I always thought Carter wasn’t the type who’d let himself be pushed around – that he would always stand up for what was right. Back then, I really thought that Carter loved me. Come to find out though, that love was conditional. And apparently, I was behind some washed-up gangster in Carter Bishop's list of priorities.
Maybe it's not the charitable or kind way to view the situation – I don't understand, or really know, the dynamics between Carter and Pops. That was one part of himself and his life he hadn't shared with me by the time things ended.
But we never progressed to that point, leaving me only with my feelings and perceptions of it all. Right or wrong, that's all I've got.
“You okay, Ms. White?”
I turn at the sound of my name to see Emilio looking back at me, concern written on his face. I flash him a smile I hope looks more genuine than it feels.
“I'm fine, Emilio,” I say. “Thanks for asking.”
He cocks his head. “You sure?” he asks. “You look a little upset.”
I wave him off and laugh. “Nah, I'm good.”
“She's having boy troubles.”
I turn to the girl at the easel next to Emilio's, and see Jenna looking back at me, a knowing smile on her lips. Jenna isn't the best artist in my class, but she's sweet and she tries hard. She's also perceptive as hell and seems to know a lot more than a girl her age should.
She also likes to talk. A lot.
“I’m not having boy troubles, thank you very much, Jenna.”
She shrugs. “It's not hard to see, Ms. White,” she says. “It's written all over your face.”
“Oh, is it now?”
She nods. “A woman gets a certain look in her eye when she's dealing with boys,” she says, dabbing a little color to her canvas. “It's different from say, car trouble. Or money problems.”
“Oh, well thank you for that, ” I say and laugh, trying to diffuse the feelings of tension suddenly racing through my body.
“If some guy is giving you grief, I'll kick his ass, Ms. W,” Emilio says, his face earnest. “Nobody messes with you. Not while I'm around.”
This time, a genuine smile crosses my face. I'm touched.
“Thank you, Emilio,” I say. “But really, I'm fine. It's nothing.”
“I wouldn't say it's nothing,” Jenna chimes in. “It's definitely something.”
“Well then, let's just say it's not something that's appropriate for a classroom setting,” I say. “Fair enough?”
Jenna smiles and shrugs, happy that she'd scored a point by getting me to admit that my troubles are in fact, boy-related. I shake my head and grin. I love my kids. As quirky and frustrating as they can be sometimes, they really are good kids, and it’s nice to know they have my back.
“If you ever need some schmuck's ass kicked, you just let me know, Ms. W,” Emilio says. “I know people.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I reply. “Thanks, Emilio. Now, get back to your piece. I'm anxious to see how it turns out.”
Strolling around the room, I try to focus my mind and get my head on right. If my kids can see through me, then I really need to calm down a little.
“Ms. White, I'm out of a couple of colors I need,” Jenna calls over to me.
“Go ahead and get what you need out of the supply closet,” I say.
Standing behind a boy named Aaron, I cock my head and look at his work, trying to figure out where he's going with it. It's more abstract than the assignment had called for, but I can't deny that it's striking. Bold strokes, subdued tones – it's an incredibly moody and atmospheric piece. It's surprising to me, because he's never shown this sort of artistic flair before. He's usually quiet and keeps to himself. His work – both papers and paintings – are usually done by rote. They're uninspired, without any sort of real emotion behind them. This is something completely new from him.
“Aaron, that's a beautiful piece,” I say. “Very striking.”
He gives me a small, unsure little smile. “Thank you,” he says, his voice soft.
“May I ask what inspired it?”
He shrugs. “Just – stuff.”
“Ms. White,” Jenna calls from across the room. “We're out of a few of the colors I need.”
I turn and see her standing beside the supply cabinet – and see just how empty it is. I turn back to Aaron and smile.
“I want to talk to you about this piece a little more,” I say. “I'm very impressed by it so far.”
“Okay,” he says, his voice a bit subdued. “Thanks.”
“I'm really excited to see the completed piece,” I reply.
I walk over to the cabinet and feel my heart sink when I see the dwindling amount of supplies inside. I'd sent in my re-order request a week and a half ago. The cabinet should be full.
“Okay, well, see if you can get the colors you need from somebody else,” I say. “We'll get the supply situation sorted out.”
“Okay,” Jenna chirps brightly, and bounds off.
I walk back to my desk and pull up my email on the computer. Scrolling through the messages, I notice I have an unopened message from Friday. I quickly open it and see that it's from the textbook manager, informing me that my request for supplies has been denied due to recent budget cuts.
“How in the hell am I supposed to teach without the proper tools?” I growl to myself.
“Ms. White,” I hear Jenna's voice call out.
“Yes, Jenna? What is it?” I call back as I stare at the computer screen, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice.
“I think that thing that's not appropriate in a classroom setting is officially in the classroom setting,” she says and giggles.
I look up and feel the blood in my veins turn into ice. Standing in the doorway of the classroom is none other than Carter Bishop himself.
