by Sierra Hill
“Well, shit. That sounds bad.”
I’m not sure how much I should delve into the specifics of her situation. But before I question myself any further, she continues.
“I found out one of my favorite and brightest students is dropping out because she’s pregnant. She’s fucking fifteen years old! What the hell is wrong with this world? How did we fail this girl so badly that we didn’t teach her how to respect herself and the importance of protection? We’ve failed to teach these girls how to stand up for themselves and say no, so they don’t become easy prey to some asshole who pressures them into sex after only two weeks of dating,” she uses air quotes, “convincing her to give up her virginity.”
I wait, fearful of saying the wrong thing, completely unqualified to respond to her rant. I’m a guy. I’m not suggesting what that boy did is right, but I also know we will do and say just about anything to try and get into a girl’s pussy. It just is what it is. We think with our dicks, pure and simple.
Instead, I remain reflective and allow her to vent, choosing not to interject with questions. She flops her head against the back of the couch, her sweet-smelling strawberry curls tossed over the pillow. Her eyes close tightly in agony, but her voice becomes softer. More contained. But still filled with her pain and aggravation.
“Gina is so bright. So funny and smart. But I knew it…I just sensed she had self-image issues. I knew she came from a broken home. I saw how she carried herself in the hallways and in the classroom, always wrapping an arm around her middle, like she was trying to protect herself. Or to hide her shame. And I saw that boy lurking around her. But I didn’t fucking do anything!”
My stomach tightens with anxiety over what Joey must feel. Setting my glass down on the table, I reach over and gently place my hand on her knee to show my support. It’s the only thing I can think of doing. She startles slightly, but closes her eyes again.
“Don’t do that to yourself, Joey,” I implore. “You can’t control these kids or stop bad things from happening. You’re doing the best you can under the worst circumstances. It’s a shame this happened, because it’s obvious you really like this girl, but it’s not your fault she chose to have unprotected sex and got knocked up. You didn’t make it happen.”
She wrenches her knee away and I drop my hand. I don’t want things to get awkward.
“You don’t understand,” she whispers, taking another sip and placing it on the table next to mine. “It’s my job to be observant and do something about them. But I didn’t know until it was too late.”
I can’t possibly believe she feels responsible for this girl’s predicament, but I don’t feel qualified to argue the fact since I don’t know the entire story. So just like she let me off the hook about Alyssa, I decide to skirt the hundred-pound elephant in the room.
“You’re a teacher, Joey. Not a mind reader or their counselor. You couldn’t have known.”
She stares at me then, her bright green eyes either mulling over my words or maybe preparing to smack me in the face. But instead, she sighs and stands to head back into the kitchen.
I watch with interest as she flings open drawers.
“Have you seen a key on a red ribbon anywhere? Pat has my extra housekey, but I have no idea where he keeps it.”
I’ll admit, I may have peaked in a few drawers the last few nights, but it wasn’t out of snoopiness or boredom. I had to locate various cooking utensils and a light bulb for the kitchen stove. I don’t recall if I ever noticed another set of keys.
I shake my head. “I haven’t. I’m sorry. But we can call Patrick.”
I look to the clock on the microwave and do the math. It’s close to one in the morning in China and since he’s there on business, there’s a strong likelihood he’s asleep and wouldn’t answer until morning.
A kitchen drawer slams and Joey curses loudly.
“Shit! Just another nail in today’s coffin. I don’t think this day could get any worse.”
I move into the kitchen next to her, but leave about three feet of personal space between us, but do place a hand on top of her shoulder.
“Listen…why don’t we text Pat to ask where the key is, and in the meantime, I was about to fix some dinner. We can eat and see if we hear anything back. If not, you can stay the night here and then by morning, he’ll get back to us with the whereabouts of the key, and that will be that.”
I try to keep it positive and light, but I watch as her shoulders droop in a weary posture. I’m not sure if that’s just a continuation of her horrendous day or if she really doesn’t want to spend any more time over here with me.
Just to up the ante a bit, I throw out, “I’m hella good in the kitchen. It’s one of my many talents.”
Joey whips her head toward me, staring at me with skepticism.
She wavers. “That’s yet to be seen, because you’re certainly not good with dogs. Or first impressions, for that matter.”
I playfully clutch at my chest. “Oh, that hurts. But for the record, I was stupid drunk the night we met otherwise I’m sure your first impression of me would have been fantastic. Because I’m a charmer.”
Joey laughs. “And oh-so-modest.”
I shrug. “Eh, what can I say? And as for Woody and myself, we’ve become fabulous friends. He’s practically eating out of the palm of my hand.”
And just as if he knows exactly what I said and state his own opinion on the matter, Woody saunters into the kitchen. He lifts a hind leg, gives me a look that says, “you’re an idiot” and pees on my slipper.
Leave it to Woody to get in the last word.
At least it made Joey laugh.
Chapter Five
Joey
Steer clear of drama queens
I have to admit, dinner was pretty damn tasty.
Theo wasn’t kidding when he said he could cook. He made some Asian dish, with plenty of zesty flavors, noodles and vegetables. By that point I was thanking my lucky stars I’d wound up locked out of my apartment, considering it was probably another dinner of Cornflakes and a stale blueberry bagel from last week.
