Impressions of You (The Impressions Series Book 1)

by Christopher Harlan

  “What the hell did you say to him?”

  “I asked him where he got his tie, it was really nice, did you notice?”

  “Stop it. What did you say? He looked like he had to go home and change his underwear. I’ve never see him like that.”

  “All that matters is that he won’t be bothering you ever again, trust me. So what does the rest of your week look like?” he asks.

  “I actually have to come up with a presentation to show the board of directors at the next meeting. It’s going to take up all of my time when I’m not working; I might even have to get a sub one of my regular work days.” I try to explain in detail because I know he’s going to want to see me again, and I want to see him too, but this week simply isn’t feasible for anything involving my pleasure. All of my energy outside of the classroom has to go towards creative ideas to raise money, and I’m basically going to be locked in my house for a week stressing and crying at the thought of failure. But the last thing I want is for him to think I don’t want to meet up, or that I’m blowing him off, plus I want him to know what’s important to me, and how I’m spending my time.

  “I appreciate the heads up,” he says.

  “What makes you think I want to hang out again? I mean, you have been a little weird on some of our dates. Frankly, I’ve been a little put off by it, even though you’re so beautiful,” Wesley jokes. I laugh hysterically, and shoot my eyebrow up to the sky like I can when I’m faking my anger.

  “Fine, if you don’t want to see me then I guess this is it. Nice knowing you, Wesley Marsden,” I say with a smirk. He gets up to leave and then quickly sits back down. We both smile. We know how into each other we are, but this week just doesn’t work at all.

  “I’m joking, of course, I understand. I wouldn’t have it any other way, actually, I love how dedicated you are to this,” he says in a tone of admiration. “It’s almost a calling for you, not just a job, and you have nothing but my respect for that. But how about this—”

  “Yes?”

  “Next week, first thing, let me cook dinner for you at my place. I’ll text you the address. What do you say?” As many boyfriends as I’ve had, I’ve actually never had a guy cook a real meal for me before. I’m excited at the prospect of finally being alone with him on a date, especially with a home-cooked meal to go with it. Who knows where things could go from there. . . .

  “That sounds great,” I answer without hesitation. “I’m sure I’ll need some rest and relaxation after the week I’m going to have. It’s a date then.”

  “It’s a date.” Dinner with Wesley, and then dessert with Wesley. Who knows, if all goes well, maybe dessert served on Wesley.

  We finish up our lunch and head back to his car. After he pulls up to the side door of the school he steps out to open my car door. When I get out he’s towering over me, and I’m reminded again of just how tall and muscular he is. I turn and face him, and in the natural light his blue eyes glisten even more intensely. I stare into them, aware that the other teachers are probably watching us from their classroom windows, but I don’t even care at this point. All I can see is the ocean blue of his eyes, looking down at me passionately as the sunlight illuminates his face. He leans down and kisses me more intensely than I expected, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me in. I forget that I’m in front of my job, and I lean into him and feel the hardness of his chest through his clothes. When he pulls away I’m dizzy, and more than a little turned on. “I had a wonderful lunch, Mia. Until next week, then.”

  “Until next week,” I say lovingly. He walks back around to the driver side and gets in. Before pulling away he opens his window and leans out a bit as I walk to the curb.

  “Mia,” he yells. “I’ll text you later, baby, make sure you keep your phone near your nightstand.” And then he drives away before I can respond.

  Oh I know you’ll be texting me, Wesley. I’ll be waiting.

  IT’S BEEN A WEEK now since I’ve seen him. Mostly our relationship this week has consisted of texts and a few phone calls. I’ve been too busy with my presentation to meet up in person, and he’s been more than understanding, reminding me almost every day that he’s going to cook me the best meal I’ve ever had. The boy must be able to cook, no one would hype up their kitchen prowess like this if they couldn’t deliver some Food Network type meal. I was looking forward to it, but first I had this damn presentation to finish.

