by Cara Dee
Pipsqueak widened her eyes. “Why? You just said—”
“Vibrators are not clinical.” I used approximately seven paper towels to wipe the table, as if that would erase the last fifteen seconds from my memory. “I mean—I can’t go that far. If you want details about STDs, I can give you a fucking slide show of pictures off the internet that will steer you away from sex for years to come. But we can’t discuss masturbation. It’s entirely inappropriate.”
She shrank in size, hugging herself and dropping her gaze and blushing in embarrassment, and I felt awful for causing such a reaction in her, but we needed some boundaries.
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
I sighed heavily and slumped down in my seat, and I scrubbed at my face.
Fuck my life.
I had to elaborate with her. Otherwise, she might take it too personally, and she was clearly going through a sensitive period.
“Can you be open about this with Mary and Willow?” I started by asking.
“Yes.” She nodded stiffly, visibly uncomfortable. That made two of us. The difference was, the topic itself hadn’t been awkward for her until I made it so. “Mom’s helpful and understanding, and Willow gets it. She has the same hypersexual periods.”
“Hypersex…” I felt the air leave my lungs, and I planted my forehead against the table.
Hypersexual periods.
Brain aneurysm!
“What?” she cried out, at a loss. “It’s common for people on the spectrum, Avery.”
“Okay—fuck, I’m sorry.” I groaned internally and wished the ground would swallow me whole. All right, time to get through this. I took a breath and straightened in my seat, and I almost cracked when I saw she had tears in her eyes. “I know I’m making this worse, hon. It’s proof that you should talk to them instead of me. Where sex is concerned, I’m no different from your actual brothers.” I pleaded with her to understand where I was coming from. “When you turned thirteen, you told me to stop calling you Pipsqueak, but the thing is, you’ll always be Pipsqueak to me. You’ll always be the sweetheart who skipped over at four in the morning in your My Little Pony pajamas and asked me random things about life.”
It gutted me that she was growing up right before my eyes. And… I swallowed hard, realizing that part of it was because each new “adult” development in her life took her away from me. Summers were for shopping for bikinis and going to the beach with her friends. Weekends were for going to the mall and buying makeup and bras and fucking tampons. Nights were for texting with boys and…yeah.
She finally made eye contact, and she sat there and chewed on her thumbnail. She observed me as her embarrassment faded.
“Okay,” she said eventually. “I get it. I think. We’re in a weird space.”
I tilted my head. “How do you mean?”
“Like, an in-between conventional boxes kind of area. We’re not friends, yet we are. We’re not brother and sister, yet we are. We’re not family, yet… We have our own box, and that’s okay.”
Our own box. I liked that.
“In the end, we’re Mister and Pipsqueak,” she finished.
I smiled. “We are. And we’ll find our way to navigate that space.”
Ten
“Don’t forget to check your attendance,” I reminded them. Again.
These young minds…
They trickled into the classroom wearing matching Friday grins, already programmed to believe that life happened on the weekends. That was approximately 104 days out of the year. Less than a third of your lifetime. And the rest…? Time wasted in monotony.
I sat back against my desk, noting that Keira was here. I’d heard through the faculty grapevine that she’d lost her parents in a car accident over the summer. Keira’s older sister had been my student two years ago.
I could relate to the lethargy in her dull gaze.
Sandra, also our school counselor’s daughter, brushed past me with a flirty smile. “Happy to finally have you as my teacher, Mr. Becker.”
Whore.
I nodded once, then pushed off the desk to get behind it.
Grabbing a whiteboard marker, I waited for everyone to simmer down. Then I walked over to the door to close it and snatch the attendance list that was attached to a clipboard on the wall.
“All right. I trust no one got knocked up over the summer. Well done.” I returned to my desk and drew a line under the words I’d written on the board. “By a show of hands, how many here have posted anything political on a social media platform?”
“We’re gonna jump right in?” one of the boys asked, incredulous. It would take some time before I learned their names, but there was always one student who expressed shock about not “easing” into things after a long break. This wasn’t middle school. “Mrs. Sanders just talked about our schedule.”
“So, you’ve already had one teacher who was gentle with you.” I cocked my head at him, not amused by the laughter that erupted. “Since you’re concerned about what we’re going to do this semester, you can hand these out.” I tapped the marker against a stack of papers on my desk. “And these…” Another stack of papers.
Because yeah, I was the guy who gave them a test on the first day.
There were groans and complaints and curses, most of them directed at the guy they called Cody. As if I weren’t going to hand out these tests eventually anyway.
“The world’s not coming to an end, guys. Quit acting like it.” I smoothed down my tie and then folded my arms over my chest. “This is for me to get a sense of how poorly you’ll perform in this class.”
“You’re so funny, Mr. B,” Sandra giggled.
I slid my mildly bored gaze to Keira when she snorted. Seated in the front row by the window, her bad posture made it clear she had no fucks to give. I supposed losing parents you’d loved would do that.
I pulled out my chair and sat down, planning on getting lost in my phone while these predestined failures answered my sixty questions about civics. I estimated half of them would surrender the one point they received when adding their name to the top of the page.
