Greer: Just getting warmed up, Turner. So unless you can take it, I think we should end this text convo.
Arlo: Nice try. I told you I was going to text you, so that’s what I’m going to do.
Greer: And what is your end goal with this so-called texting?
Arlo: Isn’t it obvious? Trying to tap into your inner Gen Z with communication.
Greer: Uh, excuse me, baby boomer, but I’m a millennial. Thank you very much. Born in 1996.
Arlo: You’re right on the cusp, which means you hold the traits of both. No wonder you’re massively irritating.
Greer: Uh, are you trying to woo me with this text thread? Because you’re doing a pretty shitty job.
Arlo: Consider me a newbie.
Greer: Aw, am I your first attempt at wooing?
Arlo: Unfortunately, and it seems like you’re not going to make it easy on me.
Greer: Why on earth would I do that?
Arlo: True. Okay, clean slate. Are you ready?
Greer: Give it to me . . . Daddy.
Arlo: None of that.
Greer: Oh, right, I’ll save that for the kitchen island. Please proceed.
Arlo: Jesus, you’re not making this easy.
Greer: **bats eyelashes**
Arlo: You know, I think you’re in a mental space of witty comebacks right now. I’m going to try again tomorrow.
Greer: Giving up that easily?
Arlo: Filling you up with anticipation. I’ll text tomorrow.
Greer: Again . . . you don’t have to inform me of your texting schedule.
Arlo: Keep it up and I’ll spank that sass right out of you.
Greer: Tease.
* * *
Arlo: *Attention* Arlo is going to text Greer.
Greer: Good God.
Arlo: LOL < - don’t make fun of that. What are you doing?
Greer: Sitting on my couch, staring at a stack of tests I need to grade but considering just labeling them all a B and being done with it. You?
Arlo: Watching my sister try to break her record in hula-hooping.
Greer: What? Seriously?
Arlo: Yup. She’s at twenty loops. Can’t seem to pass it. She’s blaming, and I quote, her weak, non-childbearing hips.
Greer: Why is she hula-hooping in the first place?
Arlo: She’s on a strong path to find joy and happiness in the little things. I admire it, but it also brings nights on the patio with her attempting to swing her hips back and forth over and over again.
Greer: I wish I was there to see it.
Arlo: Come over.
Greer: No. That would be weird.
Arlo: How so?
Greer: Uh . . . isn’t this like a secret or something?
Arlo: Do you *like* want it to be *like* a secret?
Greer: Don’t be an ass. And I don’t know. Everyone is so close that maybe it would be nice to just keep it between us for now.
Arlo: You know, I never asked you something.
Greer: What’s that?
Arlo: Are you seeing Walker still?
Greer: Are you asking to be exclusive?
Arlo: Are you saying you don’t want to be?
Greer: You tell me what you want.
Arlo: You. Only you. I want no one else to have you.
Greer: Okay.
Arlo: Okay?
Greer: Yes . . . okay.
Arlo: . . . okay. So, uh . . . hell, I want to kiss you.
Greer: Then come here and kiss me.
Arlo: No. Keeping my distance. Back to this text conversation I’m trying to have with you.
Greer: Yes, can’t forget that.
Arlo: What’s your favorite emoji?
Greer: What . . . that’s what you’ve been wanting to ask me? What my favorite emoji is? Turner, you have to be able to do better than that.
Arlo: The little things count just as much as the big things. Work with me here.
Greer: Fine. Uh, I think the obvious answer would be eggplant, but I’m not obvious. My favorite emoji is [thumbs up emoji]. It can be used to express joy and it can be passive aggressive at the same time. Multifunctional.
Arlo: Are you one of those people who gets cut off, and instead of flipping them the bird, you give them a thumbs up?
Greer: Naturally. It’s more dickish. Like, “Good job, asshole, you don’t know how to drive.”
Arlo: Pretty sure I’ve gotten a few thumbs up in my lifetime.
Greer: Are you a bad driver, Mr. Turns Me On?
Arlo: Mr. Turns Me On?
Greer: Please, as if you don’t know you have that nickname. It floats around the teachers’ lounge. Along with Mr. Klein is Fine for Gunner, and Romeo . . . well, his is Mr. Roam Your Hands All Over Me.
Arlo: You’re objectifying us.
Greer: Do you need my breasts to cry into?
Arlo: Nah, I prefer a bigger tit to dry my tears.
Greer: Oh.
Greer: My.
Greer: God.
Greer: I can’t believe you just said that.
Arlo: LMAO.
Greer: Um, care to rectify that statement?
Arlo: I think about your tits all the time. What I wouldn’t give right now to have them in my mouth.
Greer: Better.
Arlo: Coraline wants to get some ice cream.
Greer: Uh-oh, another shot to the six-pack. You going to make it?
Arlo: No. But she’s in a good mood and finding joy, so I’ll suffer for her.
Greer: You brave soul.
Arlo: I’ll see you tomorrow, beautiful.
Greer: Okay, you made my stomach flutter.
Arlo: Good.
