Pushing the Limits: A Student/Teacher Romance

by Brooke Cumberland

  My phone rings as I open the door to my new used car—a green Kia Soul. My new baby.

  It’s my mother.

  I sigh and bite my cheek before accepting the call. “Hello, Mom.”

  “Hello, Darling. How are you?” Her voice is tainted with fake politeness, always so smooth and sweet sounding. It’s too early for this.

  “I’m just fine.” I hop in the driver’s seat and start the engine. “How about yourself? How’s Dad?”

  “We’re both fine, thank you. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “No, just getting into my car with Kendall. What’s going on?”

  “I just wanted to confirm your arrangements on coming home to visit during spring break.”

  I frown, not wanting to have this conversation with my mother right now. Or ever. “Uh…that’s like three months away.” Spring break isn’t until April and classes are just starting tomorrow.

  “I know, Darling. But since you’re always so busy…” I can hear the annoyance in her condescending tone. “I figured I’d need to get on top of this beforehand. Set it in stone.”

  I exhale, rolling my eyes at her dramatics. “Sure, Mom. I’ll do my best.”

  “Now, listen, Aspen…” Her tone firm and deep, as if I was a child and she was sending me to my room or something. “We agreed to let you go all the way out to art school in California with the agreement you’d come home once in awhile. Even Aaron is driving in for a few days. He’s bringing his new girlfriend, Dana. It’d be nice if we could all be together.”

  I grit my teeth. Still not far enough, I think.

  “I know.” I agreed to nothing, but I let her think it anyway. I’m not going to let her guilt trip me into coming back. The last place on Earth I want to be is back home with two parents who resent me. I left to escape the memories, to escape the looks of sympathy on everyone’s faces, and to escape the constant reminder of how I ruined their lives. I could’ve moved to Mars and it still wouldn’t feel far enough.

  Her tone changes, but is no less condescending. “Good. We’ll plan for it.”

  “Great,” I reply flatly. We say our goodbyes and hang up.

  ‘Everything okay?” Kendall asks, not taking her eyes off her phone, her brown hair falling over her shoulders.

  “Yeah. Just my mother crushing my caffeine high.” I furrow my brows in mock annoyance, taking a long pull of my drink.

  “You have a serious addiction,” Kendall states as she watches me with wide eyes.

  “Your point?” I counter.

  “Waffle House serves coffee, you know?”

  “Yes, but not good coffee.” I smile, taking another sip.

  “Ugh,” she mumbles after a moment.

  “What?” I face her, seeing the wrinkles crease in her forehead. “What is it?”

  She groans. “Kellan.”

  “I thought things were going great?”

  “They are!” she insists. “But when we went out last night, he got drunker than usual, and I thought maybe just maybe…”

  She doesn’t need to finish her sentence to tell me what’s going on. Apparently, drunken Kellan isn’t much better than sober Kellan.

  “Still nothing below the belt?”

  “Not even close. I thought maybe with a few drinks in him, he’d loosen up a bit, help ease his nerves. But he was all ‘I just wanna make out with you. Your lips taste so good’…blahblahblah.”

  “Maybe he had whiskey dick.”

  She bursts out in laughter, whining, “Gah! Why won’t he just have sex with me? I’m a good lay!” Her outburst makes me snort out in laughter, the iced drink spewing right out of my nose.

  “Jesus, Kendall.” I wipe my mouth and laugh. “Maybe you’re going at it all wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Guys like the chase. If you’re an easy target, it’s not a challenge.”

  The corner of her lips wrinkles in disgust.

  “Play hard to get,” I explain.

  She scoffs. “Why do guys always want to play stupid games? I’m your girlfriend…you’ve got me! Now, do me!” She shouts to the ceiling of my car.

  “Rather, do that.” I laugh and point at her pathetic plea. “That’ll have him ripping your clothes off in a heartbeat.”

  She glares at me, and I smirk.

  I park in front of the Waffle House and we walk inside, finding Zoe in one of the corner booths.

