by E. R. Whyte
Me: need help with something
Dad: what
Me: girl
Dad: aww, little man growing a pair
Me: Haha little my ass, old man. I need a tutor
Dad: For what?
Me: girl needs job
Dad: I see what you did there
I start typing and delete three different texts before I give up and raise my hand. This requires an actual phone call.
“Yes, Mr. Ford?” Mr. Blake asked. He’s in the middle of demonstrating a physics lab, and I can tell he thinks I’m about to answer a question for the first time the entire school year.
“I have to use the bathroom.”
“Of course, you do. Take the pass.” I take the obnoxious wooden hall pass that all the teachers make us carry and stick it in my back pocket, then make my way down the hall to the men’s room, dialing as I go. Dad answers on the first ring.
“Can’t talk long, Dad. I just figured you’d need your readers trying to read it all.” One of my favorite pastimes is giving my dad shit for middle age stuff, like recently starting to wear reading glasses.
As expected, my taunt elicits a mild, “Ha. Did you call me to bust my manly balls?”
“Never. Just wanted to call and tell you my brilliant plan. Basically, we’re going to pay this woman a shit-pile of money to tutor me so I can get through English and keep her safe at the same time.”
“Thanks for letting me know. Now explain.”
“She has a stalker.”
“And your interest is?”
I huff. “Entirely gentlemanly, of course. I need a tutor, and she needs some help.”
Dad makes a low humming sound in his throat, the one he does when he’s thinking hard. “Did she tell you that she needs help? How old is this woman and who is she?”
“No, I just know. She’s a teacher, and I don’t know—twenty-one, twenty-two, I think. If that. She’s young. She was a senior when I started here. And it’s not like that. Yet. You remember Sammy Brookings?”
“Yeah, of course. Kid in the car accident. Lost his mom.”
“She’s his sister. She’s been going to college and taking care of Sammy all these years.”
“Son…” I can picture Dad running his hand through his hair, a tendency I inherited from him. “Don’t you think you’re a little young? Sounds like she’s got some serious shit going on.”
“Dad…” I reply. “I’m turning nineteen in under a month, remember? Y’all held me back. And I’ve been working for forever, not goofing around like some dumbass kid. A man knows what he wants when he sees it.” There is a long pause. “Anyway. I just wanted to give you a heads-up. I don’t want her to know that I’m…” I struggle for the right word.
“Manipulating?” Dad supplies, direct as always.
“Helping?” I say.
“Maneuvering?”
“I prefer assisting.”
“Taking advantage of the situation.”
I laugh and give up. “Whatever you want to call it. Just don’t make me look like an asshole and be there at two-thirty tomorrow.”
“Fine. I look forward to meeting her. But I’m doing this because you actually need the help with English.”
“Thanks.”
I’m looking forward to getting Shiloh to my house tomorrow and hopefully away from Kendrick’s for good. That incident in the hall, from what I saw of it, freaked me out. If I can get her away from creeps like that, I’ll count it a win. Even if she can’t help me much with school.
I’m not sure anyone can help with that, but I’m coming to realize that it doesn’t matter. I just want to help her, instead.
There was a time, several years ago, when Shiloh let me in. She let me help her, even if only for a small window of time. It was fleeting, but I can’t forget the feeling of wholeness I had—the realization that I was meant to be this girl’s rock, if I accomplished nothing else in my entire life.
I was sixteen years old and had just started driving on my own. After hearing about the accident, I had gone to the hospital. Everything was a stark, sterile white with plum and teal accents, abstract and meaningless prints lining the walls to distract attention from reminders of the building’s purpose. I pushed past them, intent on making my way to the ICU to find Sammy. I lied and told the desk we were brothers so I would be permitted to see him.
Although it wasn’t really a lie. Sammy was my brother in every way that mattered.
My steps stalled when I reached his cubicle. Shiloh was there, slumped in the single chair beside his bed. Her torso was bent over his legs, arms outstretched as if to hold him to her.
