I see her swallow and her eyes narrow. “Every day is a battle. And yet, no one wins.”
“You never do when it’s a battle against yourself,” I say, stepping closer. “With internal battles, you either end up giving in or ending the battle altogether.”
“What if you can’t do either?”
“There’s always a choice,” I remind her.
“The choice to feel happy or let the pain consume you,” she states. “I wish I could push the pain out and invite the happiness in without feeling guilty about it.”
“Why can’t you?”
She looks at the painting and then back to me. “Because I’m reminded of her every time I look in the mirror.”
“Do you think she’d want you to be happy?” I ask, knowing damn well what her answer will be.
“Yeah, of course. She was always so energetic and smiling. It was contagious.” I notice the corner of her lips curling up slightly as she shifts her head and looks up at me. “I wish I could stop missing her. Stop wondering about what ifs and if it had been me instead.”
Without permission, I wrap my finger around a misplaced piece of her golden hair. She keeps her eyes locked on mine as I slowly tuck it behind her ear. I’m closer than before, and this time I don’t back up.
The air between us is electric. There’s no other way to explain it. The way her eyes bleed into mine, the way her lips part when our eyes connect, the way she looks at me when I seem to be the only one who knows how to speak her language—it’s electric.
I wait for her to make a move—indicate that she wants what I want, but it looks like she’s barely breathing.
I decide I can’t wait for her anymore and that the risk is worth it, but before I can do anything about it, she breaks away at the sound of a door creaking.
“Professor Hamp—” I lower my hand and turn toward the door to a student of mine.
“Kara…” I say after an awkward silence. “What can I help you with?”
Aspen starts busying herself with her supplies while Kara continues walking in and begins talking again. “So sorry to…interrupt. I thought I’d catch you before your next class starts. I had a quick question about our latest assignment.”
“Sure, what can I help you with?”
The way her arm brushes against mine doesn’t go unnoticed, but neither does the fact that Aspen walks out without a second glance. I know she’ll be back before class starts, but I feel the urge to run after her even though I know I can’t. Almost getting caught by a student is enough to make me step back and realize I need to get my head straight.
But around her…I can’t seem to think straight at all.
CHAPTER NINE
ASPEN
By Saturday, I need to clear my head of any and all thoughts of Professor Hampton.
I invite Kendall out to lunch with me, hoping for a much-needed distraction. I would’ve asked Zoe, but she was still in bed from her late Friday night shift.
However, if there’s anyone who can drown out my own thoughts, it’s Kendall.
“So I’ve never asked. What made you pick California?” she asks after our food arrives.
“I needed to get some sun,” I say dryly, avoiding eye contact.
“Oh, speaking of sun, you should totally come with us paddle boarding this summer. My friend, Beef, is an instructor and is going to teach me. You’d have a total blast!” Her eyes light up as I fork a piece of chicken in my mouth.
“His name is Beef?” I query, furrowing my brows.
“Well, his last name is Beefer. I’ve always just called him Beef because he’s like totally beefed up.”
I snort. “Classy.”
“Don’t be judgy.” She sneers.
“So you two never…hooked up? Does Kellan know you plan to paddle board with hot, beefy guys?”
She glares at me, and I laugh.
“I’m just asking,” I say innocently.
“Don’t even get me started.”
“I’m starting to notice a theme.”
“Well, if you must know…we have not. Not from a lack of trying though. Before Kellan, I ended up dating a wide range of weirdos.”
“Really? Do tell.” I grab my drink and take a quick sip.
“Well, Beef is really into fitness, which is fine. But I’m more in the ‘I’ll only run if I’m being chased by a bear’ proximity.”
“So nothing in common?” I offer.
“Not really. We’re just better off as friends.” She finishes chewing and takes a drink, her cheeks reddening.
“So what about these other guys you dated?”
“Well, there was Lance. He was great…at first. From the outside anyway. Good looking, full-time job, owned his own car and house. Then we met up for drinks and dinner.”
“I’m afraid to even ask…”
She sighs and rolls her eyes before speaking in a high-pitched mock tone. “This restaurant—brilliant! This food—brilliant! The music—brilliant! My outfit—“
“Brilliant?”
“Oh my God! It was a fucking nightmare!” I can’t stop the round of laughter that escapes my throat at her facial expressions. “And then when I asked about his job, he said brilliant thirteen times!” Her eyes widen, and I continue laughing. “Thirteen times! I started counting!”
By now, we’re both hysterically laughing.
I manage to swallow my food down without choking, but not without effort. When the waitress checks on us, she responds, “Brilliant. The food was brilliant. The drinks were brilliant. You were simply brilliant.”
I don’t know how she manages to keep a straight face, but once the waitress purses her lips together and responds with a cold, ‘great, I’m glad to hear it,’ comment and not so casually leaves the bill on the table before walking away, we burst into a fit of giggles once again.
“Seriously…I don’t think anyone will ever be able to top off Mr. Brilliant.” I shake my head, reassured he has to be the worst of the worst.
