My Darling Arrow

by A. Kent, Saffron

  Thirty minutes later when I leave my therapist’s office, I get a text.

  It’s my mom.

  I’ve been trying to avoid this, avoid having an actual conversation with my mother about everything. I’ve been making excuses, staying away from the house and living in a motel, but I guess I can’t anymore.

  Because she wants to have dinner Friday. And if I don’t go to her, she’ll come to me, and even though Friday is a couple of days away, my skin has already started to crawl.

  My anger has already started to burn.

  Because something that wasn’t supposed to happen, happened and almost destroyed everything that I’ve worked for.

  My father’s dream.

  I’m sorry, A. I didn’t mean for it to happen…

  Someone trips me up and my books fall to the floor.

  I don’t need to hear the snickering to know who it is. It’s a group of four girls who’ve taken a special dislike to me.

  My roommate, Elanor, is one of them.

  She doesn’t say anything to me, only glares with her big dark eyes when I enter our shared room. So I spend most of my time either with my girls in the common room, at the library or out on the grounds up until the last second before curfew.

  “So riddle me this,” one of the girls says with a snicker and a wiggle of her blonde eyebrows. “How much of a reject do you have to be that your own guardian sends you to the reform school she’s the principal at?”

  The second girl, who’s also a blonde, joins in. “Yeah. What’d you do, Salem?”

  Right.

  Very funny.

  A fuck-ton of snickering happens at this.

  I don’t want to cause any trouble. I’m not averse to making scenes – not me – but I don’t want to fight right now. God forbid Miller sees us in the hallway – her office is only a few doors down – and gives me more things to do. My back has been killing me all week from cleaning her stupid apartment. I don’t think it can take more abuse.

  I’m not going to lie though. Scrubbing her toilet and bathtub is at least keeping me busy enough that I don’t think about all the crazy, wretched things I’ve done. Namely on the night when we snuck out to the bar, which was four days ago.

  And him.

  Yeah, it is keeping me busy enough that I don’t think about him either.

  Well, who am I kidding? Of course I think about him.

  I think about him all the time and maybe that’s why when I hear his voice coming up from behind me, I think it’s magic.

  I think I conjured him up.

  “Can I help you ladies with anything?” he says, and I freeze.

  Ladies.

  He said ladies.

  All the girls have smiles on their faces because of that polite little word. Even I’m blushing and not slightly.

  The first blonde girl who called me a reject begins, “No, we’re just –”

  “Are you going to pick that up?” Arrow cuts her off.

  I fist my hands at his tone. I don’t have to turn around and look at him to know that his jaw is ticking. Or that there must be a dark glint in his blue eyes.

  I know all that. I can see it in my head. I can feel it all too.

  He’s like a wave of heat at my spine.

  The second girl goes, “Well, these aren’t our books, Coach.”

  The third girl in the group, who’s a brunette like my roommate Elanor, says, “They’re hers. She dropped them.”

  And I jump to say, still keeping my back to Coach Carlisle, “Yes. I’m just gonna –”

  “No, you won’t.”

  His curtly worded response directed at me makes all of us jump. The girls have their eyes wide and stuck on him and I’m fisting my skirt now, needing something to worry and crush between my fingers as his heat rolls down my spine in the form of sweat.

  “You,” he says and the girl who called me a reject stiffens. “You’re the one who tripped her up, correct?”

  No one says a word even though students all around us who were going about their business have come to a stop to witness what’s going on. They’re probably thinking that I’m at it again, the principal’s ward who made a scene at the soccer field.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll just get them,” I say, ducking my head and making for the books again.

  “Salem.”

  He says my name as a warning and I stop. Again, I don’t have to look at him to know the state of his features, all tightened and bunched up, sharp as a blade.

  “I’m giving you the courtesy of doing the right thing of your own volition,” he says to the girls in a stern voice. “But if you can’t, I can very easily order you to bend down and pick up the books. I can very easily order you to stay down for the rest of the day too.” I feel him shifting on his feet. “Personally, I’d like to abuse my power a little bit. I’m stuck here anyway, right? Might as well have a little fun with it. So it’s really up to you.”

  Everyone heard that and now they all have their mouths open in shock.

  But not me.

  I’m not shocked at what he said and how rudely he’s behaving. I’m not shocked that he’s being this new, cut-open Arrow.

  Unfortunately, I like it.

  Unfortunately, it excites me.

  This excitement that I’m feeling has nothing on the excitement that I used to feel at the sight of the old Arrow, the one who would be all restrained and unruffled.

  It’s unreal, this excitement. It’s the stuff they should bottle and sell on empty streets to bleak, miserable souls. So they can inject it in their veins and be forever high.

  When the girl who called me a reject almost drops to the ground to do his bidding, I can’t stop the tremble in my belly and my legs.

  I can’t stop the pounding of my heart. She hands me the books with a glare and I hug them to my chest.

