by R. S. Elliot
Ugh. Why did I even say that? What possessed me to think that was the most logical response?
I got nervous, I guess. And he triggered a sore subject with me. It’s ok to be passionate, but jeez, Aly. Know your audience.
“So what do I say?” I ask suddenly.
“To who?”
“Just in general. Like to a man. Or where would I even start with asking one out?”
Lyndsey’s eyes widen to the size of golf balls, matched only in cartoonish quality and width by her Cheshire grin. “So there is someone?”
Crap. “No. I just mean-”
“You devil.” Lyndsey drawls out between lips that barely move. “Who is he? Where did you meet him?”
“Would you stop? There’s no one. I just want to know what to do. I’m not necessarily the smoothest talker out there.”
“I think you’re adorable.”
I roll my eyes and reach for a handful of popcorn from Lyndsey’s lap. “Well, you’re my best friend and not a man I’m trying to date. So you don’t really count. I just clam up, or I say the stupidest things. Or...scold them.”
I chomp down on the fistful of popcorn angrily. This is not going to work. I stare into the television, once again lost in the storyline. I guess this movie isn’t so bad. They seem happy. The heroine doesn’t have to sacrifice anything. It might be nice to have someone help me manage the colossal chaos that is my life every now and then. Or at least have a shoulder to cry on when it all gets too overwhelming.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles. I feel someone watching me. I turn to face Lyndsey, the same knowing, goofy grin on her face.
“You’re going to tell me one day,” is all she says. “It’s ok. The wound is still fresh. But one day, I’ll get it out of you.”
I laugh.
One day, yes. But not today.
I scan through my phone, trying to find the email they sent me this morning. Something to focus all of my attention on might be just what I need at the moment. The candidates for the position have been narrowed down to only two of us: myself and Jackson Riley, a graduate student who received teaching fellowships in the past. He’s a treasure amongst the Psychology department. The faculty loves him. The Dean goes golfing with his uncle.
Yep. That’s what I’m up against.
I just know I can do it. Jackson may have the brown-nosing and networking to succeed, but he is no match for my GPA. Highest in the social sciences college. And I don’t like to brag, but I crush it when it comes time for exams.
Where was this confidence two days ago?
I need to find a way to keep this momentum going.
“What are you looking at?” Lyndsey asks.
I smile despite her pestering. “My ‘next steps’ for the apprenticeship application.”
“So, what do you have to do?”
“We were required to submit a proposal for social reform,” I explain. It took me three months to complete, but the breakdown was flawless. “So now, they want us to work with an advisor for the next couple of months to work out whatever kinks there may be in the philosophy, and actually implement a part of the plan into a real-world situation.”
I read over the specifications to myself one more time. Submitting this proposal is about much more than proving I’m superior to Jackson Riley. If I submit this proposal, and it actually gets put into action, I will be advocating for people in Oakland who can’t speak for themselves. Hard-working people with no access to public healthcare, who avoid going to the doctor even when they feel close to death. Overworked, stressed-out people who can’t see past their paycheck and the day-to-day to get themselves help for anxiety and depression.
People like my mother.
And those of us who suffer through it all, knowing we are practically helpless when it comes to taking care of our loved ones.
What’s more, this apprenticeship comes with a generous stipend. One that would pay more than what I make at Home Depot now. I’d finally be able to take a break. Receive work experience for my apprenticeship and pay for both my tuition and personal expenses.
As it is, Lyndsey pays the majority of the rent. Sometimes she pays all of it and just tells me to put it towards myself. She knows I’m too proud to allow her to pay for it indefinitely. But there are some months where it’s been a lifesaver.
“You’re going to nail that proposal,” Lyndsey says out of nowhere. “Have they told you who your advisor is yet?”
“Zachary Hawthorne.”
Lyndsey coughs, choking on her popcorn. She thumps on her chest and reaches out for her water.
“Should I-” What? I don’t know the Heimlich maneuver. What do I do if she’s really choking?
Lyndsey waves a finger in the air, the only indication that she’s not actually dying. When her fits finally stop, she stares up at me, eyes glassy and body hunched forward. “You’re joking, right?”
“No.” I shake my head, instantly nervous. “Why? I have him for a class this semester, too. Is he awful?”
My roommate stares at me, appalled.
“They call him the Soul Collector. Dude made a student cry last year because he didn’t like the subject of her final paper. Britta said the girl ran from the auditorium where the class was being held and bawled like a baby for five hours in the car. Girl’s boyfriend had to come and pry her hands off the steering wheel.”
I shake my head at the impossibility of such a story. Even if it were true, that would only be one instance. And I am definitely not that weak. “The girl was probably overworked or just couldn’t hack it. That’s not me.”
“No, Aly. He’s called the Soul Collector for a reason. They say he takes whatever you love, your hopes and dreams, and he crushes it.”
“He has to be firm. You can’t expect to make it unless you work hard for something. I’ve had teachers like that before. I’ll be fine.” Though a little part of me is starting to question my dedication to those words.
