“Well I wish I could stay, but I promised that I’d take Miss Careri out to lunch. Is that okay with you guys?” he asks the class. It’s adorable that he’s asking their permission, and they all fight to say, “yes” at the same time. “It was nice meeting you all, maybe if I’m lucky Miss Careri will have me back one day to spend more time with you all, how does that sound?”
Sara doesn’t waste even a second to respond. “Sounds great, Wesley.”
“Great. Bye, everyone.”
The class lets out another loud “Good-bye, Wesley,” and I grab my bag before we walk out. I feel so happy as we go to his car. I knew the kids would notice his size; it was impossible not to, but I would never expect Sara to take to him like that; she doesn’t like anyone but me. He’s being so good with her. Usually kids like Sara scare people who have no experience with autism. I’ve had friends and family visit me at work over the years, and usually after they see what I do they treat me with a weird combination of undeserved respect and unwanted pity, as if I worked with wild animals instead of nine-year-old children. But Wesley didn’t react that way at all. Not only is he the furthest thing from freaked out, he seems genuinely comfortable with the kids, and he has a way of speaking to them that teachers working for a decade didn’t have.
I feel like pasta, and my favorite place, Genelli’s, is just a few blocks away from my school. Not only do they have the best rigatoni ala vodka, but also the owner, Sal gave discounts to teachers, so I decided it was a good place for Wesley and I to go. When we get our food and sit down at my favorite booth, I’m a little preoccupied thinking that his phone is going to off again. I’m more attracted to him than ever, especially after seeing him with my kids, but if he has another awkward run-out I’m not sure this will work for us. The conversation starts off promising. “So, first off, I apologize for the millionth time for the other day, there was something that I had to attend to, but, look.” He takes out his phone and holding it up in front of me, he holds his finger on the power button until the screen goes black. “See, nothing but you and me for lunch, no interruptions, I promise.” It’s an amazing gesture, and to tell the truth I’d probably have issues shutting my phone completely off for a lunch date, but he does it for me without thinking, then puts it back in his pocket so we can talk.
“Wow,” I say, impressed. “I feel special, thank you, and don’t apologize; I’m sure you had your reasons. I’m thinking either high power attorney working a huge criminal case, or maybe CIA spy. Am I warm?” I get a smile out of him, I like being flirty because he always looks so serious that when I can make him laugh I feel way funnier than I actually am.
“Well, I was a spy for about ten years, but there’s only so many times they can send you on covert missions to Yemen before you decide you need a cushier job,” he jokes. “You know, one where terrorist organizations aren’t trying to capture you to ransom the U.S. government for your release. That’s stressful.”
“But I thought you spoke beautiful, poetic Arabic,” I joke back. “Couldn’t you have just told them about your upbringing in Saudi Arabia? I’m sure they’d let you go.”
“You clearly aren’t familiar with Yemenese terrorist groups.”
“This is true enough, so what happened after your spy days were over?” I ask.
“Well, that’s when I took the partner position at the law firm and, yes, we just found a crucial piece of evidence in what’s going to go down in history as the crime of the twenty-first century. Big stuff. In fact after lunch I’m headed to the office to put together my closing statement.” He can’t even keep a straight face by the end of his sarcasm-ridden sentence, and I’m liking this light-hearted side of him. We make small talk for a few minutes before Wesley redirects the conversation back to me and my job. I notice that he does that a lot; whenever I ask him about his life he misdirects me with humor or doesn’t answer my question directly, then somehow makes me the focus of the discussion. “That little girl Sara must be a handful, huh?” he asks.
“You have no idea. See this,” I pull up my sleeve and show him the faint dental impression on my wrist, “this is what happens when I give my attention to any other kid in the class.” I smile, but he just keeps looking at my wrist like he’s concerned. He reaches across the table and gently caresses his finger over the bruise on my forearm, giving me goose bumps. “I don’t know if you’ve ever been bitten, but it’s a weird feeling, like a pinching and a burning sensation all at the same time.”
