He groans as if I’m the most impossible person on the planet. “That’s not how I meant it.”
“What did you mean?” I call over my shoulder, still rushing away.
“You’re stupid to come out here alone. That’s what I meant. I thought I could scare you into realizing it.”
“First I’m unreasonable, and now I’m stupid? Whatever.” I pick up my pace. I’m so done with him right now. Looks like my dildo’s getting a second chance.
Behind me, I hear the rustling of fabric and then pounding feet. I hurry through the tree line and onto the path; dead leaves crunch beneath my feet. Soon the sound doubles, but I don’t slow down.
“I’m sure you don’t want to hear this,” Tyler says, “but I consider you a friend. I don’t want you out here in the middle of nowhere, by yourself, at the mercy of some crazy person. Is that so wrong?”
I whirl around to face him. He’s only a few steps behind me, the blanket balled up in his arms, and he stops abruptly to avoid crashing into me.
I tilt my chin up and somehow manage to look down my nose at him even though he’s nearly a foot taller than me. “We’re not friends. Friends know each other’s secrets. They clean up each other’s puke. They listen to each other when no one else will. That is not you and me. We’re fuck buddies. If you cross the line again, we’re not even that.”
He shakes his head and gives me a you’re-acting-like-a-small-child look. “You can be a bitch sometimes. You know that?”
His words sting. How many ways can he insult me in one night? No one’s ever referred to me as bitch.
I’m the nice girl.
The one who wants to please.
The one who always says yes.
The one who gets walked on by men because I’m not a bitch. I never even yelled at Wyatt. I should have thrown a lamp at his head when he dumped me, but instead I slunk away like a beaten dog, without even a yelp to show for the pain. I should have refused to sing for my teacher, but I didn’t. I went along with it because I’m a pushover, and I even apologized to him.
I feel my eyes widen as I consider what Tyler’s saying. I’m finally standing my ground. Refusing to let my life be dictated by someone else. Protecting what I want even if it means pissing someone else off. I’m being a bitch, and it’s about damn time.
I stare at Tyler with what I’m sure is a look of gleeful defiance. “You can call me a bitch all day. You won’t hurt my feelings. Bitches know how to protect their hearts. Saving themselves from assholes is how they get their name. So if I’m a bitch, well, amen and praise God. There’s nothing else I’d rather be.”
Tyler’s lips part slightly, and he stares at me as if I’ve transformed into an alien life form. Maybe I have. I’ve transformed into a girl with an attitude, and I love it.
With a showy swivel of my hips, I turn and march through the forest, leaving Tyler to find his own way home.
Chapter 17
I’m sitting in class on the final day of summer session when Mr. Westbrook calls Freddy to the podium to give his presentation.
“Good luck,” I whisper as Freddy slips his flash drive from his backpack.
“Please. I don’t need luck.”
I chuckle. “Cocky much?”
He winks and saunters toward the front of the classroom with a swagger. We’ve barely spoken about our conversation the other day or the way his eyes heated when he took in Tyler. I’ve tried to bring it up a few times, but he told me to drop it. He added that he wasn’t angry with me. Annoyed, but not angry. I doubt the subject will come up anytime soon, and that’s okay. Life-changing admissions take time. I’m just glad my little stunt didn’t put a permanent rift in our relationship.
As Freddy sets up the computer for his presentation, I peer over my shoulder at Mr. Westbrook. He’s standing at the back of the room, speaking quietly on his cell phone. I’m happy he’s back to wearing sweater vests and pressed slacks. Even his fedora rests on top of his leather satchel. His gaze catches mine for a split second before he lowers it to the floor. I can’t make out what he’s saying because he’s speaking in a hushed voice, so I stop eavesdropping and turn back around. When Freddy’s done pulling up his presentation on the projector, he waits for Mr. Westbrook to give him the go ahead.
“Proceed, Mr. Jones,” Mr. Westbrook finally says. He pushes his cell into his pocket and takes a seat.
