Indisputable

by A. M. Wilson

  Kelsey and I chat for another half an hour before I let her go so I can clean up a little. After my lack of motivation last week and being gone this weekend, I have week old dishes in the sink and a full laundry basket.

  After throwing the top half of the basket into the washing machine without sorting, I begin to tackle the dishes. Mumford and Sons streams from my kindle while I scrub old soup stuck to a bowl. Music has always been a type of release for me, ever since I was old enough to turn on the radio without getting in trouble. Which was right around the time mom started leaving me home alone to run out with whoever she was seeing or buying drugs from at the time. I used to turn on whatever station I could find and turn the music up loud enough to drown out my own thoughts. I’d let the music carry my heart away from the pain I was experiencing at the time, whether it be physical or emotional. As I’ve gotten older, I still find myself reaching for my iPod or kindle whenever I’m experiencing strong emotions.

  A few songs pass before A Drop in the Ocean by Ron Pope comes on, and I almost turn the kindle off. Along with helping me get through a particularly strong emotion, music also seems to exacerbate them as well. And a song pertaining to the impossibility of being with someone you really want to be with is definitely exacerbating said strong emotions. But instead, I torture myself like some masochist and let the song play, filtering the lyrics through my heart, retaining the relative parts and letting go of the others.

  It’s not long before the tears begin to flow freely, dishes forgotten in the sudsy water. I rest my face in my hands. Before the song is finished, a beep from my cellphone pulls me from my pity party. I dry my hands and cross the small space to my bedroom where I left my phone.

  There are two texts waiting for me, both from Jacoby.

  I want to talk to you today. We didn’t leave things the best last night and I don’t want it to be awkward tomorrow.

  Still doing okay? You haven’t responded to my last text and I’m worried.

  Jeez, it’s been just over an hour, and he’s already worried. I can’t suppress the little flip my stomach does when reading his text. Hoping to prevent him from just showing up here, I text back: Yes professor. Still holed up at home, safe n sound.

  Can I come by to talk? Please.

  Awe, he said please. No. We can talk later. I won’t leave tonite so u dont need to worry anymore.

  I can’t seem to help it. If you’re going to continue being this stubborn, perhaps tomorrow then.

  Sure. Tomorrow.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Jacoby

  I don’t remember getting home last night. All I know is I woke up in my bed this morning still in yesterday’s clothes. It took all of five seconds to remember that Tatum didn’t come home with me. Then the memories came pouring back in. I haven’t had a weekend that mentally trying since…well, since Harper died.

  Hoping to banish the ghosts from my past, I hit up Trey to meet me at the gym. He was already there waiting for me. The dude practically lives there. We blow through our sets without much conversation. I’m pretty sure he’s pissed at me for being a cockblock last night, but he doesn’t understand. I resolved myself during my workout to fill him in on the situation so he stops thinking I’m a douche.

  Neither of us says much until after we’re finished. The silence has stretched on long enough, and I’m already feeling drained from the week I’ve had so I broach the subject while we collect our bags from the locker room.

  “Hey man, about last night—ˮ, I begin after toeing off my sweaty gym shoes.

  “You don’t have to say anything. I was a dick.”

  “Tatum isn’t like other girls. I didn’t want to talk about it last night, but I’ve been kind of helping her out,” I tell him, wiping the sweat from my eyes before tossing on my red and black hoody.

  “What do you mean? Shit, man, you aren’t seeing her are ya?”

  “If I was seeing her, I would have knocked your fucking ass out last night.”

  Trey takes a drink from his water and gives me a knowing glance. “But you want to see her.”

  “It’s not that simple.” I scrub a hand over my face, still completely exhausted from the night before.

  “Why not? It’s obvious she’s into you. I know she only kissed me to get a reaction out of you, which was funny as hell.”

  “Fuck you, man, that wasn’t funny,” I reply as we walk out the double doors and into the parking lot.

