Chapter 5
Philosopher Dan stands in his usual spot, leaning against a light pole with a cup by his feet for passersby. His grin’s as bright as always when I sidle up next to him.
I hold out a brown paper sack. “Croissant sandwich with ham.”
“Did you remember mustard?” he asks, taking the bag.
“Hard to forget since you yelled at me the one time I did.”
He chuckles, digging into the sack. “I like my mustard.”
“Believe me, I know.” I sip my coffee while watching him pull out a plastic-wrapped sandwich.
I had been giving him change and any dollars hanging out in my wallet, but every time I visited the vending machine while I tutored at the Math Learning Resource Center, I never had any money. So on mornings I have class, I stop by the campus bakery to get him breakfast. We’re both happy because neither of us go hungry.
I eye him as he bites into the croissant. “Where’re my words of wisdom, Mr. Philosopher?”
For everyone else, he philosophizes about friends, family, and school. For me, it’s all about love.
Monday, he’d told me, “Love is like luck. You have to go all the way to find it.”
I’d told him, “My luck is shitty, so I’ll just stay where I am, thank you very much.” I heard his laughter all the way into the building.
Wednesday, he’d told me, “Love makes time pass; time makes love pass.”
I’d told him I was holding him to that. So far, time hasn’t done a darn thing to ease my feelings for Wyatt; I kept that part to myself.
Between mouthfuls, Dan says, “Sometimes the best person for you is the one you don’t want.”
“Say what?”
He wipes a dab of mustard from the corner of his mouth and scowls. “You heard me.”
“I don’t want anyone. Does that mean everyone’s best for me?”
He reaches into the sack and pulls out an apple. “You ain’t listening right.”
“You’re not making sense.”
The apple crunches when he takes a bite. After swallowing, he asks, “Who you want?” He takes another bite and waits for my answer.
I’ll never say this, but I still fantasize that Wyatt will come to his senses and beg for me back. Of course in my fictional world, I tell him to go to hell. I want to believe I’m strong, that I’m better off without him. But sometimes I’m afraid if he showed up on my doorstep with a contrite expression and a dozen roses, I might just say yes. Even after all the pain he’s caused, a part of me still wants him.
As if he knows I’ve answered the question, Dan asks, “Who you don’t want?”
For some godforsaken reason, Tyler’s impish grin dances in my mind. I grimace. There’s no way in hell Tyler Mason is best for anyone, especially me.
Dan chuckles. “Listen to what I say, pretty girl, and it’ll all come together.”
Not likely. I shrug and take off toward class. For being omniscient with everyone else, he sure is off his game with me.
“See you Monday,” I call over my shoulder.
“Don’t forget my mustard!”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m on it.” I head through Murral Hall’s double doors and down the hallway to class. When I walk into the room, dreamy Mr. Westbrook is standing behind the podium, sorting through papers.
He turns his head toward me and smiles. “Good morning, Miss Faye. Excellent report you did last week.”
My cheeks heat, but I think it’s more from the way his green eyes sparkle than from his compliment. “Thank you, Mr. Westbrook.”
“No, thank you. Your use of a donut chart in your economic forecasting was brilliant. It’s not common. Why did you decide on that method?”
I’m about to head toward my desk and answer on the way, but I think better of it and walk to his side instead. Anytime a student can stand out from the crowd is good for grades. “It was the most effective way to convey the information to the audience. Since I needed to show multiple series, the donut chart made the most sense.”
“I concur.” He pulls off his glasses, and for the first time, I notice his eyes aren’t just green. They have a sprinkling of gold flecks that make them absolutely stunning. “I’m co-authoring a book on the use of graphs and spreadsheets in technical writing. I’ve seen professional economists use donut charts before, but never in a succinct way that’s easily understood or explained. I’d like to use your example as a case study.”
I stare at him, a little dumbfounded. “Like, seriously?”
He chuckles. “Like, yes, seriously.”
I realize he’s making fun of my vernacular, but I’m too flabbergasted to care. “Uh… yeah… I mean, yes. Of course you can use it.”
“Wonderful. We can discuss the details further when I finish outlining the book.”
