hours. What time is it? It takes a minute for the fogginess to fade and it suddenly clicks. I’m in Mr. Ryan’s house. But where is he?
And then I remember.
Wyatt.
I think I’m going to be sick.
Leaping off the couch, I round the corner of the living room and find myself in a large galley kitchen. A silver garbage can stands near the edge of the counter, and I don’t even hesitate to rip the lid off and heave the contents of my stomach inside. I wipe my mouth with the corner of my sleeve when I finish, and leaning a trembling hand against the counter, I stand up.
As my eyes adjust to the darkened room, I take in my surroundings. A large bay window is situated over the kitchen sink, and the light from the moon is filtering inside. Crossing to the faucet, I run the cold water over my hands before splashing my face. Then I cup my hands to take small sips, reveling in the feel of the cold water trickling down my sore throat. I lean against the countertop, breathing deeply to try and calm my racing heart.
His kitchen is modern, fully equipped with stainless steel appliances: a large French door fridge with the lower drawer freezer, a gas stove top and double oven. The room is dark, yet I can see the color palette of white on gray cover the cabinets and the walls. This kitchen is immaculate, especially for a young bachelor living by himself. The thought stops me. Is he a bachelor? I don’t know anything about him, and here I am, standing in his kitchen, puking my guts into his garbage can in the middle of the night. And he’s my teacher for God’s sake! I should get out of here.
When I follow the hall back to the living room, I spot the bathroom that I didn’t notice in my scramble to find a barf receptacle. I step inside and shut the door softly. The light blinds me momentarily when I flip the switch, but as my eyes adjust, my appearance shocks me even more.
Bright purple and bluish bruises rim the base of my throat, like some gaudy, chunky costume jewelry. Two of the bruises spread upwards beneath my jawline where I remember Wyatt bit me. My eyes are red, my lids swollen, resting as two slits above my cheeks. My skin is spotted with red dots around my eyes, spreading over my cheeks towards my ears. Popped blood vessels or something like that, from lack of oxygen and from my exertion to get him off of me. Tracing my appearance lower, I take in my red puffy lips, one cut with dried blood.
I don’t remember bleeding.
Using the hair tie on my wrist, I pull my hair into a ponytail and off my neck. My body temperature is rising from anxiety, and I finish up in the bathroom quickly so I don’t have to look at myself anymore.
When I make it back into the living room, I spend some time scanning the photographs along the walls. Most of the pictures are artsy landscapes and city scenes, but a few frames on the mantel show a small boy, ranging from three to probably around ten years old. Riding a bike, holding a trophy, hugging presumably his mom. These all must be pictures of Mr. Ryan as a kid. And even though I don’t understand it, I’m relieved that it doesn’t appear a woman lives here with him. That doesn’t mean he’s single, but I feel like less of an intruder.
I can’t go back home by myself. Wyatt knows where I live. He’d find me. I don’t understand why he attacked me. I’m confused and angry. Really fucking angry. Not once in the past year has he struck me as a violent person. Now, in the matter of a day, he’s broken down any sense of security I’ve built for myself. And the jackass still has my car. And my keys. Come to think of it, I don’t even know where my purse and phone are, if I even brought them here or if I dropped them at the school. I feel entirely violated and defenseless.
I’m alone, frustrated, and exhausted. But I can’t turn my mind off enough to sleep. Mr. Ryan must have left me to sleep on the couch, and he’s probably in his room. My stomach feels funny when I picture him sleeping somewhere on the floor above me. Stop, I chide myself. I am not having feelings for my teacher. This must be some sort of syndrome. Like Stockholm syndrome, but for the rescuer, not the captor. Couple that with my daddy complex and I’m totally, utterly fucked up.
My mind is reeling even more now that I’m awake, and the house is quiet. I should raid Mr. Ryan’s kitchen for something to help me sleep. After searching a few cabinets and not seeing anything that will help me, I check the fridge.
Holy crap, Mr. Ryan likes beer! Half of the left side of the fridge is filled with brews.
Not knowing a thing about what kind is good, I grab a six pack of some light amber colored beer called Michelob and bring it with me to the couch. I uncap one and decide to go all in, taking a long drink off the glass bottle. It’s not too bad, a little bitter tasting, but I want to forget so I take another drink.
And another.
And another. The more I drink, the more I like the taste, and the better my body starts to feel.
The six pack is gone. It’s a little after 2 a.m., and I am feeling drunk. More than drunk, I am feeling annihilated. I think I’ve gotten up to pee probably six…seven times since I started drinking? I don’t remember, but I need to go again, so I hoist myself out of the nice warm cushion I’ve been perched in.
“Ow! Shit,” I cry out as I stumble into the coffee table. Rounding the corner into the hall, I trip on my own feet and knock down a planter sitting on top of a pedestal. I giggle. My bladder is full to bursting. I leave the plant and power my way into the bathroom, dropping my pants, and sitting down without even turning the light on. Sweet relief. I wash my hands, and upon exiting the bathroom, I run into a hard, thick wall I don’t remember being there a few minutes ago.
“Oof.” I ricochet off the wall, falling backwards on my ass, but a pair of warm, strong hands reach out to catch me.
“Tatum? What are you doing?” I recognize Mr. Ryan’s sleepy voice, and I can’t help but giggle. He just caught me from falling on my ass, and I’m drunk in his house. My life is so messed up.
“Just using the bathroom,” I slur, my voice sounding funny to my own ears. His face is screwed up, like he’s piecing something together. Abruptly, he yanks me forward, closer to his warm, strong chest, and brings his face down to meet mine. I think he’s going to kiss me!
Instead, he sniffs loudly, and I laugh again. He’s smelling me!
“Have you been drinking?” he asks, incredulously. Uh, oh. Mr. Ryan is grumpy. Probably pissed I stole his beer.
“Noooo,” I giggle, trying to bury my face in my elbow so to not have to look at his stern face. But I’m curious, so I peer up at him through my thick lashes.
“How much did you drink? And what did you drink? You were sleeping when I went to bed.”
“Your beer,” I slur again quietly.
“You drank my beer? Why?” He looks like he’s trying not to smile. The corner of his lips are twitching.
“Thirsty. Trying to forget.” And suddenly melancholy settles within me; I do want to forget. Forget about this afternoon, forget about Wyatt and Mrs. Marsden, and forget about my mom and being unwanted and worthless. For some reason, I think Mr. Ryan can make me forget.
I launch myself towards him, latching my arms around his neck, and he stills. He looks down at me, caught off guard, but as if he’s scared to even move. I press myself against him suggestively. I want him. I need him. His warmth settles deep inside of me, and I cling to the feeling like it’s a life preserver.