“Kind of like the burn and piercing of a tattoo needle, I guess, but probably more concentrated.” I’d never thought of it that way before, but the feelings weren’t dissimilar. I wasn’t that into tattoos myself, but I had a couple of the drunken mistake ones you get when you’re young: little heart at the base of my neck, and a terribly drawn butterfly on my ankle that I still regret every summer. I never went down the tramp-stamp road, thank God, that would have been tragic. Now I start wondering about his again. It’s fall, so he’s wearing long sleeves rolled down all the way to the wrist, but I really want to get a better look at his arms.
“Yeah, kind of, only no cool picture on your body as a reward for the pain, just the mold of a little girl’s teeth on your wrist for a few days. Luckily she didn’t break any skin or I would have had to file a bunch of paperwork and probably see a doctor.” I’m going on about the bite, but now I’m really curious about the rest of his arms. I could hardly believe my eyes the other night at the bar, and even then it was dark and I could only see to his elbow. But he had both of his arms completely covered, with no skin to be seen. I know him much better now than I did at the bar, but he still didn’t seem like the type to me. I just couldn’t picture him being tattooed, and I started to wonder what other kind of ink he might have.
“Do you have any others?” I decide to ask.
“Bites, no I have no bites at all, actually.”
“You know what I mean?”
“I always know what you mean, Mia,” he says, grinning. “But no, just my arms.”
“Oh, okay,” I answer. “If you don’t want to tell me about your man tramp-stamp that’s cool, I get it, that’s embarrassing. That’s more of a fourth date reveal, I guess.” He smiles again, and I’m hoping that my humor will not only make him laugh, but open him up a little bit so he’ll share more with me.
“What’s on there?” I ask, pointing to his arm, realizing that I have no idea how to ask about a sleeve of tattoos. If it was a single piece I’d ask him what it was, but sleeves were usually scenes, or had themes to the artwork.
“It’s traditional Japanese, stuff, mostly,” he explains, rolling his left sleeve up a bit to reveal the head of a coy fish.”
“How long did it all take?”
“I started my left arm when I was twenty-two, and that took me a few years to finish,” he explains. “After this arm I got to work on the other one because, you know, you can’t leave one arm naked.”
“I didn’t know,” I joke. “But thanks for telling me. Am I being annoying?” I question.
“Normally I hate the attention, but with you I don’t mind”
“I have a couple of bad ones here and there that I mostly regret. Bad decisions in your early twenties are so hard to avoid.”
“Mine weren’t impulsive, and I don’t regret getting them, even though I was in my twenties at the time. It’s funny that you mentioned the pain before. The pain was important; I needed to feel the intensity while I was getting the piece, it was like a catharsis that helped me heal.”
“I can’t relate, I was a little tipsy both times but I remember thinking that if they could have just drawn them on me with some kind of extra-permanent marker, I would have been good. I’ve never been drawn to the pain aspect of getting tattooed, or pain in general, actually. My friend Dacia has tried to drag me to get pierced so many times, but I never go because I’m afraid of the pain.”
“But the pain of a bite from a little girl?” he inquires. “You seem perfectly willing
to endure that pain.”
“That’s different,” I say a little defensively, “that’s just part of my job.”
“Right, but that’s what I mean,” he explains. “That’s what’s so special about you. I’m sure that there’s no amount of college that can prepare you for classes like the ones you teach.” He’s absolutely right about that one. There are no textbooks, or guest lecturers, or YouTube videos that can prepare you for working with aggressive, non-verbal autistic children. “But nonetheless, most people who went into that field willingly, with open eyes, would probably run screaming at the first clamp of a student’s mouth on their skin, or slap across the face, or a full day of loud screaming and yelling. But not you, you run towards it, and like I said the other night, that’s amazing.” Wow. I feel genuinely proud when he talks about what I do. I’ve never had anyone see my job so clearly before. He’s right about everything he said, except that I would never describe myself as amazing, or even want credit for what I do. It’s just part of who I am, and there’s nothing exceptional about it to me. But we can disagree on that; what I love is that he believes that it’s exceptional, and that he sees how important my job is to me.