“Um… okay.” Like an idiot, I keep standing there, staring at the beautiful Brit in a fedora.
He has black lashes as long as a doe’s, and they frame his eyes beautifully, making the green irises even brighter. He has a very kissable mouth with a bottom lip that protrudes a little more than the top. For a brief moment, I wonder what it’d be like to suck on it, and then I heat furiously. I’m not allowed to think that way about my teacher.
He tilts his head toward the chairs. “You may have a seat now.”
I nod once and hurry away to where Freddy is smacking his gum and tapping his pen on his desktop. “Hey, girl. Could you be any more obvious?”
I sit down, place my coffee on the desk, and open my book bag. “What are you talking about?”
He bats his eyelashes and pretends to flip long hair. “You’re so dreamy, Mr. Westbrook. I can’t believe you want to use a graph that little ol’ me came up with.” He brings his hand to his mouth and titters girlishly. “You think I’m smart?” He bats his dark eyelashes even faster and taps my forearm in a flirty manner. “Stop. You’re making me blush, Mr. Westbrook.”
I slap him on the shoulder with my book. “I did not sound like that!”
“Whatever. It’s obvious you have a crush on him. I’ve never seen so much hair flipping and eyelash batting in my life.”
I glance at Mr. Westbrook, who’s thumbing through our homework with a goofy smile. I really hope Freddy’s kidding, and Mr. Westbrook’s oblivious to how hot I think he is.
“Don’t worry about it, girl. I’m sure he’s used to his female students throwing puppy love his way.”
Great. I’m probably the reason for Mr. Westbrook’s amused grin. He must eat up the way students stare at him. I slump into my seat and study my hands, annoyed by how transparent I am. If he didn’t wear those studious glasses or the gangster hat or the adorable sweater vests, I wouldn’t find him so irresistible.
I glance back up at the front of the room. He’s cleaning his glasses with a handkerchief. On the podium rests his hat. No fedora or glasses, and he’s still gorgeous. I squint, trying to picture him without the vest. That’s when I realize the man could wear a gunny sack and still be attractive. Ugh. Must. Get. Mind. Off. Hot. Teacher.
Freddy’s still tapping his pen against the table, so I ask, “Is something wrong?”
“I went home this weekend,” he grumbles.
“Was your bed replaced by dumbbells?”
“No,” he says. “My mom nixed my dad’s weight room plans. She thought I’d never come home if my room was full of workout stuff and smelled like a gym locker. She’s probably right.”
“Well then, what’s wrong?” I sip my coffee, waiting for his answer.
He sighs as if there isn’t enough air in the whole room to breathe in then blows the air out and turns his dark eyes on me. “My sisters think I’m gay.”
I picked the wrong time to take a drink. I cough and sputter on the hot coffee.
He pats my back, not looking too worried about my wellbeing. “Can you believe that? Me gay? Do you know how many girls I’ve dated?” He shakes his head. “My sisters are losing their everlovin’ minds.”
I’m still coughing, and Mr. Westbrook looks up, his brow crinkled with concern.
He slides his wire-rim glasses down his nose and peers at me. “Miss Faye, are you quite all right?”
“Fine,” I choke out. I hold up my coffee cup. “Went down…” A few more coughs burst free. “The wrong… pipe.”
He smiles, but it’s impish, the way Tyler grins. “Might I suggest you drink more slowly next time?”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
His eyebrows lower as he raises his glasses back up, and his shoulders tighten. I swear he’s bristling as though he doesn’t like being called sir. I’ll make sure not to do that in the future since pissing off my teacher is a guaranteed way to flunk. He keeps watching me, his eyes a little stormy. I wish I had time to figure out what his problem is, but Freddy is staring at me expectantly.
“Why would they ever say that?” I ask as casually as I can after a coughing attack.
He sighs again. “Briana says she catches me checking out guys all the time. Sienna says only gay guys go shopping all day with their sisters.”
“What did you say?”
“I told them that’s all hogwash. I need new clothes as much as they do. I can’t be lookin’ like this—” He makes a show of pointing at his outfit, and I have to admit he looks sharp in a baby blue polo that contrasts nicely with his chocolate skin and black chinos. “Without keeping up my wardrobe. Trends are changing every day, you know.”