  “Good choice.” Then to everyone else, “Show’s over. You can resume your own lives now.”

  Afraid, they all jump to do his bidding too and I hear him mutter, “Fucking schoolgirls.”

  I spin around then.

  And see him for the first time since he arrived on the scene.

  He has his usual clothes on, his gym t-shirt and sweats, all gray, all freaking sexy. The barely-there sleeves of his shirt putting his biceps on display, tanned and strong, covered with dark hair, and I curse myself that I didn’t explore the texture of his skin, the contours of his arms back when I had the chance.

  The arms he uses to catch me when I fall.

  I didn’t touch them enough that one night when I was his friend.

  Stupid Salem.

  Because there’s no way he’d want to be my friend anymore. I don’t want to be his friend anymore.

  What an awful idea that turned out to be.

  I always knew I was dangerous. I always knew my love would drive me to do desperate, awful things.

  Greedy things. Hungry things.

  Things like attacking him with my mouth.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” I say in a hesitant voice.

  He takes his time responding though.

  He fills the silence with his heavy eyes, which he uses to survey me.

  And he does it in such an intimate way that I’m surprised the world hasn’t caught on yet.

  That he’s more than my coach.

  That he’s my Arrow.

  I hug the books even tighter to my chest and shift on my feet.

  “Done what?” he finally asks, lifting his eyes.

  “Saved me like that.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “B-because they’ll think you’re giving me special treatment. Since I lived with you and all.”

  The tight set of his jaw says that he doesn’t like that. “Has someone said something to you about that?”

  I shake my head. “That’s not the point.”

  “This isn’t the first time this has happened to you, is
it?” he concludes in a low tone, the silver chain around his neck glinting dangerously as he folds his arms across his chest.

  I try not to look at the grooves of his sides that he’s exposed by that movement. “It doesn’t matter. It’s –”

  “Next time someone gives you trouble, you come to me,” he orders.

  “What?”

  “I will take care of it.”

  His low-spoken command sends a rush of warmth through my body. A rush of goosebumps and thundering heartbeats.

  He’ll take care of me like he did just now.

  But the thing is, I don’t deserve his help.

  I tried to make advances on him when I promised myself that I wouldn’t. When I know he doesn’t need those things since he’s still coming out of the breakup.

  Besides I’m not a rat.

  So I tamp down all my shivers, take a deep breath and say, “You don’t have to. I can handle it myself.”

  I stop when he unfolds his arms, and completely ignoring what I just said, states in the most professional voice ever, “And I’d like to see you in my office, please. After you’re done with your dinner.”

  I look to the side, confused. “What?”

  “I have something that I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “But –”

  “And I’ve decided that you’re done avoiding me now.” Then he does the most coach-ly thing ever. He taps at his big leather-strapped wristwatch with his finger and tips his chin to get me moving. “See you in an hour.”

  With that, he walks away, leaving me all shocked.

  Apparently, he can still shock me because I didn’t think he would take matters into his own hands.

  About the fact that I’ve been ignoring him.

  I have actually.

  I knew he’d noticed too. I mean, it’s a little hard not to notice when every time I see him in the hallway, I duck my head or turn around and walk away, blushing like crazy for trying to kiss him.

  But I didn’t know he would summon me to his office for avoiding him.

  It’s a good thing though.

  I’ve been acting like a coward. I need to apologize for what I did.

  I made him apologize, didn’t I? It’s only fair.

  Besides, I don’t even think I’ll get to talk to him much after this. Because remember part two of my grand plan? The one that was going to permanently put an end to his pain.

  I put that plan into motion.

  Well, it’s more like Leah’s plan, but there’s a dinner on Friday and that dinner is going to change everything.

  That dinner is going to make him happy and, well, everything will go back to how it was before. Arrow and Sarah, together, and me, the little sister, all alone, spending senior year at St. Mary’s, waiting for an opportunity to run away.

  Which is how it should be.

  So yeah, I’m going to apologize because I won’t get a chance after this.

  With that determination, I go through my shower and dinner quickly and when I’m done, I walk to his office.

  I have a new pair of cargo pants on, freshly laundered and ironed, and I’ve even tied up my hair with the mustard-colored ribbon in a neat ponytail.

  All clean and tidy.

  Just the way he likes.

  I knock on the door and his voice travels through it to hit me in the gut and steal my breath. “Come in.”

  Swallowing, I turn the knob and open the door.

  He’s sitting at his desk. There’s a book spread open on the table, a pen holder, a couple of Post-its, a stack of notebooks. Soccer balls are neatly arranged by the beige wall, along with a bookcase that has books on it arranged just so.

  Everything has its place and order.

  Even him.

  Sitting in his high-backed chair, his shoulders broad and his back straight, he looks like he belongs here. He looks like he commands the room as much as he dominates the soccer field.

