My So Called Life (Love Not Included Series Book 3)

by J. D. Hollyfield

  “I mean you don’t have to—”

  I quickly cut him off. “I want to.” The answer leaves my lips almost before I register that I’ve decided to agree.

  His return smile is partly shocked. I have a feeling he didn’t expect me to agree either. “Great,” he says, looking both pleased and surprised. “You will love them, Chris. All those kids. They have so much to offer. And the program, they love the art program.”

  “But just until I decide what I am doing here, okay?”

  “Okay,” he replies.

  “Nothing permanent.”

  “Nothing permanent,” he confirms.

  “Just until I decide.”

  “Just until you decide,” he repeats.

  Real complex conversation we’re having here.

  I DON’T EVEN WANT to talk about how I woke up this morning.

  If anything, we’re consistent. With poor Ian in the sitting position, I found myself lying in his lap, with Pippa on the other side, her head on the couch pillow, her feet sticking into Ian’s armpit.

  Our sleeping arrangements haven’t been the most comfortable for him.

  The sun shining through the bay window causes us all to rise and hurry through the morning routine. And by hurry I mean, me chasing after Ian, taking notes, while he chases after Pippa, getting her ready. With barely a minute to spare, we make it to the end of the drive to the minibus waiting to take Pippa off to daycare and camp.

  Big hugs are shared and for me a tear or two, because let’s face it, out of nowhere I have become a sissy.

  Back inside, I ditch yesterday’s wrinkled clothes and have a quick shower. I dig through my suitcase and pull on a pair of black leggings and a gold tank top and throw a cream pashmina over my shoulder. I complement it with my nude Manolos and gather my unruly hair into a smooth ponytail. When I head toward the front hallway, I meet Ian, stopping him in his tracks.

  “What? What’s wrong now?” I ask, looking down at my appearance.

  “Um, nothing. It’s just . . . You look very nice.”

  “Okay, you say that as if there’s a but coming.”

  “Do you have any other shoes?”

  I immediately look down at my beautiful Manolo Blahniks. “What’s wrong with my shoes?” They’re a limited edition and wear like a fitted silk glove.

  “It’s just the center, it’s more laid-back. You might be more comfortable in flats or sneakers.”

  “I’m good in these,” I reply, lifting my chin in diva mode. “Plus, I didn’t bring any flats.” Great, now I’m sounding like I think he’s right.

  “It’s fine. Let’s go, or we’ll be late.” He grabs my hand and pulls me out the door.

  If there is one thing I do best, it’s overanalyzing things. So while heading up the walkway to the front entrance of the center, I suddenly stop and grab at Ian’s hand. “Wait,” I say in panic. “What if they don’t like me?”

  “I doubt that’s possible,” he assures me.

  “And how do you know? They could take one look at me and run for the hills.”

  At that I don’t get a reassuring reply. Instead he squeezes my hand tighter and pulls me toward the door. “Chrissy, the day I meet a person who takes one look at you and runs for the hills, I will officially make it my civic duty to avenge your honor.”

  His beautiful smile hits me straight in my very alive and beating heart. He pushes the door open, guiding me inside.

  Never letting go of my hand.

  The building is actually huge. We walk into a gym, where a group of kids look like they’re playing some sort of basketball game. To the left, I notice a bunch of doors, some open, looking like a classroom set-up. To the right, I spot a cafeteria and a few more offices. Ian leads me back toward the classrooms and ushers me into the art room.

  I stop in my tracks and Ian bumps into me as I take in the images surrounding me. Paintings, drawings, and just complete nonsense artwork are splattered all over the room. And it is beautiful.

  “Do you like?” Ian bends forward and hums into my ear.

  “This is amazing.” I’m in awe of the fresh and imaginative work. To give a child, a teenager, or anyone an escape through paint and pencils, brushes and canvas, to allow them to express themselves is a really powerful thing. “Is this all from the kids in the program?” I ask as I survey the room.

  Some of the artwork evokes happiness. Some screams hate or sadness. Not all art is happy, but this stuff all tells a story.