Scanning the attendance list, I found Cody somewhere in the middle. Cody Morgan.
“While Mr. Morgan hands out the tests, let’s get back to the question,” I said, leaning back in my seat. “Raise your hand if you’ve posted anything political on social media, including news articles.”
Approximately fifteen of my twenty-two students raised their hands.
I was mildly impressed.
“Good. It’s important to get involved,” I told them. “I take it this means you have an interest in how our country is run, so I hope to see the same hands in the air after my next question.” I paused. “How many know of any of our local representatives and legislators?”
Two fucking hands remained.
“We will discuss the effects of social media campaigning later in the semester,” I said, “but if you don’t care to know who holds the power in your own state, you might as well give up your vote.”
“The next presidential election isn’t for another two years,” one girl pointed out.
I nodded slowly, phrasing myself as politely as I could. “How much do you believe a president will get done if his party has a minority in both the House and the Senate? All elections are important, and some of you will be able to vote in the midterms.” I put an end to the topic there. “I want silence while you complete the test. You have forty-five minutes, starting now.”
Thankfully, they all went to work right away.
With the sound of paper rustling and pens scratching filling the air, I brought out my phone and looked up hypersexuality on the autism spectrum.
“Mr. Becker!”
So close.
I unloaded the work I was bringing home with me into the back seat of my car, then closed the door and faced whoever was ambushing me in the parking lot behind the school.
I wanted to say I knew who that girl was. She looked too mature to be a student.
She forced a polite smile on her face as she got closer. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Taylor Sloane. You were my teacher a couple years ago.”
Of course. I nodded, remembering now. This was Keira’s older sister. Unlike her sister, Taylor was blond and hadn’t gone emo and dyed her hair black. They did, however, share the same dullness in their gray gazes.
“I heard about your parents,” I said. “My condolences.”
“Thank you,” she replied uncomfortably. “It’s sort of related to what I wanted to ask you. You have my sister—Keira—in two of your classes this year, and I’m wondering if you could keep an eye on her.”
I straightened my posture and frowned. “If you’re worried she might pose a risk to herself—or others, for that matter—in her grief, I suggest you speak with the school counselor.”
“That’s not it,” she assured quickly. “This is just about her schoolwork. She wants to drop out, but I made her promise to go at least one semester.”
Ah. Well, that was admirable—that Taylor fought for Keira to stay in school.
“I don’t mean to pry, but is it only you and your sister now?” I wondered. “Do you get support from other family members?”
“It’s pretty much just us.” She shrugged. “Mom’s parents are alive—they recently went back to Florida. And Dad has two brothers, but they’re in New York.”
“Hm.” I’d been on my own since I was eighteen, so it wasn’t like it seemed anywhere near impossible. At the same time, I knew how alienating it could be. “Are you staying in your parents’ house?”
“Yes, right here.” Right here, being Ponderosa, a district for the ones who could afford it. “We’ll be fine, eventually. It’s not like we’re hurting for money.”
Perhaps not, but they were hurting for family.
It wasn’t my business, though. I cleared my throat and pushed no further. Instead, I promised I’d keep an extra eye on Keira and let Taylor know if her sister fell behind.
“Thank you so much.” Taylor’s eyes flooded with relief, and she brought out her phone. “Can we exchange numbers?”
Oh, right. I supposed that was smart. “Keira has mine on the information sheet she was given today,” I said and retrieved my phone. “Just insert yours here.”
She made quick work of dialing herself so it would be saved on my phone, and when I got it back, I added her as a contact under Taylor Sloane.
“All right. I, uh…” I nodded at my car, indicating I was ready to leave.
“Yeah, of course.”
I paused when I noticed the disappointment on her face, and I wondered if there was something else. Maybe she needed an appointment with the… Well, she couldn’t go to the counselor here, but there were plenty of others.
“Do you have a grief counselor or someone else to talk to?” I asked.
“Huh? Oh. Yeah, Keira and I go to a place twice a week,” she replied. “It was the only way we could convince our grandmother to fly home. That wasn’t what I—I mean…” She blushed for some reason. “You know what, never mind. Keep me posted on Keira. I appreciate it, Mr. Becker.”
Fair enough.
“Goddammit.” I tossed another test onto the pile of the ones I’d graded and rubbed my eyes.
It felt like someone had poured a bucket of sand in them.
A yawn slipped out, and I leaned back in my swivel chair and squinted at the clock above my desk.
Almost two in the morning. Good thing it was Saturday tomorrow.
Ethan and I were taking Lias to the bar before he returned to the East Coast. It would be nice to have him home permanently soon. He and his girlfriend were moving back in a couple months when Evelina’s internship at some company was completed.
I suspected there would be a wedding to attend within the next couple of years too. Against all odds, Lias and Evelina had been together since junior high. Through high school, through college. Though, I reckoned it’d been easier since they’d both attended college in New York.
Evelina… Another young woman I liked. She was good for Lias. When he’d struggled in school, she’d been there to support him. And remind him that he could reach out to me.