Freddy pulls up his title page. How to Cheat at Slots. Everyone in the class snickers except me. I read his final report and edited the presentation, and it’s a brilliant glimpse into the gambling industry. Five minutes into his speech, every student sits with their bodies leaning toward him. Even I’m so engrossed, I don’t notice someone new entering the room until Freddy’s gaze flicks toward the latecomer. Dr. Benson, the professor who interrupted my fight with Mr. Westbrook a few week ago, walks through the door. Freddy doesn’t miss a beat.
As Dr. Benson strolls toward the back of the class, I glance over my shoulder and watch him sit next to our teacher. Mr. Westbrook’s writing furiously on Freddy’s evaluation sheet. He pauses long enough to pass a sheet of paper to Dr. Benson then continues his assessment of Freddy’s presentation. I figure Dr. Benson must be sitting in on the class, but for what reason, I have no idea. A few minutes later, Freddy finishes with a triumphant smile.
“Thank you, Mr. Jones. You may have a seat,” Mr. Westbrook says. “Miss Faye, whenever you’re ready, please take to the podium.”
Nerves assault my stomach as I head to the front of the class. I can’t compete with Freddy’s oration skills, but I’ve done everything possible to assure my success. For the last three days, I’ve practiced my presentation over and over in front of a mirror because I find preparation the best deterrent to nerves. I know I’ve got this nailed, but something about standing in front of a room of students eats away at my confidence. The “I’m a Little Teapot” incident doesn’t help. After I pull up my presentation, I turn toward the class and smooth down my shirt. Freddy’s smiling at me. Mr. Westbrook smiles too, and for some reason, seeing his grin calms me.
“You may begin, Miss Faye,” Mr. Westbrook says.
I nod and launch into my presentation on funding Math Learning Resource Centers at high schools to improve standardized testing scores. It’s less titillating than Freddy’s presentation, but we’re not awarded points for being entertaining, so whatever. I’m in the middle of outlining the statistical improvement of College Algebra grades since the MLRC opened twelve years ago when I falter. Mr. Westbrook isn’t writing a thing. He doesn’t even have an evaluation paper in front of him. To his side, Dr. Benson writes swiftly, looking from me to the paper and back up.
A little flustered, I clear my throat to cover my pause and jump back into the presentation. Thank goodness I’ve practiced, or I might have lost my train of thought. For the rest of the presentation, I focus on Freddy as if we’re the only two people in the room, throwing occasional eye contact to Dr. Benson and Mr. Westbrook. When I finish the last slide, I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Thank you, Miss Faye,” Mr. Westbrook says without even a pen in his hand. “You may be seated.”
As I step from behind the podium and walk to my desk, Dr. Benson hands my evaluation to Mr. Westbrook.
“Nice job,” Freddy says when I sit.
“Same to you.” I twist in my seat to peer behind me.
Dr. Benson gathers his things then strolls toward the exit. He pauses, glancing between me and my teacher. I shift uncomfortably, my gaze catching Mr. Westbrook’s. He smiles at me, but it’s tight. As the door closes behind Dr. Benson, I’m left wondering what exactly is going on.
I lean into Freddy. “I don’t think Mr. Westbrook graded my presentation.”
“You sure?”
I nod. Did Dr. Benson grade my presentation due to the fight he interrupted a few weeks ago? If so, I guess that’s a good thing since it means that Mr. Westbrook can’t alter my grade due to leftover hard feelings. But I’d been pretty sure
we’d moved amicably past our disagreement.
Mr. Westbrook says, “Mr. Miller, please take the podium.”
I push my thoughts aside. After watching three more presentations, class finally ends—for good. No more papers, presentations, or Mr. Westbrook. Even though I’m still a little peeved about the singing incident, I have to admit I’m going to miss seeing him every week in his spiffy clothes.
“I guess I’m not gonna see you for a few weeks,” Freddy says, shoulders slumped.
“You’ll survive. If you can’t, come over and we’ll watch Gossip Girl reruns.”
He gathers his backpack and stands. “Wish I could, but I’m going home. Momma wants me to work with our church’s choir director on a couple of solos.”
I stand and sling my book bag over my shoulder. “If you sing “I’m a Little Teapot,” call me and we can make a duet.”