  “Yeah. Like I said, it’s a big program for the center. We use it as a way for the kids to talk, in a sense. To let out what they can’t say with words.”

  Ian’s explanation causes me to swing around to face him. Those words, those are the words I spoke to him years ago when he asked me what I loved about art. I told him I was able to speak through my art, when it wasn’t always safe to speak in words.

  “Ian,” I say his name in hushed tones.

  “I can’t lie and say a lot of this wasn’t inspired with you in mind. I saw how it helped you and I thought that through this program, maybe I would be able to keep a little piece of you around by giving others art.”

  “All of this,” I say. “Why would you want to be reminded of me? You should hate me after what I did to you.” Why don’t you hate me? I want to scream. Because he should.

  I will never deny I had to leave and I might also admit that if I had to do it all over again, I would make the same choices. But I will forever regret hurting Ian the way I did. And to return home to see him with hope in his eyes, kills me.

  “Ian, I—”

  I’m cut off in mid-confession when a group of teenagers enter the classroom.

  “Hey, Mr. W. What up? We gettin’ a new art coach?”

  Ian turns to our audience, and I see a group of young boys, the ones I spotted playing basketball. An older boy in the group, who I peg to be about seventeen, bounces the ball while giving me a good once-over.

  “Greg, no bouncing the ball in the hallways or classrooms, you know that. And yes. We are getting someone new for art. Boys, this is Ms. Daniels, and she’s going to fill in for a little bit while Holly’s out.”

  They all look my way as if they were just given candy before dinner.

  “Awesome!” they chime in unison.

  The boy, now introduced as Greg, steps forward. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Daniels. You definitely won’t be hearing any complaints outta me when I’m rushing to art class to see you every day now.”

  At that they all laugh.

  “Greg,” Ian says in warning.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. W. but compared to Ms. Holly, I ain’t sure how much painting anyone is going to get done when they can be looking at Ms. Daniels all day.” At that, a few boys in the background start to whistle.

  “All right, Greg, that’s enough.” I know Ian is trying to discipline, but I sense laughter in his voice as well.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Daniels. No offence. You are very, very nice looking. And I look forward to anything you teach us.”

  At that, I blush. Like literally blush. Like a teenager blush. “Well, um, thank you, I guess. And you can just call me Christina. Or Chrissy or Chris. Whatever.” I’m not nervous.

  Nope.

  “All right. That’s cool. Well, see you around, Ms. C.”

  As the kids follow their leader back toward the gym, I take a look at Ian who is grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Oh, what are you smiling at?” I ask and swat his arm.

  He barely tries to block me, keeping quiet as if he enjoys the contact.

  “Well, spit it out now,” I snap.

  “It’s just, I knew they would love you.”

  “And . . . ?” I wait. That glimmer he has tells me he has an ‘I told you so’ up his sleeve.

  “Nothing, I just think that you’ll fit in just fine here.”

  “And . . . ?” I stress, a bit more loudly than necessary.

  This gets him to finally let out the laugh he’s been holding back. “And, my swee
t Chris, I don’t think you will be sending anyone running for the hills anytime soon.”

  Phsst. Men. Always so smug.

  IF FOR ANY REASON I didn’t fully express my love for Ian, then I’m totally doing it now. Giving me this opportunity has been, how do we say, the shit. After the whole awkward introduction with Greg and his group, Ian took me around to introduce me to the other staff and kids.

  The last and most delightful introduction for me was Ian’s associate and partner in the center. A blast from my past, Amber Brookes, or if I remember correctly, the biggest bully in high school. Amber is the head of the women’s program and also not my biggest fan. I say that because I am most definitely not hers. Being in the same graduating class as Ian, Amber had her beady little eyes on my boyfriend. With Ian only having eyes for me, she decided to make it her civic duty to make my life miserable.