* * *
“Were you really not going to say good morning?” I ask, walking into Arlo’s classroom, where he’s sitting at his desk, typing away at his computer. He continues to type for a few more seconds before he turns toward me.
His eyes slowly give me a once-over. He’s incredibly smooth about it, especially since he does it while standing from his chair and moving to lean against the side of his desk, folding his arms across his chest.
God, he’s so handsome. From the scruff on his face, to the brilliant color of his eyes, to the mess in his hair. He’s gorgeous, and I somehow caught his attention.
“Good morning,” he says, his voice still carrying a little early morning rumble. “I was finishing up my notes on the community service I laid out for the heathens, and then I was going to stop by quick and hand you this.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper.
“Is that a note?”
“It is.” He holds it between his index finger and middle finger, twisting it around.
“You wrote me a note?” I ask, still slightly perplexed.
“Yeah, you have a problem with that?”
“No, it’s really cute. So, is that your angle? Trying to make me fall for the grandpa who has resorted to old-fashioned notes now because text messaging failed him?
He chuckles. “Texting didn’t fail me. I just thought this was more your style. Hell, more my style.”
I walk up to him and take the folded triangle from his fingers. Yes, folded.
“Don’t you know passing notes isn’t allowed?”
“I’ll bend the rules.”
I examine it. “Did you use gel pens? Sparkly ones? Is there a box in there that asks me to check yes or no? Did you draw yourself naked and proportionally?”
His brow furrows. “Did you used to get naked pictures when you were younger?”
“Not me, but my friend did from her boyfriend. She said the pictures didn’t match up at all.”
“Teenage boys are such morons.”
“Tell me about it,” Gunner says, coming into the room, Romeo following closely behind him. “They need a detailed roadmap to navigate through high school in order to not come out a nitwit.”
“And then they need help folding the map,” Romeo says.
Slowly, I distance from Arlo and say, “How was the game
, Romeo?”
“It was good.” He nods, and that’s all he says.
Okay.
Usually he’s a lot more talkative than that.
“Coraline said she had fun,” Arlo chimes in. “She especially enjoyed meeting some of the players afterward.”
“Yeah, they both did,” Romeo says, nostrils flared.
Oh.
Ohhhh . . .
I’m going to have a talk with Stella.
“Well, I should get back to my class. Have a good day,” I say, not giving Arlo one last glance.
When I return to my classroom, I quickly unwrap the note and read it to myself.
Dear Miss Gibson,
I thought about you all weekend.
I thought about the dress you wore at homecoming.
I thought about the way your hair swept across your shoulders in a ponytail and how I desperately wanted to push it away.
I thought about how your legs looked in those heels, even more gorgeous than normal.
I thought about how I wished I could have taken your hand and shared a dance with you on the dance floor.
And then . . . I thought about our kiss.
And now, I’m thinking about how I can spoil you on our date, so that maybe . . . I can feel your lips against mine again.
Have a great day.
Arlo – Grandpa.
I snort and fold the note back up.
That man has done a complete one-eighty and it’s starting to scare me, because not only do I get butterflies in my stomach whenever I see him, get a text from him . . . or read a note, I’m starting to become infatuated.
* * *
“Hey,” Arlo says, knocking on my open classroom door.
A huge smile spreads across my face when I see him.
“Hey.”
“Love that smile.” He approaches me and hands me a note. “Coraline is coming for lunch, but I wanted to give this to you before she does. Also, she’s going to want you to join us. Don’t feel like you have to.”
“Would it be okay if I skip it?” I ask, wincing. “I have a lot of catching up to do.”
“That’s fine. I’ll let you get to it.”
He winks and starts to walk away, when I call out, “Date night tomorrow.”
He turns and walks backward. “Excited?”
“Thrilled.”
“Me too.” He smirks and then leaves.
Sighing, I open up the note and delight myself in his perfectly scrolled handwriting.
Dear Miss Gibson,
Tapping into my inner intimate self has been difficult. I decided to go to a marriage counselor session with Coraline—I can tell you more about that later. It’s not what you’re probably thinking. But I learned something yesterday at my session—not sure if I’ll go back, we’ll see—but what I did learn, I took it to heart.
There are people on this earth who don’t need the touch of another human to be happy. They’re pleased with minimal contact and living their own life. And then there are people who need that extra touch. Who crave it. Who—as the therapist says—love love. And if we find ourselves matching up with that person, we need to put in a valiant effort to meet their needs.
I’m not saying you need human touch to survive, but I do believe you’re someone who needs altruistic attention. Because you’re considerate and compassionate.
And I’m prepared to give it.
But it might take me some time to get used to giving that to you.
Why am I telling you this? Because our date is tomorrow, and if I forget to touch you from across the table, or you don’t feel like I’m giving you enough attention, please know, I’m trying.
Arlo
* * *
“I’m heading out,” I say, at Arlo’s door.
He turns in his chair, pen in hand, casual and sexy simultaneously. “Got a big date to get ready for?”
I smile. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
He stands, tosses his pen on the desk, and then, from his pocket, pulls out another note. “Here.”