  Coming up with original ideas for fundraising was no small feat, and the whole thing has me completely stressed out. The fact is that we’ve already exhausted all of the traditional means of collecting money. We tapped all of the current and former parents for every penny they were able to give, and we scheduled our usual minimum of five major fundraising events at the start of the year. The truth was that we’re in a lot of trouble, and the prospect of shutting our doors is becoming a reality. Damn!

  I spent night after night pecking away at my keyboard, trying to come up with something original or innovative to get any dollar I could find. Every night just when I was about to snap and reach for the largest bottle of vodka I could find, I’d get a reassuring text from Wesley saying something like, “Keep at it, Mia; I know you’ll come up with great ideas.” He was really considerate all week, and I’m looking forward to ditching our phone relationship and seeing him in person.

  The night of our dinner finally comes around, and I’m totally drained. Work was rougher than usual today, which is really saying something. Sometimes there just seems to be something in the water with my little ones. We have our fun, even on challenging days, and it’s always fulfilling to see them achieve even what may seem to be the smallest of milestones. Like any teacher who works with special needs kids knows, small milestones are never small. In fact, sometimes I’ll work several months, or even years, just to see my kids reach one of those milestones.

  I end up leaving work early today, and I feel guilty because my class doesn’t do well with change, but the school gives me some leeway and calls in a sub to finish the last two hours of the day. Really my TA’s will take care of everything so my kids shouldn’t be too thrown off. I wouldn’t take time off if I didn’t need it.

  Before I leave work I text Dacia to see if she wants to go shopping with me. She’s a waitress at one of the many restaurants in town, and Monday’s she doesn’t work until six, so she’s the perfect mid-day shopping buddy. She agrees to meet me at our favorite shoe store, and as I drive to meet her my mind wanders to thoughts of Wesley. I sometimes wonder what such a strikingly handsome man is doing with little-ole me.

  I’ve avoided it so far, but I decide that I need to fill Dacia in on Wesley. There’s not a whole lot to tell yet, but I still feel bad for telling Kevin and not her. Dacia’s been there for me through thick and thin—mostly thick—and I know that I could tell her anything without facing judgment or disapproval, probably because her history with guys is a little . . . sketchy, and she’s faced her fair share of judgment from everyone in her life. She needs to know what’s going on, and I know deep down that telling her will make me feel better about the whole thing. Plus she’s going to wonder why I’m texting her to go shoe shopping in the middle of the day on a Monday.

  It’s another beautiful autumn day, and the air is noticeably crisper than it was yesterday, which is just fine with me. The sun is bright, and the smell of the cool fall air is all I need to roll down my car windows and let the wind hit me as I drive, hair be damned. There isn’t much traffic because most responsible people are at work, so I get to the shoe store in less than ten minutes. Dacia’s already inside shopping, which is no surprise, the girl cannot be kept from the appeal of new shoes, especially if they’re on sale. I meet her inside and I notice that she looks tired also. “You, too?” I ask her. She looks at confused. I really need to practice being less random when I speak. “Tired, I mean.” She nods.

  “Yeah, if it wasn’t for your text and a very appealing shoe sale—mostly the sale btw—my ass would still be at hom
e Googling home remedies for hangovers. You’d think I’d have that mastered by now, but nope, my head feels like it’s going to explode.” Dacia didn’t just go hard at the coffee bar, she went hard in general. Never one to turn down a good time, or free drinks, she was the wild one of our pair. I offer her some headache meds from my bag but she waves her hand. “No, I’m good, thanks. I’ve taken like eighty of those already. Any more and they’ll be pumping my stomach for an Ibuprofen overdose—or is it acetaminophen? Oh, who cares, none of it’s doing anything for the throbbing in my head.”

  As I browse the aisles I try to work out exactly how I’m going to word everything. In my mind the conversation doesn’t go well, or at least the exact details sound a little silly. So, D, remember that tall, dark muscular guy with craziest blue eyes you’ve ever seen when we were at The Drip . . . tell you about him? Okay, well, his name is Wesley Marsden. What does he do? Don’t know. Where’s he from? Nah, don’t know that one either, sorry. What does he do for fun, besides being mysterious and a little odd? Not a clue, but I do know that I really like him. Any other questions?