  “So, back to this ‘helping her out.’ What’s the story?” Trey leans a hip against the side of his black SUV. The September air has a slight chill, though I’m warm enough in a hoody, and it feels good to be in the breeze after a tough session at the gym.

  I stare at my black and gray gym shoes in my hand. “She’s my student.” I glance up just in time to see Trey’s eyes go wide before he quickly recovers.

  “And? There’s gotta be more to the story than that.”

  “There is.” Exhaling a deep breath, I continue to tell Trey the story, starting from the beginning. I need to get this off my chest, and Trey is the only true friend I have right now. I trust him more than anyone in my life, so I don’t leave out a single detail. When I’m finished, he hasn’t moved, but his face is colored with fury. He’s holding nothing back.

  “Damn. I want to kill that pussy-shit mother fucker.” He cracks his knuckles for emphasis. “She’s such a sweet little thing, no wonder she looked so timid last night.”

  “She’s been doing a good job of pretending she’s okay, but man, you should have seen her break down. I didn’t know what the fuck to do. Still don’t. We got into it last night, too.”

  “Because of my dick move? ‘Cause now I’m really sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. But if you ever touch her again, I’ll kick your fucking ass.” Trey grins and just shakes his head. “We got into it because I’m sending mixed signals, and it pissed her off. Pissed me off too. I know the right thing to do, but it’s not what I want to do.”

  “You want her, don’t you?” His bright blue eyes hold a touch of sadness. He knows what I’m going to say before I say it, and we both know it can never happen.

  “I don’t know what the fuck happened. We spent a few days at each other’s throats. Somehow she buried herself deep beneath my skin, and I haven’t been able to get her out. The more time I spend with her, I realize I don’t want her out. She’s intelligent, witty, beautiful, incredibly strong, and brave. Not to mention she has a great fucking body. But then I come back to reality, and remember I could lose my job.”

  “Is she worth it to you?”

  “We’ve spent hardly 48 hours together, but from the glimpse I’ve had, I know she’s going to be hard as hell to forget.”

  Trey hits the key fob, unlocking his SUV before he opens the door. Turning to me, he says, “If my opinion is of any worth to you, I think you’ve lost and let go of enough in your life already. You’ve spent two years ghosting your way through each day, barely seeing what’s right in front of your face. I think she’s life’s way of saying wake the fuck up. It’s time to move on and let yourself feel again. Harper’s never coming back, and I know you still blame yourself for what happened. Take a fucking chance.”

  I sadly shake my head. “I don’t know. If we were to be caught, my career would be over.”

  “What’s more important? Your happiness or your job? There are other options out there. You could come work for me,” he says, punching me in the shoulder. “I’ve gotta go, man. Let me know what you figure out, and if you see that little fucker around town again call me. Breaking someone’s face sounds pretty good right about now.”

  Laughing, I say goodbye, deciding to catalogue his advice to think about later. He has a point, but I’ve already had to start my life over once in 25 years. If I were to lose my job, I’m not sure I’d be able to move on and do it again. And lose Tatum like I lost Harper. A sharp constriction grips my chest. I’m in deeper than I thought.

  After showering at hom
e, I’m surprisingly pleased when I get a text from Tatum. I figured she’d sleep in after the night we had, so I wasn’t too worried I hadn’t heard from her yet, I also wasn’t confident she’d reach out to me at all. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t affect me when I read her text. My stomach clenched in a way it hasn’t for years.

  I’ve been thinking nonstop about my conversation with Trey today, and I’ve realized he’s right. I need to move on. I need to stop categorizing my life in Before Harper and After Harper. Her death was the most traumatic thing I’ve ever experienced, but I’m not dead yet. I’m here, and I still have my entire life ahead of me. Life is fucking unfair. Harper was taken too soon, and it was my fault. But if I’m ever going to live my life again, I need to let go of the things I have no control over. No matter how much the guilt festers, it isn’t going to bring her back.