  Maybe it’s the way he’s staring at me, with complete authority, complete possession. Or maybe it’s the way his elbow rests on the arm of the chair and he’s clicking this pen in his hand, waiting for me to step inside the room.

  Step inside his lair.

  So I do. I step inside and warmth grips me from every side. It grips the back of my neck, circles my waist and slides down to my thighs.

  “Close the door,” he commands, sounding every inch the coach that he is.

  Every inch the famous The Blond Arrow.

  Swallowing, I obey.

  “Lock it,” he orders again, clicking the pen.

  “What?”

  “Lock the door.”

  I hiccup a breath. “I… I don’t think there –”

  “Lock the fucking door, Salem.”

  “Okay.”

  I reach my arms back and turn the little thingy on the knob to lock it.

  The instant my job is done, I do the craziest thing ever. I mean, I’m famous for crazy so why stop now.

  I rush toward the desk, toward him.

  Which might not be such a great idea given how aloof and mature he looks. How old and teacher-like.

  But it’s like ripping off a band-aid.

  I need to apologize and I won’t wait for even a single second to do it. I’ve already waited four whole days without making a well-deserved apology.

  I stick my arms out. “Before you say anything, I’ve got something to say.”

  I’m aware that this is what I said to him at the bar, where I demanded he apologize, and the way he stares at me, without moving a muscle except to click the pen, I get the feeling that he’s aware of it too.

  That he was probably waiting for me to gush words like a river and create drama like the queen I am.

  “Okay so.” I wipe my hand on my thigh and lean against the edge of the desk to keep my shaking at bay. “I know I’ve been avoiding you and it’s not cool. That’s not fair to you, especially when I made you apologize to me in the bar. And made such a big deal out of it. So I’m sorry about that. For not apologizing sooner.”

  He studies me from his perch and even though I’m looking down at him slightly, I feel much, much smaller than him right now. “You’re apologizing for not apologizing.”

  Well, when he puts it that way it sounds ridiculous.

  “Yes. Sort of. But the point is that I shouldn’t have done that. I should never have done that. I…” I try to gather my thoughts. “I’m sorry I tried to kiss you. It was completely uncalled for and a huge mistake. You’re my sister’s boy –”

  Why can’t I remember the correct terminology of anything?

  “Ex-boyfriend and it’s super tacky. And weird. And you don’t need creepy advances by a stupid girl when you’re going through so much. And the truth is that I really wanted to be your friend, you know? I really wanted to be someone you could talk to but I took advantage of that and I’m sorry.”

  I take a deep breath when I finish.

  Although no amount of deep breaths will calm my heart. It’s thundering inside my chest, lurching and writhing.

  I’m not sure because of what though.

  Is it because our friendship was so short-lived and the pain of it is intense? Or is it because he keeps staring at me in that intimate way of his?

  Like he knows me. He knows every bone and every muscle and every cell in my body.

  Every secret of my witchy heart.

  Just when I think I can’t take it anymore, his intense, dominating scrutiny, he leans forward and puts down the pen, shutting up the clicking, draping the room in complete silence.

  Sitting back, both his elbows on the armrests now and his fingers tracing the curve of his lower lip, he asks, “Did anyone give you any trouble?”

  “What?”

  “After I talked to those girls in the hallway.”

  I press myself against his desk even more, trying to stop the trembling of my legs. Trying to stop this running thought tha
t he looks so… mature and big.

  Older.

  When he’s only about five years older than me.

  Even so, I clasp my hands in front of me like a naïve little schoolgirl and shake my head. “No. It was fine.”

  Those girls only glared at me through dinner and nothing else. Besides, I was more engrossed in the fact that I had to go see him rather than pay attention to anything or anyone else.

  His eyes drop to my clasped hands before nodding. “Good.”

  “I –”

  “You never told me how you liked the motorcycle ride that night,” he cuts me off in a soft, inquiring voice.

  I open and close my mouth several times, unable to come up with anything.

  “Did you enjoy it?” he continues with smooth, polished features, like him asking me all of this is completely normal.

  And my chest heaves like wanting to answer him and tell him all the things about the ride and everything that happened to me since then is completely normal too.

  I grab the edge of the desk and lick my lips. “It was great. Thank you. I-I have your jacket. Uh, that you gave me. I can bring it back to you if –”

  “Keep it.”

  “But… it’s yours.”

  He traces his thumb across his lip while studying me. “You like it, don’t you?”

  For some reason, my cheeks feel hot when he asks me that.

  Maybe because ever since he gave me his jacket, I’ve been sleeping in it. I’ve been smelling it when I write him my nightly letter or when I really, really miss him.

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “So it’s yours now.” Before I can argue more, he asks me something else. “It was your first, wasn’t it? The ride, I mean.”

  I nod again. “Yes.”

  The first and probably the last, too.

  Because I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sit on a motorcycle that doesn’t belong to him. I don’t think I’ll even want to.

  I don’t…