  “Look who finally decided to show up after all,” Zoe taunts in her thick, New Jersey accent as we both shift into our chairs. She has her long, dark mane pulled up into a high bun, a few shorter pieces falling around her face.

  Zoe moved to California three years ago when she turned eighteen to pursue a singing career. After rejection after another, and eventually going broke, she moved up to Berkeley, found Kendall to live with, and started working at one of the bars downtown.

  She says it’s only until she figures out what she wants to do long-term.

  But I think fear is setting her back more than anything.

  “Oh, please. We’re thirty seconds late.”

  “I managed to get off, showered, dressed, and arrive before the both of you. I deserve some kind of medal for that.”

  I snort. “You get the bill. There’s your medal.”

  “Ooh…apparently someone had a bad Saturday night.”

  “It was fine.” I narrow my eyes. “Kendall’s the one stuck in make-out city,” I tease, earning a glare in return.

  The waitress arrives with glasses of water and asks if we want our usual. We say yes, handing her back the menus. We order the same things every time.

  I sip on my iced latte, glaring at Zoe’s pleased smirk. “So was this guy a keeper?” I ask referring to the guy that she brought home last night.

  She shrugs carelessly. “Maybe. But if we get married, I’m keeping my surname.”

  A wide smile spreads across both Kendall’s face and mine. “Why?” we ask in unison.

  She frowns. “Because he has a horrible last name.” I raise my brows, silently motioning for her to tell us. “It’s Litoris.” She hangs her head in shame as the both of us burst out laughing.

  “I’m sorry,” I say in between trying to catch my breath. “But that can’t be true.”

  “It is! I even Googled him.”

  “Dude, that’s unfortunate,” Kendall adds. “But if he ever runs for Senate, I’ll be sure to vote for Mr. Litoris.” That cracks us up even more as Zoe shakes her head and scowls.

  “Laugh all you want.” She groans. “But his tongue is definitely nothing to laugh at.”

  “I bet not.” I smile, biting down on my lower lip to hold in the laughter at her embarrassment.

  The waitress arrives with our food shortly after, and we start a new topic of conversation, one that doesn’t cause lack of air from laughing too hard.

  “So your mom wants you to come home for spring break this year,” Kendall asks once we begin eating. “You going?”

  I keep my head down and shrug. “I don’t know. I really don’t want to.”

  “How pissed will she be if you don’t go?” Zoe asks.

  “Probably pissed enough to never talk to me again, which just might be enough of a reason to not go in the first place.” I smirk, knowing they’ll understand what I mean. My parents and I never really mended our relationship after Ari’s death. It was just kind of there…not moving or evolving. Once I graduated high school, I couldn’t wait to move away.

  “You know they have coffee here,” Zoe says, eyeing my Starbucks cup and changing the subject. She knows I hate talking about my family.

  “Gah! What is it with you two? I do know.” I grab it and pull the straw into my mouth before setting it back down. “But they don’t have it the way I like it.”

  “Filled with caramel and sugar?” Kendall laughs.

  “I live on four hours or less of sleep every night. Caramel and sugar are the only things that keep my eyes open.”

  Kendall lets out a
n audible sigh. “I’d feel sorry for you, but the fact that you have more strange men doing the walk of shame every weekend than I have pairs of shoes, I don’t feel sorry at all.”

  “Stop exaggerating,” I retort as Zoe begins to laugh. “It’s not every weekend. And sometimes they only get to third base, thank you very much.”

  “What’s your definition of third base?” Zoe asks, narrowing her eyes at me.

  “No penetration,” I answer matter-of-factly.

  Zoe snorts.

  We continue talking and eating. If it weren’t for these two, I’d feel really lost—more than I already feel. They’re the closest thing I have to any kind of healthy relationship, even though they don’t really know all of me. They know what I show and tell them, but most of the time, they see what I want them to see. Not the inside that’s burning with unbearable pain and guilt. But they get more than I give anyone else, and sometimes I even find myself thinking of them like sisters—that is until the guilt eats at me.