He snorts. “Have you heard yourself sing? It ain’t pretty.”
“Mr. Westbrook said I have a nice voice.”
“That’s because you were pissed at him.”
“Miss Faye?” Mr. Westbrook says.
Speak of the devil. I turn my attention to the front of the room.
Our teacher stares at us with one eyebrow raised. “Will you stay for a moment?”
“Um, sure…” I’m about to ask why, but Mr. Westbrook’s attention returns to the papers in his hands.
Freddy nudges my arm. He leans in close and whispers, “Text me if your conversation with the teacher turns interesting.”
“I’m helping him with a case study for a book. That’s all,” I whisper back, but I sound a little panicked. Maybe he wants to talk about the dinner we’d planned. I figured after our fight he would have dropped the idea, but maybe he hasn’t.
“I thought you finished the case study,” Freddy says.
“I did.” That’s why I’m worried he’s going to ask where I want to eat.
Unless something worse is going on. Maybe he’s not as over our fight as he led me to believe, and maybe Dr. Benson was invited to my presentation to ensure allegations I might potentially have against Mr. Westbrook’s grading could be upheld by a third party. But that would mean he’d graded my work harshly. Even though I’m sure I’m overreacting, my stomach falls through the floor.
Freddy cups my shoulders and squeezes gently. “Call me if you need me. I can swing by and give you a ride home.”
“Thanks, Freddy.”
He drops his arms and nods once. Then he heads for the door, the last student to file out. I turn my attention to Mr. Westbrook.
He smiles, but something in his eyes makes me think he’s apprehensive. “Do you tutor today?”
I shake my head. “Not until fall semester starts.” I have to push each word past the growing knot in my throat.
“Good.” He motions to the desk closest to his podium. “This might take a minute.”
I cross the room and slide into the seat he indicated. “Is everything okay, Mr. Westbrook?”
His smile grows along with the apprehension in his eyes. “Fine. Fine. Call me Aiden.”
I fiddle with the strap of my bag. “Okay, Aiden.” His name feels awkward on my tongue in a strange, exotic way.
He leans one hip against the podium and crosses his arms. I think he’s trying to appear relaxed, but his shoulders are so tight, he looks more like he’s going to topple over if he moves an inch. “I’m sure you noticed Dr. Benson in the room while you were giving your presentation.”
I nod, worrying my bottom lip. His gaze goes straight to my mouth, and his breath catches. I stop nibbling.
He clears his throat and looks at me with those arresting green eyes of his. “He graded your final paper and presentation.”
I wait for him to provide more information, but he just stares at me as though I should understand what he’s talking about and possibly even be excited by it. “I figured as much—at least about the presentation—but why?”
“Because you and I have a conflict of interest.” As soon as he utters the sentence, his whole body seems to relax, and his shoulders rise as if a burdensome weight has been lifted from them.
I mouth the words conflict of interest and turn the phrase over in my brain, trying to figure out what he’s saying. Why would we have a conflict? Unless… “Are you still angry at me, Mr. Westbrook?”
His eyebrows rise to his hairline. “Angry? Heavens no. What gave you that idea?”
Confused, I shake my head. “If you’re not mad at me, then why aren’t you grading my work?”
“I’m no longer a teacher, Cassie. I only took this position because the department was in a bind and desperately needed an instructor after Dr. Dunbar left for the summer. I’ll be spending the next two years focusing on my dissertation and writing several books for the English department’s curriculum.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
He sighs and runs his hands down his face. “Either I’m mucking this all up, or we’re on completely different pages of the same book. I hope I’m just mucking it up.” He crosses in front of the podium and takes the seat next to mine, sitting sideways so that his legs are touching my desk. “Let me start over. I had Dr. Benson grade your paper because I was afraid I’d give you an A even if you botched the entire thing. What I’m trying to say is, I like you, and I was wondering if you’d consider going out on a date with me since I am no longer your teacher, nor will I be a teaching figure on campus from this point forward.”
