***
Monday morning I pop into the local coffee shop to see if Tatum is there again with her friend. I tried my best to leave her alone last night. She made it clear she wouldn’t see me to talk about what happened, but I couldn’t get her off my mind. I’m like a love sick teenager all over again.
My anticipation calms when I spot her sitting in a back booth with that curly blonde friend of hers. Trying to seem inconspicuous, I order a small coffee and sit at the booth in front of theirs. Miraculously, she didn’t see me sit down. I watch the swirling rings of steam rise from my cup while straining my ears to catch a bit of their conversation.
Any excitement I had at seeing her here is quickly extinguished when I hear not my name come up, but Wyatt’s. My mood quickly plunges into dangerously angry territory as Tatum tells her friend about the attack on Friday. But it doesn’t stop there. Shit, this was a stupid idea.
“…he won’t stop calling me now,” Tatum says, exasperated. “I don’t know what else to do. I’ve ignored him all weekend but he won’t stop.”
“Are you going to go to the police?” The little blonde questions, and I pray she can talk some sense into Tatum. That would be the smartest move if he’s not backing down. I might have to take Trey up on his offer to break this kid’s fucking face.
“You know I can’t. After what they put me through when dealing with my mom’s mess, they’re the last people I want to talk to. I’m hoping he’ll take a hint and go away.”
“But what if he doesn’t? What if he comes after you again?”
“I don’t think he will.” Tatum’s voice drops to a whisper, and I lean my head back against the booth to try to hear what she says. It doesn’t matter, because I can’t hear her no matter how hard I try. Whatever she thinks will stop Wyatt, I won’t know unless she tells me herself. Her friends shrill voice screeches out, “TATUM!”, causing me to jump and almost spill steaming hot coffee all over my lap.
“Shh!” Tatum scolds. “Keep it down will you?”
“Aren’t you worried about getting in trouble?”
“No, because I’m trusting you, Em. And if you can keep quiet, it will be fine. I’m not worried.”
Tatum is putting herself unnecessarily in danger and that has me fired up all over again. She can come to me. We can go to the police together. I need to convince her of that. Right now though, I need to get out of here before I do something stupid like confront her publicly and expose our somewhat clandestine tryst to her peers. I grab my coffee and quietly slip out of the booth and out the door. She’ll never know I was here.
“Morning, Tatum,” I call when she walks into my classroom five minutes before the bell. “Early for once, I see.”
“Good morning,” she grumbles, without looking at me. “Mr. Stephenson insisted I try a bit harder, or he’s going to give me another week of this crap. So here I am. What can I help you with?” She stops a few steps from my desk, and I’m struggling to keep my face impassive. I want to grill her about this morning. She’s up to something, and I need to know what it is so I can stop her.
“If you can manage to sit quietly for the class period that will be enough help for me. Thanks.” I’m slapped with guilt as her face drops briefly before she schools it into the snotty mask she wears whenever I see her on school grounds.
“I’d like nothing better,” she grits out through clenched teeth before taking a seat on the stool in the corner. I don’t have time to respond as the warning bell rings and students start filing in. I start class promptly, trying to keep my mind and eyes from wandering over to Tatum. After I’ve reviewed today’s lesson, I assign the homework and take a seat at my desk, finally allowing myself check out what she’s up to. She has her phone under her nose, furiously texting.
“Tatum!” I bark, grabbing her attention and the attention of the entire room. She hops off her stool and stands in front of my desk. “Phone. Now.” I hold out my palm and flinch when she slaps it into my hand with a resounding smack. “I’ve told you to keep it away. You can have it back at the end of the day.” I’m thankful when she doesn’t put up a fight, but also guilty. I lock the device in my top drawer and watch as she climbs back onto the stool, crosses her arms, and stares blankly at the wall. She holds her head and shoulders high, but I notice the way her chin trembles no matter how tight she clenches her jaw. Maybe she needs a little tough love to get her to open up.
Every time her phone buzzes in my drawer, she looks like she’s being electrocuted. I’ve counted 8 times by the end of second period, and I have a hunch it’s not about to stop. As she approaches my desk when the students have left, I know what she’s about to say before she says it, so I cut her off.
“You can go now. I’ll see you during Calculus. You can have your phone back at the end of class.”
“Please Jac—Mr. Ryan. I shouldn’t have been texting but something really important came up.”
“I’ve warned you twice before, and you’re setting a bad example.”
“I know, and I’m sorry,” she pleads. “But I really, really need it back.”
“Tatum,” I sigh. “It’s either me or Mr. Stephenson, but you’re not getting it back today. I’m sorry. Be pissed at me, but this is how it is.”
“Oh don’t worry, I am.” She spins on her heel and storms out the door without so much as a backwards glance or a few choice curse words.
I beat back the urge to chase after her as my third period students begin trickling in. This is going to be a long fucking day.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Tatum
My chest feels like it’s full of bricks. The rest of the day drags on, each second ticking by in its own eternity. Seconds pass like minutes, minutes like hours. Wyatt has been texting my phone nonstop, even after my attempt to bitch him out. If Mr. Ryan decides to snoop through my inbox, I won’t be getting my phone back today. He’ll be too busy killing Wyatt to make it to sixth period. I should have tucked the damn thing into my bag instead of handing it over. I’m just so tired.
I’ve had more drama in my life this past week than I’ve had in over a year. If I was smart, I would have known Mr. Ryan was serious about holding my phone hostage. Naïve little me thought I could weasel my way out of it. Fuck, was I wrong.
Emerson and I went out to lunch at the diner to take my mind off the looming disaster, formerly known as calculus. She chattered on about her date with Grant, how amazing it was, and now the two are officially an item. Facebook official.
I’m so happy for her.
Really.
But my newfound feelings stirred something deep inside of me. Something that until now has been quietly sleeping, hibernating, biding its time. Something that has me wondering when it will be my turn. To have someone want me. To love me. To need me. Desire. Love. In my relatively short life I can’t remember a time of ever feeling genuinely loved. Or having someone to love.
Regardless, I am happy for Emerson. I just need to keep my green-faced gremlin under control.
The second fifth period ends, I practically sprint to Mr. Ryan’s room. I weave in and out of students like some NASCAR pro, dodging backpacks, legs, people making out. I don’t even have the heart to tell them to get a room, I’m so intent on being the first one to class.
Skidding to a halt, I attempt to regain composure before bursting into his room. Wouldn’t want to scare anyone by barreling through the door, hair a wild mane, heaving in oxygen like my life depended on it. Slowing my breathing to calm my racing heart, I pull open the heavy wood door and waltz inside.
The room is empty.
You have got to be kidding me. He is seriously going to make me wait until the end the day. No clue as to if he’s scanned through my messages or not. Damn literal men.