  MORGAN

  I never expected to be back in California after the way I left five years ago. I hadn’t even come back to visit my parents, and thinking back on it makes me feel like absolute shit. However, six months ago, I said goodbye to Ohio and moved back to my home state.

  Not by choice.

  Fortunately, I found a house to rent close to the California School of Liberal Arts where I was able to get a teaching job. I had to leave Ohio without much notice, so once I arrived back home and secured a job, I had four months left until I started at CSLA. Between unpacking and prepping my semester syllabuses, those four months flew by. I did everything I could to ignore the ache in my chest at being back in the same town as her—Jennifer—one of the reasons I left in the first place. Everything to ignore the pain and focus on something else—anything else.

  Natalia is the other reason those months flew by. She’s my high demanding and sarcastic eleven-year-old niece who’s complained about my cooking every night since she moved in with me.

  She’s also taught me a lot in the time she’s lived with me.

  Eleven-year-old girls do not like when you walk them into the school building. They also don’t like when you kneel down to tie their shoe. They also may possibly scream when you walk into the bathroom—forgetting you, in fact, do not live alone anymore—and they are only in a towel.

  Oh, the things I’ve had to quickly learn to accommodate Natalia.

  But I love her. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.

  And we’re trying to figure it out—even though we’re both grieving.

  My heart aches at the memory of getting the call six months ago. My mother was so hysterical that I could barely understand anything she was saying. Once they translated into actual words, the walls began to close in on me. I was in shock. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe.

  Six months later, and I still feel that way, except now I’ve learned to ignore it. The pain stings to the point of bitterness. Bitter that it happened. Bitter that I had to come back. Bitter that I have no idea how to raise a child.

  Painting is my solace or was at least. I haven’t been able to paint a damn thing since then, which is really fucking ironic since I’m an art professor. But what choice do I have? I need a job and it’s the only thing I know. But if there’s one thing I know about the power of painting is when you need it most, it’ll eventually pull you out of whatever shit you’re dealing with—or so that’s what I’m hoping for anyway.

  “Knock, knock,” I hear from my doorway. I quickly look up and notice it’s Claire—again. She’s been coming to my office every day for two weeks as I’ve been rapidly trying to prepare for my classes that are resuming soon. Since I’m coming in halfway through the year at spring semester, I’ve been looking over students’ art portfolio’s to get ideas of their strong suits so I can coordinate my syllabus to their needs.

  “Hi, Claire,” I draw out slowly, the annoyance in my tone going right over her head as she invites herself in. “What’s up?”

  She settles in on the chair across from my desk. Her skin-tight pencil skirt nearly rips in two as she crosses her legs and arches her back, pushing her breasts firm against her thin blouse. She flips her blonde hair, exposing the flesh of her neck. I shudder, wondering what’s made this woman so insecure that she feels the need to throw herself at me.

  “Well, I thought since you’ve been working nonstop and have hardly taken a break to even eat lunch most days, we could go out for drinks tonight.” Her tongue runs along her lower lip just before pulling it in between her teeth and biting it. “Celebrate your new job and the start of a fresh semester,” she continues with an encouraging smile.

  “As much as I’d love that…” She doesn’t hear the condescending tone in my voice by the wide, girly smile that spreads across her face. “I’ll have to take a raincheck. I’m taking Natalia to a movie tonight before I get busy with work again.” It’s a lie, but she doesn’t even as much as flinch on another rejection. She’s only asked me out a dozen times, and I’ve found a way to get out of each of them.

  How her brain isn’t connecting the dots to, I’m not interested is beyond me. If she were any other woman at a bar or we shared the same mutual friends, I’d have no issues letting her know it was never going to happen. However, to avoid pissing my colleagues off before class even begins, I have to play nice for now.