Muted, the television flickered in the corner.
“Shiloh.” I walked into the tiny space, my focus on the woman draped over my friend. When she looked up at me, her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. Weary. She blinked once, then lowered her head.
Walking to her, I scooped her up and sat, adjusting her to sit on my lap within the circle of my arms. It seemed like the right thing to do. She was light, fragile feeling. I tucked her head under my chin, tamping down a swell of emotion when she sighed once and then relaxed. She slept like that, unconscious tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, for three solid hours.
I wanted to take her home with me, this silent, grieving girl. I wanted to hold her like this until Sammy awakened, until he walked and talked and laughed again. If it took a hundred years, that’s what I wanted.
Shiloh went back to school a few weeks later, and we never spoke of those hours by Sammy’s bed. But I knew, and I believe part of her knew, as well.
There was an invisible cord connecting us, and no amount of time or space would sever it. I was made to care for her. She was made to be mine.
If I’m being honest with myself, I can’t even pretend that I’m chasing after her for a passing English grade anymore. That’s an excuse. I’m chasing her because she’s here again, and it’s inevitable.
When I was younger, I asked my nonna once why Dad hadn’t gotten remarried after my mother died. “Sometimes souls speak to one another,” she told me. “Your mother’s soul, your dad’s—they spoke to each other. He hasn’t found another like that. Maybe he won’t. Not in this lifetime, anyway.”
Understanding eluded me at the time, although I nodded. I get it now, though.
Shiloh’s soul spoke to mine the first time I met her, when I was ten years old. Mine answered, even if she didn’t hear it. I can’t help if it’s bent on continuing the conversation.
The next afternoon, I catch her leaving after my last class. She’s just backing out of her room, arms full of those ugly canvas bags that all the teachers carry, and she’s struggling to lock her door.
“Let me.” With a quick glance down the hall, I reach around from behind her and take the key from her fingers. I lock the door, looking down into her face as she looks up in surprise.
“Thank you,” she says softly. This close, I can see the flecks of green in her hazel eyes and smell the faint scent of vanilla and spice from her shampoo. It’s sweet and I want to burrow my face into that space between her shoulder and her neck. “You need to back up.” She sounds a little breathless and I wonder if it is because we are so close. She’s affecting me, God knows.
Drawing in a deep breath, I take a step back, snagging the handles of a couple of her bags as I do. “Ready?”
She squares her shoulders and reaches for the bags. “Yes, but you don’t need to carry those. I’m used to it.”
I ignore her and begin walking. “Let’s go, dolcezza.” Behind me, I hear her little pout of breath and then the click of heels on the floor. I’m conscious the entire way of what feels like a pair of lasers searing two holes in my back.
Out in the faculty parking lot, she directs me to her vehicle, and I help her load up, enjoying the way I catch her eyeing my backside as I lean in to put her bags in the back seat. I know I’m not imagining that flush in her cheek
s and smirk as I add a little extra flex. I caught her doing the same to my legs earlier. She’s attracted, even if she doesn’t want to admit to it. “See you in a few. I’ll be behind you by a few minutes—I have to walk over to student parking.” I give her a jaunty forehead salute and start to step away, just to pull up short at her voice.
“Gunner.” She looks irritated, frustrated… mad, even. A question forms on my lips, but she holds her hand up, forestalling me. “I’m not sure what all of this —” She waves a hand broadly around “— is, and I’m sure I’ll feel stupid for opening my big mouth, but I prefer the direct approach.”
“Okay. Direct is good.”
She nods and looks down at the ground. “Are you flirting with me?”
“Maybe.” I lean back against the car and hook my thumbs in the pockets of my jeans.
“I appreciate the job offer, Gunner. More than you understand. But nothing else is happening here. So, I need you to stop looking at my ass, stop flirting with me — ”
“Hey, now, Pot. You were just looking at my ass. Not that I mind.”
“I was not! And I do mind.”