My breath hitches then stops altogether, the air stunned from my lungs. Of all the ways I saw this conversation going, this most certainly wasn’t one of them. “You can’t be serious.”
“Actually, I am,” he says, his expression grim.
“But you said we have a conflict of interest?”
“We do. I’m interested in you, and you’re interested in a good grade in my class. I wanted you to have the assurance that my feelings for you will have no bearing on your final grade, so I told Dr. Benson about my predicament. He scored both your presentation and your final report. In other words, you can tell me to go fly a kite without worrying your grade will be affected.”
My jaw hits the floor. He’s got this all figured out, which means he’s put some thought into it.
“Well?” he asks, watching me closely.
Go fly a kite is exactly what I need to tell him… but oh hell, I don’t want to. I also don’t want to sound like a whiny girl with low self-esteem, but of all the girls who drool over him in class, why me? I lick my lips, trying to figure out how to word this. “I don’t understand why you’re singling me out?” When his brow furrows as though he’s not sure what I mean, I add, “I guess I’m wondering, why me? Why do you want to take me out?”
He regards me with wide eyes. “How can you ask such a question?”
“I just—”
He holds his hand up, cutting me off. “No, I take that back. I know how, and the fact that you’re asking is one of the reasons I want to know you better. You are absolutely unaware of how astonishing you are.”
No one’s ever called me astonishing, and the compliment makes my cheeks heat hotter than a sidewalk in August. I stare at the rounded toes of my heels, too embarrassed to meet his gaze.
“I don’t think you believe me,” he says softly. “But you should, for a thousand different reasons. I mean, you’re ridiculously smart. I’m positive you’re smarter than me. You’re a hard worker, and you’re also one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever laid eyes on. But most of all, you’re selfless.
“You bring breakfast to Philosopher Dan every morning. Most students pass him off as a campus novelty, not a man with basic needs. Compassion is such a rare quality these days. You are amazing, and you don’t know it. Someone should tell you every day that you’re a diamond in a pile of coal. I can tell just by how you carry yourself that no one does and that doesn’t seem right, so I’d like to volunteer for the job.”
I glance up, and he smiles at me, a sweet,
tender smile that makes my insides gooey. I open my mouth to speak, but what do I say to a man who’s just told me everything I ever wanted to hear? I’m a diamond. I’m selfless and smart. Who says those things to a girl? A normal man would tell me I have pretty eyes, or nice legs, or a rockin’ ass. Not Mr. Westbrook. Oh, no. He has to hit me where it hurts by telling me he likes the things about me that matter.
I swallow hard and stare at my hands. They’re grasping my book bag as if it’s the only life preserver on a sinking ship. I want to go out with him. I want to know him better, just like he does me. How am I supposed to say no?
Tell him yes, my heart says. A tiny voice somewhere between my heart and head says, Self-preservation is the best thing I have going for me. Those are the words I spoke to Liz on our drive back from the lake with Tyler sleeping in the backseat.
I cringe at the thought of Tyler. He was supposed to make this moment more bearable. After our fight, I’m not sure he’s even a fixture in my life anymore, but without the possessive brute, I might as well carve my heart out of my chest and hand it to Mr. Westbrook. Tyler might be a pain-in-the-ass, but he’s my pain-in-the-ass. That’s enough to give me the courage to tell Mr. Westbrook no.
He clears his throat. “Cassie—”
The door swings open, and our attention moves to a woman in her late forties who pokes her head in.
“I don’t mean to interrupt, Aiden,” she says. “But it’s noon, and I need to start my students’ tests.”
Mr. Westbrook slips out of his seat and stands, his cheeks flushing. “I apologize, Dr. Crane.” He glances at me. “Let’s take this to my office.”
I swallow the dry lump in my throat, grateful for the interruption. It’s the perfect excuse to escape this conversation. “That’s okay, sir.” I cringe at the same time he winces. “I mean, Mr. Westbrook… I mean, Aiden.” I stand and sling my bag higher on my shoulder. “My answer is no. I mean, no, thank you. I can’t.” As I speak, I back toward the door. “But thank you for asking. I’m flattered.”
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