  Truthfully, if it weren’t for a certain portfolio that’s captivated my attention, I’d be doing all this prep work from home. But there’s one specific student—Aspen Evans—that’s grabbed my attention more than the rest. She has high honorable mentions, has excelled in all of her classes, and already has some letters of recommendations for graduate school. She passed into the accelerated art program with flying colors.

  Studying her pieces over the last couple of weeks, I feel like I’ve grown to know her already. I realize this sounds crazy, considering I have no idea who she is, but it’s obvious by her paintings that she’s a deeply emotional person. Her dark and dramatic pieces are consistent since her freshmen year. Some are bright and bold abstract paintings, some are watercolor portraits, and some are pastel drawings. Then there are some pencil-drawn and heavily shaded with sadness. She’s definitely drawing from some kind of inner turmoil, and I can’t help but be intrigued by the stories she’s telling.

  A part of me connects with them, aches in familiarity. The feeling of losing Ryan only months ago feels like bile in my throat and chokes all the air out of me. My eyes burn with tears that I refuse to shed, considering the way things ended between us. It had been five years since I’d seen him, aside from his funeral, of course, but even though he died a hero, I fear I’ll never have any real closure.

  Not because of what he did, but who I let come between us.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ASPEN

  After spending the afternoon with Kendall and Zoe, I come home and go straight to my studio. Several hours of staring at the same blank canvas later, I brew myself a pot of coffee. The canvas just sits there on my easel, mocking me as I chastise myself.

  I haven’t felt this blocked in months. Everything I start, I end up tossing out or getting so frustrated I throw it across the room. I hate everything I paint or draw, and considering school is starting in less than twelve hours, the pressure to get my shit together is even stronger.

  Skinny Love has been playing on repeat, which is usually my go-to song. It helps me escape into a place where I can create the things I see in my mind. But after five unsuccessful attempts, I give up and sit in the middle of the floor—where I ultimately pass out.

  The sound of knocking startles me out of my sleep. The achy feeling in my back and the sun beaming through the blinds indicates I’ve slept here all night. The knocking gets louder and more persistent, so I lazily stand up and walk toward the door. “Coming!” I shout.

  When I whip it open, I see Kendall with an amused look on the other side. “I hate you,” I hiss.

&n
bsp; She grins, eyeing me up and down with a raised brow. “You’re covered in paint.” I look down and see that she’s right. “Fall asleep in the studio again?”

  “Looks that way.” I sigh.

  “Well, rise and shine. We’re leaving for school in forty-five minutes.”

  I groan and open the door wider for her to step in and wait while I shower. After a half-ass attempt at doing my hair and makeup, I quickly dress in jeans and my favorite heels and pack up all my supplies.

  “Are you all right?” she asks, her eyes narrowing at my appearance.

  “Ask me after a couple cups of coffee.” The half pot I sucked down the night before did nothing for my energy.

  She snorts and leads me out the door and down the hallway.

  “What’s your first class?” I ask.

  “I have a nine a.m. philosophy lecture.”

  “With Professor Hennington?”

  “Yup.” She sighs. “I plan to stay in the back and sleep.”

  I laugh. “You get a B just for showing up.”

  “Then I’ll go once a week and aim for a C.” She looks at me and grins as we walk through the parking lot toward her car.

  We chat and make plans to meet up for lunch as we drive to school. Once she finds a parking spot, we head off in separate directions to our first classes.

  The first day of school always goes like clockwork. Syllabus and a schedule of assignments are handed out, and I soon find myself feeling overwhelmed with five classes and working three to four shifts at the gallery each week. But when you leave home with hardly any money, you do what’s necessary to survive.

  Tuesday starts and ends just as uneventfully. I’ve been looking forward to my night class, Advanced Art, ever since I signed up for it last semester. I’ve had a variety of art classes throughout the years, but painting has always been my passion.

  Kendall and I meet up for a quick bite to eat before I head to the Lakin Arts and Behavioral—LAB—building. I don’t recognize the professor’s name on my schedule, so I assume he or she is new this semester.