He's leaning against the doorframe, wearing a well-tailored black designer suit with a metallic blue tie – the only splash of color in a suit that perfectly clings to his body. His hair is stylish, and he cuts a striking figure. I notice a few of the girls in class have their heads together, their eyes locked on Carter as they whisper excitedly amongst themselves.
I walk quickly to the back of the room and usher him out the door, closing it behind me – though, not before I hear a chorus of giggles and kissy noises. Damn kids. When I'm alone in the hallway with Carter, my cheeks burning, I quickly turn and look up at him.
“What in the hell are you doing here?” I ask.
“Well, something you said the other night stuck with me,” he says.
“Oh? And what was that?” I ask. “Because it clearly wasn't when I said I didn’t want to see you again. You'd think that part would have gotten through that thick skull of yours.”
He gives me a smirk. “Yeah, it got through okay. I'm just choosing to ignore that for now,” he says. “Actually, what you said that stuck with me, was you telling me that I know nothing about your life. I'm a man who likes to know things.”
“Great. Good for you,” I say, and turn back to the door. “Thanks for the update. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a class –”
“So, I did a little homework,” he says.
“Homework?” I question, as I turn around to face him again. “Why would you do that, Carter?”
He shrugs. “Because I want to get to know you again, Darby,” he says. “I know that you're not married. Don't have a boyfriend. I know you spend a lot of time at your studio and have had a number of successful shows. I also know that despite having enough money that would allow you to not work, and focus strictly on your own art, you love teaching – and judging by what I saw in that classroom, your students love having you as their teacher.”
I feel a nervous tremor float through my body. “How long were you standing there?”
“Long enough.”
“Great, so you're stalking me now,” I say. “That's not creepy or anything.”
“Darby, I really feel like I ran into you at the gala for a reason,”
he replies. “You know I'm not a man given to flights of fancy or talk of fate or any of that garbage. In this case though, I really feel like something up there, or out there, was trying to tell me something. Was trying to tell us something. I was there, with you, at the same time, for a reason.”
“Yeah, it was clearly to ruin my night,” I hiss. “A night that was important to me, and I was really looking forward to, by the way.”
He laughs softly. “I see your spirit hasn't dimmed in the last ten years.”
“No, it hasn't,” I say. “But, my tolerance for bullshit has. Drastically.”
“Clearly,” he says.
I let out a frustrated breath and fold my arms over my chest. “What do you want, Carter?”
“I want to take you to dinner,” he says. “I want to talk and get to know you again.”
My eyes widen, and I scoff at him. “You're not serious,” I say. “Please tell me you're not serious right now.”
“Serious as the proverbial heart attack.”
I glance up and down the hallway, concerned that my boss will happen by, and see me standing out there with him, rather than in the classroom with my students. You know, where I should be. Doing my job.
“I don't think so,” I say. “You should probably leave now.”
“Not until you agree to have dinner with me.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“Then I'm not going anywhere.”
“Carter
, I have bigger things to worry about right now,” I say. “The last thing I need is to deal with your bullshit on top of it.”
He folds his arms over his chest and leans against the wall beside my classroom door. He lifts his chin defiantly and clenches his jaw. Carter always was a stubborn ass, and I see that hasn't changed one iota.
“Not going anywhere,” he says.
I let out an exasperated breath and stare at him. He looks back at me defiantly – though, there is a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. I shake my head, and ruthlessly stifle the smile that threatens to cross my face. There's something about his persistence that fills my heart with a small sense of happiness. It's frustrating as hell, but it's also kind of adorable at the same time.
Smiling would only encourage him. And I have no intention of making anything easy on Carter. At all.
“Fine,” I say. “You can stand out here in the hall all day for all I care. You’re only wasting your own damn time.”
He gives me a little wink and looks at his watch. “I've got nowhere to be today,” he says. “That's the beauty of being the founder of my firm. I can do whatever I want.”
“Yeah, if I recall, you were doing that before you owned some fancy financial firm anyway.”
“Yea,” he replies. “Though, now I have the kind of money that means I really can get away with it.”
“You're frustrating as hell, do you know that?”
He nods. “I seem to recall you used to like that about me.”
I roll my eyes and open the classroom door, the chorus of my kid's voices teasing me, echoing into the hallway. I look back to see Carter smirking at me, but he hasn't moved an inch. Stubborn jerk.
“I'm going in now,” I say.
“I see that.”
“I'm not going to dinner with you.”
“You said that.”
“Which means you can leave now.”
“Not going to do that,” he responses smugly. “Not until you change your mind and agree to have dinner with me.”
“Not going to happen.”
He shrugs. “Okay. See you after class, teach.”
I roll my eyes and close the door, shutting him out. I fully expect that he's going to be gone the next time I open that door. Surely, he's not going to leave his company high and dry without him, just to get a date out of me. Would he? Has his stubbornness grown to those kinds of levels?
I shake my head. Not my problem. Not my concern. He can do what he wants, when he wants, and how he wants it. He is after all, his own boss. It's his company, and if he wants to leave his employees there without him, while he stands in the hallway outside my classroom just to prove a point, so be it.