“Why?”
She has no immediate response. “Why, what? Why is nothing going to happen, or why stop flirting with me?” She finally asks.
I respond with a nod, and I can tell it makes her want to pull hair. Mine or hers, remains to be seen. She flings her hands up in the hair and begins to pace back and forth in front of me as she ticks items off on her fingers.
“Because, that’s why! Because you are my student, Gunner. Because I would like to keep my job. Because I like not being ostracized by the general public for misconceptions.”
“Will you lose your job if I flirt with you, Shiloh Brookings?”
Hands fly up again. “I don’t know! I don’t know what the rules are. Maybe. Because people assume things. If you’re flirting with me, I must be encouraging you, right? Perception is all that matters here.”
“Is it? What about your feelings? Are you attracted to me, Shiloh Brookings?”
She ignores the question and keeps moving back and forth, still counting items off on her fingers. She’s on the next hand. “Because I am older than you, Gunner! I’m twenty-one, for chrissake. And I have a younger brother to support.”
“Three years, Shiloh Brookings. Barely. I’m almost nineteen.”
She continues as if she didn’t hear me. “Because… Because I like eating. I need a paycheck to eat.”
It’s bold, but I step forward and pause her rant with my forefinger on her lip. “One.”
She is looking at me now, paying attention. “Because… coffee in the morning.” As she speaks, her lips move against my finger and the sensation goes straight to my dick in a way even her strip tease the other night didn’t. My eyes are riveted on her lips, the color of just ripe wine berries, against my finger. I imagine her doing things with my finger and that mouth and have to pull my thoughts firmly back in order.
A second finger. “Two.”
She is silent for a moment, just long enough for me to wonder if I’ve won. Then, petulant, she whispers, “Because all the damn things, Gunner, that’s why!”
I tap her lip with a third finger. “Three years, max. I can work with that,” I respond, and turn back around. “If we’re going to get home in time to meet my dad, we’ll have to hurry. His schedule is ridiculously tight right now.”
“What the hell, Gunner!” She splutters after me, but I laugh and keep going. She’ll figure it out soon enough. I hear a car door slam, and a few seconds later the irritable purr of her engine as she pulls out of the lot.
16
Shiloh
Motions jerky, I hit the GPS for the address Gunner provided and head in that direction. Traffic at this time of day is light along the single lane highway leading away from the school, allowing me a few desperately needed minutes to chill and wrap my head around what Gunner all but declared.
“I can work with that.” As if he planned to do something about each one of the barriers I threw up. Ha! He’s a boy. A boy who looks and acts more like a man than most grown men I’ve been around, granted, but still. What difference does it make if it looks like he wouldn’t know a pair of those skinny jeans most of the other high school guys wear if they bit him in the ass? If his hands look as if they’ve been roughened by actual labor, and might know their way around a woman’s body? If his eyes gleam with a man’s interest, a man’s intelligence, a man’s wit? He’s a high school senior who could get me in serious trouble.
I’m still not understanding why my principal didn’t put me with younger students rather than seniors. I am literally only a few years older than them. Maybe if I had kids or if I was married it would be different, but Jeezy Pete. I’m not blind. Or a nun. Or a blind nun.
“Not that I mind. Gah!” When the hell did sweet little Gunner Ford—well, okay, so he was never precisely little—grow into a smooth-talking sex-on-a-stick hottie?
I groan, remembering the visceral feel of his presence behind me in the hall when he stepped in and plucked the key from fingers that seemed suddenly nerveless. I didn’t have a functional thought in my head. Pure heat surrounded me, and I had wanted so badly to just lean back into it, allow myself to be engulfed by it… and then, his damn fingers against my lips. I’d wanted to bite them. I give myself a full body shake and smack the steering wheel. This is absurd.