Most heterosexual males don’t care much about keeping up with trends, but I keep that to myself. “What about the ‘checking out other guys’ comment? Did you let that slide?”
“Hell to the no. I told little Miss Briana dudes check each other out like girls. We gotta make sure we’re the sharpest dressed guy in the vicinity. It’s a pride thing.”
Riiiight, I want to say, but I stay quiet. If Freddy’s not ready to admit he’s gay, I’m not going to push him. He’ll figure it out in his own time. I’m sure he already knows, and he’s just trying to keep up appearances until he can wrap his mind around what being attracted to men means to him. It may take him a lifetime to be comfortable with an identity that could make him an outcast in his family and his church.
I chew on my bottom lip and make a mental note to check out which churches in the area allow gay members. As I’m pondering this, I glance toward the front of the room. Mr. Westbrook’s staring at where I’m nibbling my lip. Startled, I suck my entire bottom lip into my mouth and sit up straighter. His gaze goes from my mouth to my eyes, and he blushes.
“Oh, girrrl,” Freddy says. “I think you just gave Mr. Westbrook a woody.”
The guy who sits behind us chuckles.
I slap Freddy on the arm. “You’re a dumbass.”
Freddy leans in close so the guy behind us can’t eavesdrop. “I bet you could skip the rest of the summer and still get an A if you brought a lollipop to class on Wednesday.”
“All right, class. Let’s begin,” Mr. Westbrook says, his fair cheeks ruddy.
I nudge Freddy away and pull out my notebook and pen. There’s no way Mr. Westbrook is attracted to me. I’m his student, and that’s just wrong… and a little titillating. I mean, he’s not that much older than me, so it’s not a big deal if he finds me interesting as more than a student. Right?
Wrong. The last thing I need is Mr. Hotter-Than-Hell Westbrook staring at my lips during class. That’s a recipe for losing focus. My heart beats double time at the thought of his mouth on mine, our tongues intertwined, his arms wrapped around my waist while I tangle my hands in his curly dark hair. I’m missing the lecture, but I can’t break away from my fantasy.
Arg! Who knew crushes could be as bad for my grades as a breakup?
I blink hard and grab my pencil to take notes. Mr. Westbrook’s saying something about an extra credit assignment, but I missed the first part. His eyes are on me, and it’s my turn to blush. Could he tell I was lost with him in another world? I know the idea’s ridiculous, but the way he’s watching makes me wonder.
Freddy snickers. When Mr. Westbrook looks away, Freddy leans close and whispers, “I think our teacher’s found a pet.”
“I am not his pet.”
Mr. Westbrook glances at us, and I brace myself for an admonishment. Inside, I’m smug. Teacher’s pets don’t get into trouble for talking during class. That’ll show Freddy.
Mr. Westbrook smiles at me. “Since Miss Faye was kind enough to supply material for the book I’m currently working on, I’d like to extend extra credit to her or anyone else who writes a case study of publishable quality.”
I’m sure I’m red from my hairline down to my soles. When I shift uncomfortably in my seat, Mr. Westbrook goes back to lecturing.
Freddy snickers again and leans in. “Told you so.”
Denying it won’t do any good. Worst of all, I’m not sure I mind being his pet. Or his anything else for that matter, and that could be a problem. For my sanity, my scholarship, and my heart.
Chapter 6
I’m in the parking lot of Lakewater Marina, leaning against my car and waiting for Dylan to finish applying sunscreen to Hannah’s back. I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but they’re only a few feet to my left, so it’s hard to avoid overhearing.
“You know you’re the prettiest girl at Vandeveer, right?” Dylan asks Hannah while rubbing lotion onto her shoulders.
Her lips tip up at the corners as she raises her hair so he can get at her neck. “You really think so?”
She’s not stupid. She knows that other girls are better looking than her, but she wants to be the prettiest to Dylan. I understand. I wanted to be the prettiest to Wyatt too.