  Tatum hasn’t had a smooth sailing introduction to life, and she isn’t letting that hold her back. Even if I don’t deserve this chance, maybe Tatum does. She deserves for someone to make her feel like the most precious thing in this world. Her history certainly doesn’t reflect that thanks to douchebags like Wyatt. And what if he wasn’t the first one to treat her like that? The thought makes me sick. I may not be deserving of her, but I sure wouldn’t mind spending my time trying to make her feel the way she deserves.

  After last night, though, I’ll be lucky if she even wants to look at me. I wasn’t nice while telling her how wrong it would be for us to be together. And I know she heard me loud and clear.

  ***

  Monday morning I pop into the local coffee shop to see if Tatum is there again with her friend. I tried my best to leave her alone last night. She made it clear she wouldn’t see me to talk about what happened, but I couldn’t get her off my mind. I’m like a love sick teenager all over again.

  My anticipation calms when I spot her sitting in a back booth with that curly blonde friend of hers. Trying to seem inconspicuous, I order a small coffee and sit at the booth in front of theirs. Miraculously, she didn’t see me sit down. I watch the swirling rings of steam rise from my cup while straining my ears to catch a bit of their conversation.

  Any excitement I had at seeing her here is quickly extinguished when I hear not my name come up, but Wyatt’s. My mood quickly plunges into dangerously angry territory as Tatum tells her friend about the attack on Friday. But it doesn’t stop there. Shit, this was a stupid idea.

  “…he won’t stop calling me now,” Tatum says, exasperated. “I don’t know what else to do. I’ve ignored him all weekend but he won’t stop.”

  “Are you going to go to the police?” The little blonde questions, and I pray she can talk some sense into Tatum. That would be the smartest move if he’s not backing down. I might have to take Trey up on his offer to break this kid’s fucking face.

  “You know I can’t. After what they put me through when dealing with my mom’s mess, they’re the last people I want to talk to. I’m hoping he’ll take a hint and go away.”

  “But what if he doesn’t? What if he comes after you again?”

  “I don’t think he will.” Tatum’s voice drops to a whisper, and I lean my head back against the booth to try to hear what she says. It doesn’t matter, because I can’t hear her no matter how hard I try. Whatever she thinks will stop Wyatt, I won’t know unless she tells me herself. Her friends shrill voice screeches out, “TATUM!”, causing me to jump and almost spill steaming hot coffee all over my lap.

  “Shh!” Tatum scolds. “Keep it down will you?”

  “Aren’t you worried about getting in trouble?”

  “No, because I’m trusting you, Em. And if you can keep quiet, it will be fine. I’m not worried.”

  Tatum is putting herself unnecessarily in danger and that has me fired up all over again. She can come to me. We can go to the police together. I need to convince her of that. Right now though, I need to get out of here before I do something stupid like confront her publicly and expose our somewhat clandestine tryst to her peers. I grab my coffee and quietly slip out of the booth and out the door. She’ll never know I was here.

  “Morning, Tatum,” I call when she walks into my classroom five minutes before the bell. “Early for once, I see.”

  “Good morning,” she grumbles, without looking at me. “Mr. Stephenson insisted I try a bit harder, or he’s going to give me another week of this crap. So here I am. What can I help you with?” She stops a few steps from my desk, and I’m struggling to keep my face impassive. I want to grill her about this morning. She’s up to something, and I need to know what it is so I can stop her.

  “If you can manage to sit quietly for the class period that will be enough help for me. Thanks.” I’m slapped with guilt as her face drops briefly before she schools it into the snotty mask she wears whenever I see her on school grounds.

  “I’d like nothing better,” she grits out through clenched teeth before taking a seat on the stool in the corner. I don’t have time to respond as the warning bell rings and students start filing in. I start class promptly, trying to keep my mind and eyes from wandering over to Tatum. After I’ve reviewed today’s lesson, I assign the homework and take a seat at my desk, finally allowing myself check out what she’s up to. She has her phone under her nose, furiously texting.