I haven’t been paying attention to the road, but it occurs to me that the car is not acting quite right. It’s slowing down, but I’m not braking. I depress the gas pedal, to have it resist for a brief second and then move easily all the way to the floor. Something isn’t right. The steering is getting sticky, too, my little car growing increasingly difficult to wrangle. “What the heck,” I mutter. At least I am not speeding out of control, the road flat and straight enough that it allows me to continue to decelerate, instead. It is almost as if I am out of gas, but I just filled up yesterday. As I maneuver the car toward the shoulder as best I can, it sputters and dies, the dash lighting up like a carnival ride with warnings and alerts. Somehow, I manage to get it off the road and put it in park. Then I just sit, phone in hand, trying to decide who to call.
Times like this bring home with sad clarity that I have no one. Mom and Dad are gone. Cotton’s on deployment. I take care of Sammy, rather than the other way around. I have a couple of friends at the club, but we are not best call-me-when-you-need-help kind of friends. We’re more the girl-you-got-some-lipstick-on-your-teeth kind of friends. There’s nothing for it; I’m going to have to call a tow and pump out the extra money for the service on top of getting whatever’s wrong repaired.
After a few more minutes of internal grumbling, I call Gunner to let him know. “Shiloh?” He answers immediately. “What’s wrong? You’re still coming, right?”
“I’m coming, yes. Well, maybe. I just… I’m having some weird car trouble, Gunner. I’m going to need to call for a tow. I just broke down on the side of the highway. If I can’t get a ride, we might need to reschedule. I don’t want to keep your father waiting.”
It feels awkward to be explaining something so pragmatic after my tirade just moments past.
“Shiloh, I’m right behind you, and you know as well as I do, we don’t have Uber in BFE.” I smile despite myself as the familiar slang. Our small town, famous for its location in a series of Virginia mountain ranges and valleys, is admittedly not urban enough for amenities like Ubers and food delivery. Rather, it boasts prime horse flesh, superior vintages, and the most striking views for hundreds of miles. “I’ll be there in a few and I’ll just take you to the house. I’ll get someone to come out and pick up your car, too.”
“You have someone you can just send to pick up a car?”
“Yeah, sure. We have a farm vehicle you can borrow, too, until you get yours fixed.”
“I guess that’s okay, then, if you’re sure it’s not an imposition.”
“Not at all. I’ll be there in a sec. Lock your doors.”
My belly flips at that. Maybe it’s because I feel a little vulnerable over the weirdo that wanted me to tell him I loved him the other night. Maybe it is just the fact that no one has looked out for my welfare in these past several years, but it does something to me. As I hang up, I lock my doors.
It isn’t a full minute before a truck starts past me, slows to a stop, and pulls to the shoulder right in front of me. My hand on the door handle, I wait. For some reason, a jacked up burgundy truck does not fit with my vision of a Gunner-mobile. My suspicions are confirmed when a muscular man with a carefully styled head of pale blond hair steps out. He’s wearing jogging pants and a school logo shirt. I relax and swing the door open, stepping out. It’s our assistant football coach and my ex, Shane Reasor.
“Shane,” I greet him, leaning back against my car and crossing my arms over my chest.
“Shiloh,” he says. “Car trouble?”
Duh, my sarcastic inner bitch screams, but I behave and smile politely. “Looks that way.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. What seems to be the trouble?”
“If I knew that I wouldn’t still be here, Shane.”
“Fair. Yeah, I guess that’s out of your wheelhouse. Want me to take a look at it?
I tilt my head, considering. “I don’t know. Aren’t football and Krystal Jenkins more in your wheelhouse?”
He smiles and scratches the back of his head, all aw shucks, ma’am. There’s nothing aw shucks about him, though. He’s as deceitful and calculating as I originally thought he was back in high school. Dumb me, though—I decided to give him a shot after football season ended during my senior year. He got cute and started bringing me a Boston crème donut every morning before school.
I threw the first one away.
The second I took a teeny, microscopic nibble of. Just to taste. Shane saw as he rounded the corner in the hall and smirked. He brought me another the next day and sat beside me as I ate it.