I eyed the bookshelf above my desk, or more specifically, the book Darius had given me as a joke-but-perhaps-not-just-a-joke for my last birthday. A book about remarkable women in history.
I wasn’t going to read it. It went without saying that remarkable women existed, but it was a reminder. I still had work to do in that department. I didn’t want to be single for the rest of my life, and it wasn’t fair what I’d been doing. No matter how well-founded my trust issues were…
I released a breath and scrubbed at my face again. The past several hours, I’d had an annoying headache.
Hadn’t Pipsqueak once told me I might need glasses?
Fuck it, I wasn’t going to get more work done today. I got up from my chair with a grunt and snagged my phone. I had two messages waiting for me, and I read the one from Pipsqueak as I brought my coffee mug and empty dinner plate downstairs.
I think I’m gonna love my junior year. There’s a new guy in my class, and he’s so fucking hot, I could die. (That’s a figure of speech.)
What the hell was I supposed to say to that? For starters, I guessed this meant she was over Chad. Other than that… Christ, did she have to remind me of how quickly she was growing up? Part of me couldn’t believe she was in high school, much less that she’d be a senior next year. Then she’d be off to college. College. Fucking hell.
I typed out a brief response after I’d loaded the dishwasher.
Glad you’re enjoying school.
The other text was from a certain Taylor Sloane.
My eyebrows lifted as I read it.
I used to have the biggest crush on you in high school. The crush is gone, but if you’re not seeing anyone and want something casual, I’m interested. Very interested.
Eleven
“Why can we never go to your place? Or hell, my place. The seedy motel vibe is getting old.”
Not this again.
I glanced at Taylor over my shoulder as I zipped up my jeans. “I don’t want any lines blurred.”
I’d told her from the start, this was as casual as could be. I’d never brought women back to my house—ever—and I wasn’t about to start. Given how tainted my previous house had become—one wife who’d gone behind my back, then my fucked-up revenge operation including a bunch of loose bitches—I didn’t want to ruin the current place I called home.
Maybe this thing with Taylor had run its course. I’d anticipated a couple months of no-strings sex, but we were going on six months now, and we even met up for coffee at times.
She was becoming…sweeter, and it made me uncomfortable. She’d complained about the fact that I didn’t enjoy kissing, which wasn’t technically true. I was just going to extremes to avoid attachment. Kissing was intimate, and I didn’t feel that way about her.
She huffed and left the bed to get dressed. “I can’t figure you out.”
I frowned and reached for my button-down. “You’re not supposed to.”
“Oh, give me a break.” She snorted. “You can be open and talkative at the coffee shop, but as soon as we meet up here, you become someone else. You’re so closed off.”
I hadn’t expected her to notice any changes in me, but I was fucking working on it. She didn’t realize what a big deal it was for me to have sex with a woman without feeling like shit afterward—or any resentment toward the woman. She didn’t know I’d almost had an anxiety attack the time we’d somehow ended up in the missionary position and I hadn’t been wearing a tee. Just a wifebeater.
Her fingers had brushed over the scars visible on my shoulders.
I’d told her not to ask.
I was changing. I was.
If Taylor knew how cold and rigid I’d been before, she wouldn’t still be here. She wouldn’t allow me to fuck her like a dog and then leave, for which I actually res
pected her.
“This is the deal,” I said with finality. “I’m using you, just like you’re using me.”
When I faced her fully to put on my shoes, she was watching me.
“What’re you using me for?” she asked. “Don’t say a quick release.”
The answer was twofold.
I’d hesitated for several weeks before we eventually hooked up. I’d left her text message alone, without any interest in responding. But something Lias had said when we were out had bothered me. I’d drunkenly admitted that I’d hoped to meet someone better in the future, and he’d advised me—in his love-sick, young wisdom—that practice made perfect. In short, I should open up little by little, and there was no harm in starting with someone I didn’t see a future with long term.
There was no way I’d end up in a relationship with Taylor Sloane. She was too young, I wasn’t very attracted to her, and we didn’t have much in common.
It made her perfect for something without strings.
“The sex is mostly for a release,” I said and lifted a shoulder. I wasn’t going to tell her that I was working on revealing myself physically. It was a stupid hang-up that just plain embarrassed me. For years, I’d had a rule of fucking someone from behind if my shoulders were visible. Even with my ex-wife, I had struggled with eye contact if she was touching my scars.
Taylor shifted where she stood and tilted her head. “And the rest? When we meet up for coffee?”
Fucking hell, were we really doing this now? I checked my watch. It was the middle of the day on a Saturday, and Pipsqueak had a swim meet. I was due to pick up Willow in half an hour and drive over to the pool.
Actually, no, we weren’t going to do this now. “We’ll have to save that for another time,” I told her. “But you know the drill. I think you’re a nice girl, Taylor, but I don’t date. I’m not ready. I won’t go shopping with you, I won’t take you out to dinner, I won’t invite you to my house, I won’t watch a movie with you. If that’s what you want, you should find someone better.”