  I know it’s going to sound as ridiculous out loud as it does in my head, and if it was her telling me that story I’d grab her by the shoulders and shake her uncontrollably, and when I was done shaking I’d brush the hair out of her eyes and tell her to get her life together, and to stop wasting her precious time on some guy who . . . but, wait, I’m projecting. Wesley’s not the most forthcoming, but I know that he likes me, and every instinct I have is telling me that he’s a good man—maybe a great one. Kevin’s voice plays in my mind, Trust yourself, Mia.

  “So, D, I need to tell you something.” My confession gets her attention, and even hungover and half asleep she perks up and gives me her full attention. Over the next five minutes I spill everything, up to him inviting me to his place this evening. She nods her head, taking in all of the information that I just gave her, and then the real reason for our impromptu shoe excursion becomes clear.

  “You bitch.” She laughs when I finish my little soap opera. “You’re just using me to help you to look all slutty for your date, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t plan on looking slutty, thank you. And did you ever think that maybe we’re using each other as enablers for our out of control shoe buying habits?”

  “That’s a distinct possibility, I’m not gonna lie. But let’s talk about this other business.” I’m curious what her thoughts are. I’m not nervous the way I was when I told Kevin about the whole thing, and even though he told me to trust myself, I know deep down that Kevin thinks I’m a little nuts for even giving Wesley a second chance. Dacia wouldn’t judge me like that. “I think that you need to trust yourself on this one, Mia.” Jesus, did she really just give me the same advice as Kevin, which is really no advice at all.

  “You know, D, I never thought I’d live to see the day that you and Kevin gave me the same guidance on how to handle a guy situation.” She looks mad, and she does my bitchy eyebrow raise from the car the other night. “What?” I ask her.

  “You told Kevin before you told me? Are you serious?” Shit. I didn’t even realize how that sounded. I messed this one up, I know. Dacia wasn’t the jealous friend type—we weren’t in high school and we were all happy to stay as drama-free as possible, but there was an unspoken code I violated, a hierarchy of advice seeking, and I had broken the chain of command. She looks legit annoyed at me.

  “I’m an asshole, I’m sorry.” I apologize. I feel bad, I’d never wanna hurt her feelings; she’s been here when Kevin hasn’t, and she knows more about my adult relationships than anyone else. “Really, I’m sorry. No excuses, but he just showed up at my place and I needed to talk, and . . .”

  “Stop, it’s okay,” she says, and then puts her hand over mine to reassure me. “It’s cool, I get it. But let’s not make it a habit.”

  “Deal,” I agree, still feeling bad. “But let’s take a step back. Trust myself? That’s all you have for me?” I ask, smiling but half-serious. I really do want advice, and trusting myself is not something I’m very comfortable with.

  “Well, Mia, think about what you’ve told me, and I assume what you’ve told Kevin. You don’t know any of the basic stuff you find out on a first date. He’s been acting a little . . . strange, at least as guy behavior goes when it comes to women. You don’t know exactly what his intensions are, but it’s obvious when you talk about him that you like the guy, your face lights up, which tells me something.” There it is again, the same thing Kevin said to me.

  “What does it tell you?”

  “That you like him. That you see something in him even though it may not be obvious to anyone else.” She’s absolutely right. “And let’s face it, you haven’t exactly hit it out of the park when it comes to guys you’ve dated. I guess none of us have. But the difference between you and me, Mia, is that you haven’t found Mr. Right yet, but you don’t date bad guys. No abusers, no pathological liars, no cheaters. Apparently, unlike me, you have good judgment—must be all that healthy childhood stuff my shrink keeps telling me I didn’t have.” She smiles but seems a little melancholy as she speaks. She’s right, not just about me trusting myself but about everything. When I say that we’ve been through thick and thin I’m telling the truth. But the majority of the thick has been on her end.