Dylan leans in and whispers so low I can’t hear what he says, but his words make Hannah giggle. She spins around, wraps her arms around Dylan’s neck, and kisses him, long and soft. Just watching them makes me blush, so I pivot and grab my beach bag from the backseat of my car.
After a rocky couple of days, things seem back to normal between them. Hannah forgave him for not telling her he’d had a fuck buddy, but she’d been mopey for a few days, wondering if Dylan was keeping other secrets. He’d finally convinced her his fuck buddy wasn’t a secret; he’d just forgotten about the girl.
“You coming to the beach with us?” I ask Hannah as soon as she stops sucking face.
She shakes her head, her lips a little swollen. “I’m going to help the boys with the boats.”
I nod, and Liz and I stroll toward the manmade beach next to Barnacle Bob’s Boat Storage and Pier. Hannah and the boys leave to gas up the boats and the jet skis. During the summer, Hannah practically lives at Pete Lake with Dylan. His dad is an executive at Mercruiser, and the company keeps a half dozen watercraft at the lake. They want as many hours on the boat motors as possible to help detect reliability issues. Enter Dylan and his friends, reliability-testing experts as Hannah likes to call them. They’re relentless in their pursuit of finding defects by taxing boat motors to their limits. That usually involves long days of wakeboarding and jet skiing.
I’ve only joined Hannah and Dylan once, during the summer last year when I demanded a weekend break from waiting tables. Wyatt and I had driven down from Dallas and enjoyed a day on the lake with them. The outing had been small. Intimate. Perfect. Today’s outing is going to be a shindig, with lots of girls I doubt I’ll know and Josh’s buddies. Plus Liz, Hannah, Dylan, Tyler, and probably a few of Tyler’s friends. I cringe at the thought of so many people seeing me in a bikini.
Ever since ninth grade when my breasts grew three cup sizes, I’ve hated swimsuits. I know millions of women fork over beaucoups bucks for big boobs, and afterward they flaunt them in string bikinis with little triangles to cover their nipples. I’m here to say real boobs cannot be supported by bits of fabric the size of a Starburst wrapper. They need industrial strength underwire and fabric as thick as drapes to keep them in place. I can handle all that. What I can’t handle is the way boys stare, eyes wide, tongues hanging from their mouths like starv
ing puppies eying a meaty bone.
When I wore a bikini after the boob explosion in ninth grade, I learned that when presented with a larger-than-normal rack, boys go brain-dead. I was no longer a girl; I was boobs with a girl attached. Guys no longer cared if I was smart, had pretty eyes, or could speak in complete sentences. All they wanted was to see them, touch them, and taste them. Boobs became my identity. I was so upset by the way boys treated me that I stopped wearing swimsuits altogether.
My mom sat me down and told me to be proud of what God had given me and to stop letting body consciousness dictate my life. Now I refuse to be influenced by the orbs attached to my chest and I go to the pool or lake whenever I please, but I still hate the way guys won’t look me in the eye because they’re too busy staring at my ta-tas.
Liz stops a few yards from the water’s edge and drops her beach bag. Without hesitation, she tugs her shirt over her head, revealing perky lemon-sized breasts. I pause with my hands on the hem of my T-shirt, the apprehension an old habit. Swearing off men is turning out to be liberating in some ways. If a guy hits on me today, I no longer have to worry about his motivation. I remove my shirt and push it into the beach bag at my feet.
Liz is already sprawled on her towel and soaking up rays. I join her after slipping off my shorts and flip-flops. My purple bikini has a turquoise paisley print. The top covers more than most swimsuits, but the underwire pushes my breasts up, causing lots of cleavage. We lay there for ten minutes, and I’m half asleep when Liz startles me.
“I think Tyler’s your man,” she says.
“My man for what?”
“He’s fuck buddy material,” she says in a sun-drowsy voice.
I groan, bringing my hands to my face. “Not this again.”
“I’m serious, Cassie. Think about it. He’s not your type at all. I see no presidential elections in his future.”
I roll my eyes, but she’s right. Someday in the far, far future, if I ever decide to put myself on the market again, I’ll probably marry a guy who needs a scandal-free wife since he’s running for the House of Representatives.
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