  While Ian was ‘re’ introducing us, if her ‘he’s finally mine, stay away’ look didn’t scream cuckoo stalker, then I’m not sure what did. At first, I wanted to peg her as one of those victims of resting bitch-face syndrome, but then I saw her smile at Ian like every word that fell out of his mouth was pure gold. I then realized she was just still a bitch. I’m not proud of my behavior, but I felt like I was back in high school being picked on again by the one and only. Feeling like RBF was stepping back on my make-believe territory, since clearly playing house with my ex and my niece counts as my turf, it causes me to become a wee bit immature. And since my normal tamed, classy self seems to be on hiatus, I do what’s natural and act like I’m back in high school.

  As Amber tried to get Ian away for a private meeting, I threw down my card and practically moaned to Ian that I was craving a steak. That immediately got me a death glare from Amber, a partial groan/partial moan from Ian, and a lunch of champions for yours truly.

  The week so far has gone great, minus the run-ins with Amber. I’m pretty sure her sticking her foot out and tripping me was definitely not an accident like she claimed, so I will not deny the infamous air horn duct taped under her swivel chair. Come on! Oldest trick in the book.

  Moving on to the important stuff, the kids are ah-mazing! When you have adolescents who lack in areas at home, they struggle to find an outlet elsewhere. At these young ages you always pray it’s not drugs or alcohol and are thankful they choose to come to centers like the one Ian’s running instead of losing themselves to the streets.

  Each and every kid attends this center solely of their own accord. Some come to get shelter from the harshness at home. Some come to get fed. Some come to feel love and get the attention they lack at home.

  It’s hard to face all these kids and their stories and not feel a pang of sadness. A lot of this hits close to home for me. I was once that child who sought refuge from a home filled with mental and physical abuse. I tend to catch Ian eying me throughout the day. He will notice me staring off into space, reliving a part of my life I wish I could paint over like a used canvas. His responses though are always the same. He always comes and snaps me out of my inner battle, asking me if I’ve sent someone running for the hills yet. He is always rewarded with my smile and, of course, a whack.

  At times, I ponder throwing Amber under the bus, and sicking him on her, but then she would probably enjoy all the touching and turn the negative attack into something sexual in her messed-up dreamland.

  Between you and me, my secret I’m not jealous at all side isn’t down with that.

  Ian has spent the whole week with us. It started as the normal us all falling asleep on the couch routine, but when he would carry me to my bed and be so tired himself, he’d end up lying next to me and falling right asleep. The mornings didn’t look any different, waking up to a sprawled out Pippa on top of us, while somehow in the night, we found ourselves entwining our arms and legs around each other.

  No one ever needed a jump start each morning because the second we all woke, it was always that oh, shit moment, where we pulled apart, that awkward feeling like getting caught with our hands in the cookie jar. Thankfully, that was always when Pippa would also jump up and give us the opportunity to focus on getting her ready instead of the unasked questions of what were we doing.

  And what was I doing? I didn’t know. Living in a fantasyland, that’s for sure. I know I haven’t mentioned Brent lately. And for that I’m a horrible person. I know what you’re all thinking. I suck big time. And I agree. But in my defense, I did make the effort to research more about what taking a break meant. I needed to know where I stood in life and what the hell part of a relationship black hole I was in. Google never lets anyone down so as per the Urban Dictionary, taking a break in a nutshell was a cliché cop out for breakups. Eh, true. A nicer way of dumping someone, probably. False hopes of extending the unnatural life of the relationship. Man, get out of my head, Urban Dictionary!

  Even an online poll told me that it was okay to cheat while on a break because you were on a break. Don’t get me wrong, a handful of people said otherwise, but I mean . . . ya can’t win ’em all.

  I mean, who seriously determines their morals based on an online survey though? I guess someone who is completely confused. The gist of the story is that maybe Ross was right. If you’re on a break, it doesn’t count.

  If it makes me look better in your eyes, I have made several attempts to call Brent and break it off. He unfortunately never picks up and the only time he did, he seemed preoccupied and he didn’t sound alone. He told me to just hurry home but to give him a heads-up first. The vague conversation I had with Lexi resurfaced.