  We grew up together, but our childhoods were about as different as could be. I didn’t have the greatest relationship with my parents, but I did have two parents; two stable, loving parents who raised me in a loving home where I never lacked for opportunities or material things. I realize how I wouldn’t be the person that I am today without them providing that environment for me growing up.

  Dacia’s story was a little different. Given her upbringing, it’s a small miracle that she’s as put together as she is. Her dad died when she was a little girl, and her mom was a heroin addict who was in and out of rehab for years; the worst of it was during our high school years. She was always strung out, and always kept a stable of loser boyfriends around. Daddy issues, trust issues, self-worth issues—Dacia’s got them all in spades, and I can’t fault her, but she’s also incredibly kind, giving, and the type of strong that I could only fantasize about being.

  She bounced around between jobs, eventually settling on being a waitress for the past few years. She even tried working at my school as a TA. I love Dacia, and respect the hell out of everything she’s fought to overcome, but an elementary special ed TA she’s not. She’s my confidant, the holder of all my secrets and my relationship history. And here she is, telling me to trust myself. Maybe she’s right. Maybe they’re both right. My brain is waving red flags left and right, but my heart tells me to go to dinner at Wesley’s house. I’m going. I’m trusting myself. “All right, I’m convinced.”

  “You’ll find the right guy, too, Dacia.” I try to sound confident, even though I always worry about her when it comes to guys. “And even if you don’t, then screw it, you don’t need a man. You’re a warrior. Way stronger than me.”

  “No blond Mia,” she says, “I’m a survivor. There’s a difference. But thank you. Now get those hot red stilettos you tried on and go get ready, because if you think Kevin’s getting the scoop on this before me, you’re out of your little blond mind.” Sometimes all I ever need is some time with Dacia to put the jigsaw pieces of my life together into a coherent picture. But she was right. It was time to take my newfound clarity and go get ready. Wesley Marsden will be cooking me dinner tonight, and I want to look my best for him.

  OF COURSE I’M LATE getting to Wesley’s house.

  Maybe one day I’ll master the art of leaving the house on time, but today’s not that day. The fake British lady on my GPS assured me that my “destination will be on the left in one minute” about five minutes ago. I think classifying myself as lost might be a little dramatic, but let’s just say I’m not so confident as to where I am right now. I had Googled his address that morning after he texted it to me, and I noticed a few th
ings. His house wasn’t far away, distance-wise, but it might as well have been a different world. There’s a main road that connects all of the towns in my area to a different part of the area called the North Shore. The part of the North Shore where Wesley lives is a very nice area, to say the least, the kind of place where you can’t see the homes off of the main road, and where there can be miles between houses.

  I understood all of that this morning, but now, as I’m driving, I feel totally out of place. I’m on a one-lane road with dense trees all around me. The sun is setting, so without street lights to guide the way, the roads are almost impossible to see on, and I have to put on my high beams to make up for the lack of natural light. Eventually I see a place in the distance, and I arrive only about fifteen minutes late. Holy Shit! As soon I pull up I think my eyes are pulling a prank on me, and I can’t believe what I see.

  When Wesley asked me to meet him at his house tonight, that’s exactly what I pictured, a house; but that isn’t the word I would use to describe this place. Wesley lives in a mansion; a giant, Great Gatsby, Bruce Wayne style mansion in the middle of the woods. I don’t even technically know what makes a place a mansion, but this definitely fits the image I’d have in my head. The place is enormous in every way a home can be, and it looks like a castle. Is he like Batman? Shut up, Mia. Park. Doorbell. Look pretty. Hope that an old man named Alfred answers the door.

  He doesn’t have a street to park on, so I park what now seems like my tiny little car next to his on a gravel path adjacent to the front door. I almost trip walking from my car to the front door because these hot shoes I bought earlier aren’t meant to walk on gravel. I keep thinking that I must be in the wrong place. When I knock it isn’t Alfred or any other gray-haired butler in a fancy tux, but Wesley himself, looking so handsome that I feel like I’m in a movie. He’s dressed up, but not overly dressy; he’s wearing a white, slim-fit button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing the color of his tattoos underneath.