What if he really is as horrible as everyone says? What if he picks apart every detail, banishing one idea after the next, until I no longer have a paper discussing the topic I wanted? Or worse still, what if he doesn’t recommend me for the program? What if whatever papers I turn in, no matter how thoughtful and thought-out they really are, will never be enough to meet his approval?
“I don’t know.” Lyndsey shakes her head. “All I’m saying is we have a ninety percent retention rate at Berkeley, and I’m pretty sure he accounts for at least half of that ten percent that we lose.”
Great! This is just what I needed to hear.
The apprenticeship of my dreams and I am saddled with the one man who can make my life a living hell.
Soul Collector, huh? What are the odds?
Chapter Four
Zach
I stare at the blueprints in front of me, trying to see what Derek sees.
These scrawlings may as well be Greek lettering for all I can make of them. Grand ideas and schemes all roped into one massive building project. It looks good on paper, I guess. But in practice, there’s no way this could possibly work.
That’s Derek for you. The man never sees the flaws. He just sees the dream. I guess that’s why he’s the visionary. I’m just the money guy.
I cringe. Damn it. That girl really got to me.
Is it genuine? For three days, those words have been whispered in my ear. Taunting me. Reminding me that I am nothing like the man I once was. That bright-eyed student, fresh out of college, thinking he can conquer the world with just a little hard work and determination.
Where did he run off to? Would he question my motives, too?
“So, what do you think?” Derek asks, appearing beside me and bending over the open roll of building plans.
I shake my head. “It’s a lot of work. I mean, you’re talking about a multi-tiered project here. I know you guys bring in your own funding, and I can make up the difference. But where are you going to get the workers for all of this? Not even mentioning th
e time?”
“We’ll have to scope out volunteers,” Derek says. “We’ll post information about it at the university. You can make it part of a social study. It’ll be fine. We’ll make it work.”
I pass back the blueprints and begin scribbling out a list of supplies in the notebook. “You dream too big, my friend.”
“You don’t dream big enough.” Derek claps me on the back, squeezing my shoulder and forcing my eyes back down to the prints. “These are families, man. Some displaced after the brush fires, some who never had a home from the start. We’re the lucky ones, you know. Some of us don’t get that life lottery. And some of us get more than we know what to do with.”
I scoff, trying to play it off like a laugh before he gives me one of his world-famous lectures.
Some lottery. I grew up with every material possession I could ever want, the best schools, and a new car for every occasion. I have a house in Bay City, a house near campus, and a house in Monte Carlo for vacations. But these people will have something I never will, and they are the truly lucky ones.
Home.
What does that even mean? Is that the place where your mother cries every night because your father is out screwing one of his mistresses? Is that the place where your father tells you that you’re one semester away from being cut off unless you pick a career that actually matters? An empty threat I have learned to ignore throughout the years, but at the time, I was terrified of having nothing.
I was terrified of leaving my mother alone.
With him.
He would never lay a hand on her. That would make it all too easy to prove. Me on the other hand, I was far from untouchable.
“Home” is a funny word. Just like “marriage.”
“You boys gambling again?” Marianne asks, stepping into the office with two cups of coffee in hand. The small twists she wears her hair in bounce with every step she takes. She sets the cups down in front of us and plants one hand on her hip. She cranes her neck to the side to look at the papers spread all across the table. “So what have we come up with?”
“Zach thinks it’s a lost cause.” Derek blurts out before I can plead my case.
What the hell? His wife bats her eyelashes, and the man folds like a lawn chair.
Marianne shifts on her hip, the full brunt of her glare falling on me. The look she gives is enough to convince me that Derek’s betrayal is justified. I don’t want to cross her either, but there are too many holes in their project outline.
“Well, he better find it,” she says. “‘Cause I don’t know about you, but this is happening.”
“Marianne,” I say calmly. I’m trying to reason with the fiercest member in the family. “You’re going to need plumbers and electricians. And even once you do get these facilities up and running, there’s no telling whether these people will be able to keep up with any payments.”
Marianne’s features soften. She reaches out to tap my hand, her dark brown eyes a meld of compassion and pleading. “These are not your welfare cases who want to stay below the poverty line so they can collect a paycheck for doing nothing each month. These are real people, Zach. These are working, single parents who fell on hard times, or terrified moms trying to escape an abusive husband. Many of these men and women already have jobs, they just can’t afford to save up for a deposit on an apartment. Forget a down payment on a house.”
She turns as if to leave the room, then stops. “And do you know how much it costs to rent an apartment nowadays?”
“I can’t even begin to imagine.”
She raises a finger in warning, noting my sarcasm. “Ok, Zach. You give me your little attitude, but you make this work.”
I chuckle. The smile I’ve been holding back twists at the corner of my lips. “Have I ever said ‘no’ to you?”
“That’s right.” She nods triumphantly and leans forward to kiss my forehead.
“Hey watch it, buddy. That’s my wife,” Derek teases beside me. His gaze is locked on my supply list, adding his own notes and adjustments.