“Sad thing is…I’m sure some of the others could.” She takes another drink although she really shouldn’t.
“Don’t you do background checks on these guys? Urine samples?”
“I really should,” she agrees, but the frantic bobbing of her head lets me know it’s the alcohol taking its course. “Or someone should. Oh! Like an agency! A pre-dating agency.” She clears her throat and continues. “We provide the work up so you can do the work down!”
I cover my mouth to avoid laughing again, but it’s no use. “That’s the worst slogan I’ve ever heard.”
“But admit it…you’d totally use it.”
“It might scare them off.”
She shrugs her shoulders. “Then at least we’d know beforehand. No time wasted!”
“Speaking of wasted…” I murmur, but she waves me off. “All right…so who else?”
“Oh! There was Quinn. I met him through a mutual friend from high school. So we start talking online, which leads to texting and other things, and when we finally plan to meet up, he tells me he doesn’t drink! Like what are we, cavemen?” I burst out laughing, and when I start to notice that other people are staring at us, I suggest it’s time we get going.
I put some cash down on the table to cover the bill plus her tip before sliding out my chair and motioning her to do the same.
“I mean, really? I get being all religious and not drinking, or even being sober because you used to fancy the bottle a little too much, but he’s never ever had alcohol even after he turned twenty-one.”
We begin walking out to the car when I loop my arm inside hers, mostly to make sure she doesn’t fall back on her ass. “How’s that even possible?” I ask, getting into the driver’s seat.
“I don’t even know. That’s like staying a virgin after your married. It doesn’t make any sense at all!”
We’re about half way to the apartment building when she brings up the one thing I had really hoped she wouldn’t ask…
“So, I kn
ow you’re focused on your art and busy at school and work, but have any art geeks grabbed your attention long enough to stick around for more than a night?”
I snort at her choice of words. I know I can’t tell her, although I’m dying to tell someone I’m crushing hard for my art professor—but I need to be careful. Even though I’m almost one hundred percent certain she wouldn’t say anything, I can’t risk it.
“Nope.”
“C’mon…no one that’s interested you for more than twelve hours?” She perks a brow, sporting a devilish grin.
“There’s been an interest, but that’s it. We just talk and flirt.”
“And?” she prompts.
“And nothing. It’s best we just stay friends.”
“Well…friends can have fun, too.”
I smile at her insinuation. “As much as I wouldn’t mind some of that fun, it can’t happen, either.”
“All right, Aspen. I’m starting to notice a theme.”
“Which is?”
“You have a boring life.”
“I beg to differ.” I roll my eyes. “Since we’re on the topic of interests, when are you finally going to kick that non-grabby hands boyfriend of yours to the curb?”
She exaggerates a gasp. “He is plenty grabby, thank you very much.”
“Oh, has he reached the elbow finally?” I snort, cracking up at my own joke.
“I hate you!” she hisses with a laugh, throwing a pathetic punch at me. “We are way past the elbow!”
“Oh, good!” I glance in her direction. “So I can expect a graphic second base story coming soon?”
“Gah! I wonder if it’s because he’s small. Do you think that’s why he’s put off on going all the way?”
She leans her head back on the headrest where she closes her eyes and sighs. “Well, I guess there’s really only one way to find out, isn’t there?”
“That’s it…we’re doing it. It’s been three months, dammit. I’m just going to get naked and jump on top of him. There’s no way a guy would push this—” She opens her eyes and waves a hand down her body. “—away unless they’re gay.”
“Agreed. I’d even let you get to a few bases before I pushed you off.”
“You’re such a bitch!” She laughs.
We arrive back at the complex and head back inside. I plan to nap before we head out for the night. “So you’re meeting Zoe at the bar around ten?” she confirms before we each head back into our apartments.
“Yup. Save me a seat.” I wink before unlocking my door and stepping inside.
I wouldn’t normally think twice about going out with the girls and finding a guy to take home, but since getting closer to Professor Hampton, it makes my stomach turn just thinking about bringing anyone back to my place. Although I have absolutely no claim on him, it doesn’t stop the burning desire to wish I did. The way it feels to be around him isn’t a feeling I’ve ever had before…
He makes me feel things I shouldn’t.
Seeing Professor Hampton twice a week is really starting to mess with my head. The next week goes like the previous three weeks—work, school, noticeable throbbing between my legs, painting, daydreaming of what Professor Hampton’s lips would feel like against mine.
How his naked body would look and feel…
The constant struggle of trying to stay focused around him while wondering what he’d look like naked and tangled in my sheets is distracting to the point where I almost left the house without a shirt on and about walked into a closed door when I finally realized it.
It’s really becoming a safety hazard.
Every time I’m concentrating on a project in class, I feel him watching me. Even when I’m not facing him, I feel his presence near me, and I wonder if I’m crazy for having these mixed feelings. I know he feels them too and that confuses me even more.
I’ve never wanted a guy to have those types of feelings for me. I knew I couldn’t return them. I know the emotional baggage I carry around is too much for anyone to be burdened with, so I keep it inside. I push it deeper and deeper, never exposing it for what it really is—fear and guilt.