I’m not even sure I have milk in the fridge that didn’t expire in May.
We’d finished clearing the dishes and wiping down the kitchen when we’d decided the chilled bottle of a no-name rosé was just what the doctor ordered. It sat unopened in Pat’s fridge and would be just the thing to cool us down, as the temps were still hovering in the high-eighties even after the sun was long gone.
Such is summer time in Chicago. The air is humid and thick, ripe with sweat and rage that pours over the city like a thick, damp cloak. In fact, if you haven’t heard, that’s what Chicago is known for – besides the Cubbies, the Lake and Oprah – the highest number of shootings and deaths that pile up between the months of May and September.
There’s something in the heat that brings out the monster in many.
It’s yet another reason my mother insists that I move back home, even though my apartment is in a secure building and relatively safe neighborhood. She thinks because I’m without a tough, brute of a man in my life, there’s the constant threat of being picked up by a weirdo.
What she doesn’t know is I’ve done that just by the dating disasters I’ve had in the last year alone.
I have a tendency of attracting strange men. Maybe I’m cursed.
Or just very unlucky. So maybe hanging out with Pat’s gay lover isn’t so crazy after-all. At least I know he won’t make a move on me. Or ask to see my belly button and then ask for the lint from it. Kid you not, this guy I met online halfway through dinner tells me he has a bellybutton obsession and keeps lint from the girl’s he sleeps with.
I told him I was lint free and got up and walked out.
Theo and I have been lounging out on Pat’s small balcony for the last fifteen minutes, feet propped up on the railing, overlooking the scene below. Pat’s apartment, although just next door to me, is a corner unit and has all the amenities, including two-bedrooms.
“I don’t think you’ve told me what you do for a living,” I prod, hoping to learn more about this guy that I’ll be spending the night with. “You briefly mentioned you’re without a permanent residence. So, what’s the scoop?”
Over the last few hours I feel I’ve divulged everything there is to know about my life, but have gotten very little out of Theo. Not that he doesn’t share, it’s just that he’s an awfully good listener.
He shifts a little uncomfortably in his seat, takes a sip of his wine, and slowly turns his chin my direction.
“Well, you could say I’m a jack of all trades. I hustle for a living every day as a playwright and actor. I’ve worked as a janitor, a short-order cook, a waiter, a stage director, a voice-over actor, a bank teller and now can add house sitter and dog walker to my resume.”
He pauses and gives me a wink. “And we both know how I fair at the last job.”
Something passes through me from the low, sexy voice he uses. And while I laugh easily with him, I feel this unusual pull deep inside my belly. I haven’t had that feeling in a long time. Sadly, my body has missed it so much, it’s apparently gone haywire and doesn’t understand that an attraction to a gay man is a one-sided option. I don’t possess the kind of equipment he’s looking for.
And then to make matters worse, he leans over the side of his chair and gently and tenderly tucks a loose curl behind my ear. The contact is alarmingly sensual and I jolt in my seat. He did this earlier when I was lying on the couch. I had to clench my thighs together both times and hope he doesn’t notice the trail of goose bumps his touch generated.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, pulling himself back to center himself on his seat. The distance is now a noticeable gap between us. “I get a little touchy-feely when I drink wine.”
“Hmm. No problem.”
If only it meant the same to him as it does to me.
I try redirecting our conversation to take my mind off the way my cheek still feels the ghost of his fingertips that brushed against my face. Calloused and soft at the same time.
“Playwright and actor, huh? That’s so cool. Tell me more about it. Have you written or starred in anything I would know?”
He laughs good-naturedly, either because he hasn’t or he doesn’t think I’m theater savvy. Which is a true statement. I once saw The Music Man when my mom took me to the local community theater when I was eight. And I did take in a performance of The Book of Mormon on Broadway when my college friend, Elizabeth and I went to New York a few summer’s ago.
“I’m a working actor, so I’ve performed in a shit-ton of stage performances. Last March I was cast in the principal role of Paul in Barefoot in the Park, but have also acted in ensemble parts in some Shakespeare plays. But I absolutely love Neil Simon’s plays. He’s just a genius when it comes to writing the perfect anti-hero. I’d say if I had to pick someone I admired and looked up to in this profession, it would be Neil.”
I nod my head, trying to recall if I’ve ever seen any of his plays. I vaguely know of his name but that’s about it.
“And what about your own plays? Have you had any of them on stage yet?”
He looks down at his glass of wine, swirling it and then sighs.
“As for the plays I’ve written, well, it’s tough to find a producer who is willing to bet on an unknown playwright. But I do have one that I’m shopping around right now.”
I study his profile as he looks out over the cityscape and unconsciously sifts his wine as he speaks. I’ve never met an actor or a writer, unless you count Marilyn Deminsky, the drama arts teacher at the school. And boy – talk about drama queens. I steer clear of her whenever possible.
Now I’m curious. “Which do you prefer? Acting or writing?”
Theo tilts his head and purses his lips, drawing my attention to them. He has really nice lips. Full, even though the bottom one is slightly larger than the top, but they are well proportioned. Unchapped. Kissable. Suckable.