I take the note from him. “And I thought you weren’t going to write me today.”
“Nah, just wanted to save this one for after school.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets, as if he didn’t, he’d be too tempted to touch me. “Am I still picking you up?”
“If you’re okay with that.”
“I prefer it.”
“Perfect. I’ll see you at seven.”
“See you at seven.”
I want to kiss him.
So badly.
Just a little peck.
Something to tide me over.
But this is not the place. Anyone could walk by and see.
So I muster my self-control and walk away, feeling his eyes on my retreating back the entire time.
When I reach my car, before I even turn it on, I unfold the note and read the simple sentence scrolled across the stark white paper.
I can’t wait to take you out tonight. I’m glad you didn’t change your mind.
I chuckle. As if I could change my mind at this point. The man has done everything in his power to get me hooked. Although, that sounds almost childish. The man is making more effort for me than anyone else I’ve known. He’s trying to learn how to drive his emotions differently.
I do believe you’re someone who needs altruistic attention. Because you’re considerate and compassionate.
And he’s using his love of words, of expression within text, to help me see that. So, perhaps the correct word I should be using is “swoon.” I’m not hooked . . . I’m swooning.
Chapter Twenty-Two
ARLO
I adjust the cuffs on my sleeves one more time, making sure they’re perfectly rolled to my elbows, before knocking on her door.
I spent longer than I care to admit picking out my clothes but decided to keep it simple. Dark jeans, slate-gray button-up shirt, and black vest. I hope I’m not underdressed now. I told her to dress casually, so hopefully she stuck with that.
With a deep breath, I raise my hand and rap my knuckles against the door.
I take a step back, put my hands in my pockets, and stare at my shoes just as she opens the door.
When I look up, my goddamn breath is stolen straight from my lungs.
She’s stunning.
In a simple pair of black skinny jeans and heels, she looks tall and toned. Her deep-purple silk tank top floats over her torso while whatever magical bra she’s wearing tonight makes her tits look irresistible. And her hair is loosely curled and cascading over her shoulders.
I was afraid I wasn’t going to give her enough physical contact . . . Hell, I’m afraid I’m going to touch her too much now.
“Greer, you look fucking delectable.”
She smiles, the gloss on her lips making her mouth that much more enticing. “You look really delectable yourself. You have that whole ‘Justin Timberlake Suit and Tie’ era going for you.”
“I guess that works. At least it’s not ‘Justin Timberlake Denim Suit’ era.”
“True.” She snags her purse, a leather jacket, and keys and shuts the door behind her when she joins me in the hallway. When I think she’s about to lock up, she presses her hand against my chest and wraps it behind my neck. Standing on her toes, she lifts up and places a soft kiss across my mouth. I barely have time to react before she’s pulling away. “I needed to get that out of the way,” she says, looking me in the eyes. “After all those notes, I felt desperate to kiss you.”
“Then kiss me the right way,” I say, right before slowly backing her up against her door, lifting her chin, and connecting my mouth with hers.
It’s slow but urgent—the way she grips me. My hold on her chin. I angle her to make room for when I open my mouth, and luckily, she does the same, allowing our tongues to touch.
Fuck . . .
I could do this all night. This could be our date.
Kissing.
This and this alone would be the best night of my life.
“Jesus,” I say, pulling away but keeping my face close. “I need to stop, or we’re never going to leave.”
She smiles and brings my head back down, where she presses a few more kisses across my mouth.
“I love your lips,” she says as she releases me and locks up her apartment.
When she turns back around, I hold out my hand for her. She smiles at it and then places her hand in mine.
And just like that . . . we head out to my SUV.
I can already tell it’s going to be a good night.
* * *
“You’re kidding me.”
I shake my head.
“Arlo . . .”
“What?” I ask, putting the car in park and turning toward her in my seat.
“We’re going sailing?”
“Technically, someone else is sailing the boat, but yes, we are. And I had a dinner catered.”
“And you think this is casual? This is probably the fanciest date I’ve ever been on.”
“Good. I like to set the bar higher than the men before me.”
“You didn’t have to do this. This is a lot.”
I reach out and cup her cheek gently. Leaning toward her, I say, “I wanted to do this. I want you to know I’m serious about you, which means I plan on dating you. This is how I date.”
“Have you ever taken anyone else out on a boat?”
I shake my head. “No one special enough has come along . . . until you.”
The corners of her lips turn up as she presses a short kiss across my lips. “Expect a lot of that tonight.”
“I hope so. Now stay right there.”
I hop out of the car and go straight to Greer’s passenger side door, where I open it up and hold out my hand. She takes it, and I carefully walk her across the pebbled parking lot to the harbor. The sky is dark already, but the stars are shining along with the moon, providing the perfect blanket of romance above us.
“The dock can be slippery, so hold on tight.”
We make it down the ramp where there’s a boat, lit up and waiting for us. From where I stand, I can spot the dinner table with ample lanterns that provide sufficient glow for me to see Greer.
The staff of two is waiting on the dock.
See Me After Class Page 28