“Thanks, that really means a lot to me, not everyone gets that.”
“Well I do,” he confesses. “Trust me.”
“I can see that,” I tell him. “But to tell you the truth, the stress of my job isn’t the kids. They’re the best part of my job, actually, the most rewarding by far.”
“Then what’s the most stressful part?” he asks.
“The financial issues involved in running a school like mine. The truth is we’re never more than a few generous donations, or a year of under enrollment away from having to close. It’s the harsh financial realities of operating a small private school for special needs children; money is always an issue. I’m on a committee that meets twice a month to discuss the economics of the school, and it’s been my job to come up with ideas for generating more money. Sometimes we fund raise, and other times we just straight out ask the wealthier parents for donations. Even once their kids have graduated the school, I have to find creative ways to raise capital to keep the school open. It’s a rough job, but I’m one of the senior teachers, so they trust me with important jobs like that.” I start to get emotional at the thought of the building no longer being there to support our students, and Wesley reaches across the table again and takes my hand reassuringly.
“Mia, you’re the kindest soul I know. Not only do you sacrifice your time and even your body for these kids, but you take on the burden of the school budget also. That’s too much for one person to bear; you should really give yourself a break.” I know that he’s trying to comfort me the only way he knows how to, but for me there’s no choice in the matter.
“I appreciate that, Wesley, but I can’t just disconnect from it all to save myself some worry. I think about this day and night.”
Wait, did someone just yell out my name? I turn to my right and see him sitting at the bar. Oh God, what are the odds of seeing Jason, and here of all places? That’s the last thing I need right now.
“Mia, hey!” He’s waving at me like we’re old friends, calling my name across a pizza place like a fool. I wish he had been half as enthusiastic to have seen me when we were dating, but his only loves for those brief months were his work Blackberry and drinking with the boys. Wesley and I haven’t had the “ex” talk yet, especially not the ex just before you talk, and this is about the last setting where I’d ever want these two to meet. Actually, I never wanted these two to meet, and I really hoped that after the way things ended that I’d never run into Jason ever again.
Not only was he boring, but he was a mean drunk, and more than once he’d come over to my place after a few too many with the guys, expecting me to greet his martini breath and inability to walk with an open heart and open legs. Last time he tried that was the last straw for me. On top of him treating me like a talking vagina, when I turned down his whiskey-dick sexual advances he would get aggressive with me. The last time he punched the wall in my bedroom and called me a dirty whore. That was it for me; I threw him out that night and told him we were through. When he sobered up he began sending regret texts. That lasted for about a week. He never even offered to pay for the damage. He probably didn’t even remember. Nothing like abuse amnesia.
“Fuck me,” I mutter, hesitantly waving at Jason.
“Soon enough, Mia, don’t worry,” Wesley jokes, but I’m too distracted to acknowledge. “Now, who’s that clown at the bar?” I was dreading this.
“You kind of answered your own question, but technically he’s my ex. Like my recent ex. Jason Withers.” It feels good to tell him that, even though I had no intention of ever speaking the man’s name out loud again, unless it was to a judge in small claims court to get restitution for the fist-sized hole that’s still in my wall hiding beneath a cheap piece of artwork.
“Well, based on how you’re acting I figured that out already,” he explains. “And how recent?” I guess we’re having the ex-conversation after all, at least my side of it anyhow. This is not how I imagined our afternoon going.
“A few weeks ago.”
“Oh, wow, so really recent. And he’s giving you the eyes.”
“What eyes?”
“The ‘I’m sorry I’m such an asshole’ eyes. Is he? He looks like one.”
“Asshole doesn’t do him justice. More like the drunk, corporate, semi-abusive yuppie type.”
“Excuse me?” Damn, I let that slip out without thinking. “You said abusive?” Wesley’s eyes are suddenly gleaming with a protective intensity that I’ve never seen before. He looks like a silverback about to beat his chest and charge.
“No, no, I misspoke,” I say, trying to backtrack because Wesley is looking more and more aggressive with each step Jason makes towards our table. “It was just this one time, nothing major, I’ll explain later I promise but he’s coming over.”