  Needless to say, I am going to keep my hands to myself. But I won’t lie, the lack of sex is slowly killing me. One thing I had with BTD was an active sex life. I like sex. Need it. And let’s be honest, I’m not getting any. My hormones are fueled to power a really big blowout orgasm right now, but it is lacking a fire-starter (or participant) to execute that big POW.

  Being around Ian has been secretly killing me. And if I don’t figure out what I’m going to do soon, I’m going to start humping the bedpost just to get off.

  Speaking of getting off.

  It’s not like either of us are suffering too much. Hence the incident last night, where I walked completely naked out of the shower, after I rubbed a bit of Ian out of me, into the bedroom to an unexpected awaiting Ian. With not a towel in sight, he was able to see the goods, and by goods, I mean the freshly shaved goods that probably did nothing for his own pain and suffering. It also explains later that night when it was his turn to shower and I mistakenly walked in the bathroom to grab my toothbrush and interrupted him relieving himself with a few choice moans and possibly my name leaving his lips.

  We haven’t looked each other in the eyes since, but at one point, it might get addressed. I’m hoping never.

  IT’S THURSDAY AND I’M hands-deep in blue paint, teaching a roomful of kids how to paint the ocean waves alongside the sunset. Blue is the color of trust. I remember learning the psychological breakdown of colors in art class my senior year in Ashford. Blue represents reliability and peace. Allowing the kids to find the inner peace in the waves is my goal for the day. Greg, who has been my best student, is currently deep in thought, stroking swipes of thick blue acrylic onto his canvas.

  Speaking of blue, it also symbolizes the color of the thong I left dangling on the bathroom towel rod by mistake this morning. When I went back to grab it, Ian was already standing there like a deer in headlights staring at it. I almost felt like I was interrupting a private moment, so I just let him do his thing and a no panties day it was for me. I should probably be more considerate of Ian’s feelings. As in sexual feelings, but I also know that Amber has been stepping up her game. If yesterday’s outfit didn’t scream desperate, then I don’t know what does. I mean, who wears heels just to counsel kids? Don’t answer that.

  I know I’m only feeding the beast, but Amber is bringing me back to high school, where I felt like I had to constantly fight fire with fire. All week as Amber has irritated me wit
h her crude attempts at throwing her snatch ass at Ian, I’ve found myself immorally trying to find ways to one-up her with him; Leaving my lingerie out where he can see it . . . a moan when I’m eating or sucking on a straw . . . possibly walking out of my shower naked, on purpose.

  Girls will be girls. What can I say?

  I haven’t seen Ian yet. We drove separately. It’s sports’ day and he had to open up the center early for a game. I only have one art session scheduled, so when class ends, I decide to take an inventory of what supplies might be needed for future projects. I might not be teaching here long, but the supplies will get used regardless. I’m not sure about the budget for this place, but if it is okay with Ian, I plan on donating a shitload to the center.

  Just as I place my pad of paper on the shelf to count the acrylic paint tubes, the door to the art closet flies open.

  “Jesus Christ, Ian, you scared the shit outta me.” I press my hand to my chest. The look in his eyes says he doesn’t care too much about my well-being. Uh oh. It also looks like I may have over poked the bear.

  He steps into my personal space and presses his body into mine. The door automatically swings shut behind him.

  “Ian?” I question.

  “Chrissy?” he retorts, his breathing already heavy with what seems like pure lust.

  “Can I help you with something?” I take a deep breath, trying to calm the unsteady beat of my heart.

  “Yeah, you can start by not leaving your goddamn lingerie around for me to see. Unless you want me to finally break and do something about it.” He pushes himself harder into me.

  And, oh, my God, he is definitely that. Hard.

  “What are you doing?” I ask nervously.

  “What I’ve been wanting to do since the moment you came back into my life.”

  “And what exactly is that?” I choke out.

  “Continue where we left off.”

  And with that, he pulls me fully against his solid chest. The instant his lips touch mine, my knees buckle. This kiss—this powerful, overdue kiss—is going to literally bring me to my knees.