“She came onto me.”
“That’s enough out of you two,” Marianne says, flicking a hand forward. “Someone needs to go pick up that order and get the rest of the supplies.”
“Zach’s going. He’s got a girlfriend there.”
“Dude.” My hand flies upward, tossing the pen in my hand onto the table. Is he serious? He knows how Marianne is. And I am not in the mood to have this discussion again.
The light in Marianne’s gaze sparks to life. She is smiling too broadly. Already a bad sign. “Oh really?”
“No.” I shake my head, pretending to be as unaffected by their stares as possible. Marianne will have me fill out some feelings book, and Derek will hold me down just to make sure I do it.
“She’s just a person who works there.”
“She told him he doesn’t do enough to help out the community.”
There’s no mistaking the irritation in my glare. I don’t even have to see it, to know that it’s doing the trick. Derek shifts nervously in his seat. His eyes dart off the page, casting me a sideways glance but never fully making eye contact. The subtle twitch of his lip suggests he is enjoying this much more than he’s letting on, but for what reason I can’t imagine.
“Are we good?” I ask. “‘Cause it feels like you’re coming at me a little hard.”
“Well, you don’t do enough.” Marianne reaches for the papers on the desk, rolling them and shoving them back into their canisters. “You used to volunteer with us every week. And what about the mentoring program? The kids still ask about you, you know.”
There it was. The other voice I had heard in my head all these years. The one telling me I wasn’t doing enough, that I abandoned those kids without so much as a backward glance. It wasn’t true. I missed them like hell. I still do. There just never seemed a free weekend to spare.
“I don’t have the time. They’ve got me doing some advising for the two students competing for the apprenticeship this year.” I suppress a groan.
Because that’s how I want to spend my free time, ripping apart the cookie-cutter proposals of some girl I’ve never heard of and that tool of a teacher’s aide, Jackson Riley. I think the last year I did this, the girl bolted from my office and had to be physically removed from her car hours later. I don’t expect perfection, but these kids always want to take the easy way out.
At least in the mentoring program, I felt appreciated, not feared. I felt like I was making a difference.
Why am I not doing that again?
“Excuses.” Marianne shakes her head. “You’re always full of them.”
“I pay for the supplies.”
Marianne raises a finger for silence. I comply without hesitation. Damn, she’s terrifying.
“Don’t even go there. We could come up with the funding if we needed to, you just make it easier on all of us. Including yourself.”
“So do you want me to stop donating?”
“I want you to step it up. Keep your money. What we need is time.”
“I’m here now, aren’t I?” I say. “I’m always here helping you guys put this together.”
“You said yourself we need more volunteers for this, Zach.” Oh, now Derek wants to chime in? “It’s all hands on deck.”
I press my fingers into my temples. The pulse beats into my fingertips like a warning drum signaling the start of a stroke. My head is throbbing. “If I promise to help, can we never, ever have this conversation again?”
Before anyone can agree, Miles enters the room. “Who’s taking me to soccer practice?”
The hard glare of disappointment in Marianne’s eyes fades as she turns toward the boy in the doorway. Her eyes glitter with affection, the twitching in her playful mouth subsiding to a full-on grin, and I have never seen the woman so happy as when she looks at this child.
Miles stands in his soccer uniform, cleats tied and dangling over his shoulder. For a ten-year-old, he’s tall but fits right in wi
th Derek and Marianne, both over five-feet-ten easily. They’ve taken in foster kids for years, but no one has connected with them like Miles.
Hell, I haven’t connected with any of the others the way I do with Miles. Kid’s got a mean kick on the field and a heart of gold at home.
“I’ll take you,” Derek says, slipping me another one of his mischievous sideways glances. “I’ve got to see your uncle out anyway. He’s got a date with some lumber.”
Chapter Five
Aly
One hour away from the end of my shift, and I haven’t seen him yet.
I don’t even know if the order has already been picked up. I’ve been out in the Garden Center all morning, my usual home.
On any normal day, I’d take comfort in the smell of lavender permeating the air. I’d feel right at home nestled amidst the orchids and the peonies. Because this is home. The one place outside of my mother’s house that actually reminds me of the way things were.
Though today it reminds me of something else.
All I can imagine when I look at the checkout counter is my body pressed against his, my legs wrapped around his waist like some character in a sexy rated-R film. I feel his hands gliding down my waist, over my hips, gripping my bottom.
I move my thighs together to quell the pressure building between them. I can’t do this. It didn’t even happen, and all I can think about when I look at this place is the single most erotic experience of my life.
I have to do something, busy my hands. Anything.
I grab a watering can and make my way down the aisles. Gentle wafts of jasmine and gardenia weave through the breeze, overpowering the lavender scent from before. My father loved planting gardenia bushes. He loved planting anything. He’d make some remark about sowing the seeds of something with so much potential and watching it bloom into a beautiful creature of nature.
It was his philosophy on life. With just a little love and proper nourishment, anyone could achieve their deepest desires.