  “Tatum!” I bark, grabbing her attention and the attention of the entire room. She hops off her stool and stands in front of my desk. “Phone. Now.” I hold out my palm and flinch when she slaps it into my hand with a resounding smack. “I’ve told you to keep it away. You can have it back at the end of the day.” I’m thankful when she doesn’t put up a fight, but also guilty. I lock the device in my top drawer and watch as she climbs back onto the stool, crosses her arms, and stares blankly at the wall. She holds her head and shoulders high, but I notice the way her chin trembles no matter how tight she clenches her jaw. Maybe she needs a little tough love to get her to open up.

  Every time her phone buzzes in my drawer, she looks like she’s being electrocuted. I’ve counted 8 times by the end of second period, and I have a hunch it’s not about to stop. As she approaches my desk when the students have left, I know what she’s about to say before she says it, so I cut her off.

  “You can go now. I’ll see you during Calculus. You can have your phone back at the end of class.”

  “Please Jac—Mr. Ryan. I shouldn’t have been texting but something really important came up.”

  “I’ve warned you twice before, and you’re setting a bad example.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry,” she pleads. “But I really, really need it back.”

  “Tatum,” I sigh. “It’s either me or Mr. Stephenson, but you’re not getting it back today. I’m sorry. Be pissed at me, but this is how it is.”

  “Oh don’t worry, I am.” She spins on her heel and storms out the door without so much as a backwards glance or a few choice curse words.

  I beat back the urge to chase after her as my third period students begin trickling in. This is going to be a long fucking day.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Tatum

  My chest feels like it’s full of bricks. The rest of the day drags on, each second ticking by in its own eternity. Seconds pass like minutes, minutes like hours. Wyatt has been texting my phone nonstop, even after my attempt to bitch him out. If Mr. Ryan decides to snoop through my inbox, I won’t be getting my phone back today. He’ll be too busy killing Wyatt to make it to sixth period. I should have tucked the damn thing into my bag instead of handing it over. I’m just so tired.

  I’ve had more drama in my life this past week than I’ve had in over a year. If I was smart, I would have known Mr. Ryan was serious about holding my phone hostage. Naïve little me thought I could weasel my way out of it. Fuck, was I wrong.

  Emerson and I went out to lunch at the diner to take my mind off the looming disaster, formerly known as calculus. She chattered on about her date with Grant, how amazing it was, and now the two are officially an item.
Facebook official.

  I’m so happy for her.

  Really.

  But my newfound feelings stirred something deep inside of me. Something that until now has been quietly sleeping, hibernating, biding its time. Something that has me wondering when it will be my turn. To have someone want me. To love me. To need me. Desire. Love. In my relatively short life I can’t remember a time of ever feeling genuinely loved. Or having someone to love.

  Regardless, I am happy for Emerson. I just need to keep my green-faced gremlin under control.

  The second fifth period ends, I practically sprint to Mr. Ryan’s room. I weave in and out of students like some NASCAR pro, dodging backpacks, legs, people making out. I don’t even have the heart to tell them to get a room, I’m so intent on being the first one to class.

  Skidding to a halt, I attempt to regain composure before bursting into his room. Wouldn’t want to scare anyone by barreling through the door, hair a wild mane, heaving in oxygen like my life depended on it. Slowing my breathing to calm my racing heart, I pull open the heavy wood door and waltz inside.

  The room is empty.

  You have got to be kidding me. He is seriously going to make me wait until the end the day. No clue as to if he’s scanned through my messages or not. Damn literal men.

  I’ll have to sit through his entire lecture trying to determine if my privacy has been breached. To figure out if I’ll have more on my hands than a reprimand for texting during class. If he goes through my inbox, I’m screwed. He’ll see how much Wyatt has been trying to talk to me and the bitchy, antagonizing responses I’ve sent back when I probably should have ignored him. This is not going to be a happy class, and Mr. Ryan is not going to be happy with me.