Geesh. I need to stop with these thoughts. That’s no-mans territory. Or rather, no-woman’s land. There’s no prize at the bottom of the box where Theo is concerned. I let out a stifled chuckle and he looks at me inquisitively.
“Sorry, ignore me. Please continue,” I say, waving him on as I pour more wine into my glass. I’m feeling tipsy and mellow, which can be dangerous combination because I may start acting on my unspoken feelings. And a drunk horny girl around a man not interested in women isn’t a great combo.
He holds his nearly empty glass out for more, as well, and speaks as I refill.
He replies to my earlier question. “Neither, actually. I mean, I love them both equally, but I’ve taught playwrighting and acting technique classes in the past and found I really enjoy teaching. I guess it’s true what they say. If you can’t do, teach.”
And then he catches his guffaw and the look on his face is priceless. Like a boy whose hand is caught in the cookie jar.
“Oh fuck. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. Shit, I have no filter when I’ve been drinking – I’m a light weight. Don’t get me wrong – I am totally enamored with the teaching profession and am in awe of what you do. Noble profession.”
He keeps going and it’s kind of cute how he trips over his tongue and stumbles over his words with embarrassment. I decide to let him off the hook just because I know he didn’t mean anything negative by what he said.
I reach out and place my hand on his forearm, the soft wisps of hair tickling the pads of my fingers. I immediately reprimand myself for the gesture because it wreaks havoc on my wiring. The touch is electric. If I were a Christmas tree, I’d be lit up like Chevy Chase’s in Christmas Vacation.
My reflexes aren’t fast enough, however, because his unoccupied hand lands on top of mine, the heat of his fingers zinging up my arm. And straight to my head. And elsewhere.
Of course, why wouldn’t I be attracted to a gay man? I’ve had the biggest dry spell in all of history and I evidently have no working gaydar on me. I was one of the millions of teenage girls in the early two-thousands who fell for Ricky Martin before he came out to the world and was devastated to learn he was homosexual. Not that I see anything wrong with that in any way shape or form. I’m glad he’s free to live his life as he should.
It once again, however, reminded me that I have horrible skills in observation. So these electric zings I’m feeling from Theo’s touch aren’t really there. It’s just my drunken self overthinking things.
“Really, Theo. You don’t have to explain. I don’t really like being a teacher all that much, either. I’ve seen a lot of stupid, ignorant people getting paid to teach the next generation.”
I think of some of the teaching staff I’ve worked with and roll my eyes.
His clasp tightens noticeably on my arm and draws my attention to where our bodies intersect. If Theo were any other guy, I’d be in his lap right now going to town. I’d be grinding my itty-bitty parts against his…oh, wait.
Hold the phone.
My gaze stealthily moves from our conjoined arms to his crotch. Because I know what my parts look like, and I’ve scoped out his ass a few times – which is perfectly shaped and hard - but I haven’t had the opportunity to identify the potential of his wing-ding. His ding-dong. Hot dog. Wiener schnitzel. Sausage.
Just as I’m about to zoom in on the package in question, Theo crosses his legs and contorts his body so that he’s turned toward me, effectively concealing any possible image or shot of his firehose.
Dammit. Foiled.
His face is inches from mine now as he moves in. His hazel eyes half-lidded, an inviting smile across his mouth. And oh how close those lips are to mine. If I just moved in just a hair, pretended to lose my balance, I’d practically fal
l into his face.
Or maybe my face could land in his lap and I can get an eyeful of his manhood. Now there’s an idea!
But the seriousness of his tone has me gazing into his intense hazel irises. “But you’re not a shitty teacher, Joey. You obviously have a huge heart and care deeply for your students, otherwise you wouldn’t hurt so bad over this situation.”
And before I know it, he leans forward a fraction of an inch more. I don’t dare breathe. I close my eyes, parting my lips, ready to let his plunder my mouth. Take what he wants.
But his lips land on my…forehead.
Yep, that’s right folks.
That’s how I roll.
The perfect ending to a perfectly shitty day.
Chapter Six
Theo
How to be a horny loser in ten easy steps
I don’t know why I didn’t kiss Joey on the lips.
I pussed out.
I’m kicking myself for not having the guts to do it. All my macho self-talk about turning over a new leaf and taking what I wanted like an alpha was all lies and shit I told myself.
And what did it leave me?
With absolutely nothing but a problematic stiffy and trouble sleeping.
After my great and utterly disappointing kiss on her forehead…her forehead, dammit – I faked a headache from too much wine and went to bed, leaving her to watch me go in disbelief. And she isn’t the only one who couldn’t believe I could be such a loser.
There I was enjoying one of the best nights I’ve had in a very long time with a gorgeous, funny and delectable woman, drinking wine and feeling good and I bit the dust.
I choked on my own fears of being a disappointment. My ever-mounting feelings of inadequacy and my Mr. Nice Guy persona returned to the surface with a vengeance.
Goddamn, Alyssa has fucked with my head.
You know where those thoughts left me? I’ll tell you where it left me. It left me sleeping by myself instead of next to a hot, probably close-to-naked woman, in the bedroom next to mine.