“Ms. White?” Jenna says.
“Yes, Jenna?”
“He's really hot,” she says. “If you're not going to date him, will you at least give him my number?”
The class erupts into laughter, and I can't help but join in. My cheeks burn with embarrassment, but I laugh right along with them all the same. She seems so earnest and sincere in her request, that I can't help but smile at her.
“Nobody is dating him,” I say. “Especially you, Jenna. At least wait until you're at least 10 years older.”
“You should go out with him, Ms. White,” another student, Melissa calls out. “I mean, you do know who that is, don't you? It's Carter Bishop, the –”
“I'm well aware of who he is,” I say.
“Then you know he's loaded,” Melissa presses. “Why not go out with him just so he can buy you nice things? I would.”
The class erupts into laughter again and all I can do is shake my head. “Okay, listen,” I say.
“Enough about my dating life. Time to focus on your –”
“Class is almost up, Ms. W,” Emilio says.
I glance at the clock. “Shit,” I say. “Okay, clean up your areas, guys. And don't forget that you have homework due on Monday. And remember to keep working on your proposal presentations. They're not due until after the Christmas break, but don't put it off until the last minute. Please. Enjoy your long weekend, guys.”
They grumble but laugh – and of course, offer me all kinds of unsolicited advice about why I should date Carter Bishop. If they only knew about our past together. If they only knew the heartbreak and pain he'd caused me. But, I can't share that with them. It's none of their business, and it's entirely inappropriate anyway.
The bell rings and their voices immediately pick up, becoming a dull roar, as they burst out into the hallway, leaving me there smiling and laughing to myself. It's the last class of the day, so I drift around the room, cleaning up what they left behind – my usual ritual. They're good kids, but they're still kids. Their idea of clean greatly differs from mine.
I take my time, straightening up all the easels and folding up the drop cloths. After a few minutes, I realize that I'm dragging my feet and taking more time than is probably necessary. Certainly, more time than I usually do. And it's because I'm afraid that Carter has made good on his word and is still in the hallway, and the last thing I want to do is to go out there and face him.
More than that, I'm afraid, because even though I want him to leave, some small part of me hopes that he didn't. That hopes he's still out there, waiting for me. As frustrating as he can be – as he is – I can't deny that I want him.
And I don't want to leave the room because some small part of me is afraid that when I open the door, he won't be there.
But then, that cold voice of logic that runs around in my brain tells me nothing good will come from having dinner with Carter. I'll only be opening myself to more heartache and suffering than before if I go out with him, because this time, I know who he is and what he's done.
Nothing good is going to come from getting involved with Carter Bishop again.
I'm so lost in my own head that when the door opens, I jump, and drop the bundle of supplies in my arms. Carter rushes over and picks them up as I stand there, gaping at him like a fool. Shocked that he's somehow still here. By the time he straightens up, I think I've sufficiently composed myself.
“Where can I put these?” he asks.
I point to a table near the supply cabinet in the back. “O - over there is fine,” I say. “Thank you.”
I watch him walk to the table, giving myself a swift mental kick in the head when I catch myself checking him out.
When he turns back, I look away, doing my best to put on an air of indifference. An air of neutrality that says I don't really care
if he's here or not – basically, a total lie.
“I figured you would have left by now,” I say, doing my best to sound haughty and annoyed by his intrusion.
He sets the supplies down on a table and turns to me again, a small, satisfied smirk on his face. He slips his hands into his pockets and starts to cross the classroom.
“You know me better than that, Darby,” he says. “When I want something, I don't give up very easily.”
“And what is it you want, Carter?” my voice suddenly losing some of the bored indifference I've been trying so hard to foster.
As he steps closer to me, I catch a subtle whiff of his cologne. It's heady and intoxicating, just like Carter. I breathe deep and feel my eyes start to flutter. Then I catch myself and clear my throat, putting on the sternest expression I can muster.
Carter gives me a smile. If he noticed me swooning, he at least has the decency to avoid commenting on it.
“Well, for starters, I want to take you to dinner,” he says. “After that, I guess we'll have to see.”
“This really isn't a good idea.”
“There's a lot of things that don't seem like good ideas that turn out to be great ones in hindsight,” he says. “Look at Steve Jobs. Einstein. Picasso.”
“Yeah, they're all dead,” I say. “Not great examples. Though, I will give you points for the Picasso reference. Cheap points but points nonetheless.”
He chuckles, and the low, rumbling sound fills my ears and makes me weak in the knees.
“Doesn't mean they didn't have at least some good ideas,” he says. “They all seemed to turn out okay, right?
I laugh. “Yeah, I don't think this is one of those things.”
“You won't know until you try.”
“I have tried,” I say. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me, and all that. I still haven't fully recovered from the third-degree burns you gave me last time, Carter.”
“That was the past, Darby,” he says. “And like I tried to explain before, it's not what it seemed like at the time. Not that it made you hurt any less –”
“No, it didn't.”
“I want to atone for that mistake,” he says. “Believe me, it was the worst mistake I've ever made in my life. I'm sorry.”
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