It started back in high school after Ariel’s funeral. I was allowed to take a week off before returning, but it might as well have been one day, because no matter how long it was, it never would’ve been enough. Students stared at me, teachers pitied me, my counselor, Ms. Newman, pulled me from classes that I wasn’t participating in.
Although my parents were called several times about it, they were just as mentally absent as I was. I’d isolated myself from everyone and everything. One day during study hall, Ms. Newman stood in front of me and told me to come with her. It wasn’t a request. It was an order.
I followed her into the art room where students were all quietly working on art projects. Mr. Bakersfield sat at his desk when Ms. Newman walked me in and introduced us. I was told to come to his room every day instead of study hall. Without questioning anything, I did as I was told. It didn’t really matter where I was anyway.
The first half of the semester, I just sat in his classroom. I didn’t talk. I hardly listened. I didn’t participate in any of the assignments. After awhile, I’d pick up a pencil and start doodling. That led to drawing, which later led to painting. I began participating in class every day, silently working alone. One day, after class had already been dismissed, Mr. Bakersfield handed me a large canvas. He didn’t say anything, just smiled at me and winked.
I stayed late and painted the darkest image I’ve ever seen. I let my guard down and let everything inside of me out on that canvas. I wasn’t exactly sure what it even was, but it released something inside of me.
I continued working on it for weeks, adding to it and trying to make sense of what it could be. It looked evil on one side, but on the other, it was bright and happy. By the time I finished, I knew.
The painting was me.
What I couldn’t express verbally, I had expressed through art. I was furious with the universe that she had died. I was angry and bitter, and I hated everyone for it.
But she represented happiness and laughter. Her memories would always be with me, and deep down, I knew that. I was battling with so much inside that I didn’t know how to express myself with words. Drawing and painting gave me that outlet. I started staying after school to use the art supplies as Mr. Bakersfield cleaned up the rest of the room. He never barraged me with questions or asked how I was doing. He was just there.
I hadn’t realized it at the time that my counselors put me in art classes due to my lack of interest in talking things out. It’s what finally clicked for me and gave me what I hadn’t realized I needed.
But then school wrapped up for the year and my outlet was gone. I was back to being bitter and angry, and I just wanted my paints back. One day, after grabbing the mail for my mother, I noticed an envelope addressed to me. I flipped it over, looking for a return address, but there wasn’t one.
I ripped it open to a folded piece of paper. When I unfolded it, I immediately knew who sent it.
Mr. Bakersfield.
It was a flyer for an art class at the local college. It was open to high school and college students. At the bottom in his handwriting were the words, Make a masterpiece. Do her proud.
I cried, relieved and happy that I’d be able to do just that.
I spent the next three years focusing on art. I signed up for every high school art class and any available at the college. I started at the beginners level, but by the time I graduated high school, I was mastering techniques college seniors were still trying to nail.
So when it was time to start thinking about college and majors, it was a no-brainer for me.
Go to art school as far away from Illinois as possible.
Graduate and find a job.
Never stop painting.
Create something worth making—and I plan to do just that.
As I head to my Monday restorative art class, my earbuds pumping with Adele, Professor Van Bergen s
teps right out in front of me, scaring the earbuds right out of me.
Grabbing my iPhone to mute the music, I flash an annoyed glare and wait for this unfortunately meet and greet to pass.
“Oh, hi, Aspen.” Her voice sweet with sugar, but laced with fake politeness. “I was just in Morgan’s class…” she pauses and corrects herself. “I mean Professor Hampton’s classroom. He was showing me one of your pieces, and I have to say I’m very impressed. He seems to think you’ll go far in your career.”
Returning her fake smile with one of my own, I mimic her sweet, fake tone. “Thank you. Your opinion means so much to me.” I place a hand over my heart, pretending to genuinely care about her opinion.
The undercurrent of my statement doesn’t go unnoticed and she stands taller, trying to assert her importance. It would be comical if she didn’t seem to have an infatuation with Morgan and my relationship—even if there is no relationship.
Clearing her throat and tilting her nose to the ceiling, she says, “As it should. Tell me, Aspen, are you still planning on going to graduation school after you graduate?” She doesn’t give me a chance to answer, railroading on. “Because, it’d sure be a shame if anything got in the way of such a promising future.” She mimics my gesture by pressing a hand over her heart and pretending as if she really gives a shit.
My eyes narrow in on the conniving bitch. My mouth opens to respond, but I quickly close it. I’ve got a dozen inappropriate things I’d love to say right now, but I know my boundaries. She smiles in victory and pats my shoulder as she takes a step to walk around me. “Ta-ta, Aspen.”
Ugh! I want to throw one of my high heels at her, but they’re way too valuable to waste it on someone like her. Plus, I’m not sure I could really get myself out of that jam. “Sorry, Dean Fletcher. The shoe just slipped off my foot and flew into Professor Van Bergen’s face.”
Pushing the Limits: A Student/Teacher Romance Page 11