“Mia, hey, I can’t believe I’m seeing you! What are you doing here?” Jason was always bad at small talk. He was better in the boardroom than at the bar. If we hadn’t been set up I never would have even given him the time of day. It’s mid-afternoon and he looks like he’s been drinking for a while. Over his right shoulder I can see the empty wine glass he left at the bar before awkwardly interrupting my lunch date. I wonder if he’s polished off a full bottle yet.
“Hey, Jason, how are you?” I don’t know what to say to him. I just want him to go away.
“I’ve been better. It’s been a rough few weeks, you know, since you refuse to answer any of my calls or texts.” I can’t believe he’s talking about this openly, and right in front of another man I’m clearly on a date with. He’s got some balls.
“I guess.” I want to crawl inside myself and die. This is more uncomfortable than I would have expected. I decide that no matter how bizarre he’s making this, I’m still keeping some kind of control over the situation. I decide to introduce the two men to change the subject, there’s no way in hell I’m going to address what happened in a public place in front of Wesley. “Jason, this is . . .”
“Wesley, I’m Mia’s lunch date. I’d ask how you are but you already answered that when you interrupted us, didn’t you?” Oh wow, he sounds pissed.
“Well, excuse me, Willy or whatever; I came over to see my friend, Mia.” Jason’s not buzzed or tipsy, he’s belligerent, and I can smell the liquor on him. He’d have to be drunk to not realize how much larger Wesley is than him, or to not see the rage that was building just behind Wesley’s eyes. I wish I had the camera on my phone open to record Jason’s expression when Wesley methodically pulls out his chair and stands at his full height. He really is a silverback, and if Jason said the wrong thing—or anything at all—Wesley was going to Donkey-Kong him. Jason looks like he’s about to shit himself; there isn’t enough alcohol in his system to dull his primal instinct to cower. Wesley is literally standing over him exerting dominance, and I’m
watching from my seat like it’s a scene from the Discovery Channel.
“Jason, right?” Jason nods his head, the fear in his eyes unmistakable. “First of all, don’t pretend like you didn’t hear what my name is, understand?” Jason nods again, the rest of his body totally still. “What’s my name, Jason?”
“Wesl . . .” He stops short.
“What’s. My. Name. Jason?”
“Wesley,” he stammers. “Wesley, I’m sorry, I just misheard.”
“There you go, Jason! I knew you’d get it right.” Wesley’s grinning sarcastically and using his best fake nice-guy voice; his dominance over Jason is about as absolute as a thing could be. “Now that we’ve gotten that matter settled, onto my next, more important point, are you ready?”
Wesley reaches out and puts his left hand onto Jason’s shoulder, gripping it so tightly that I see his whole body jolt. Wesley stares him down, penetrating those deep blues into Jason’s dulled brown eyes. For a second I think Wesley’s going to hit him—or worse—but he just stares for a good five seconds, communicating to Jason who’s the alpha and who’s the beta, then he leans in and whispers something in Jason’s ear so that no one else can hear. When he pulls away Jason looks as though he’s seen a ghost. “Well it was great meeting you, Jay, but now I’m going to go back to my date, and you’re going to go refill yours.” Jason turns and walks away, never even looking in my direction. I watch him scurry back to the bar, drop some cash from his wallet, and hightail it out of there like he was being chased. It was amazing to see, and I wish I had it recorded so I could make a GIF out of Jason running away like the bitch he was.
I’ve never been more turned on. It wasn’t just that Wesley was being protective towards me either; a lot of guys did that. His reaction is different. It’s not meant for other guys in the room to show who’s tougher. Wesley’s protection is for me, and it comes from such a natural place that made me feel like I was his, and that even if Jason were as big and strong as he was, Wesley would have fought to the death just to keep me safe. And then it was over, and he’s right back finishing the crust of his pizza and smiling at me like I’m the only woman who exists in the world.
Impressions of You (The Impressions Series Book 1) Page 7
