by Kate Stewart
The Guy on the Left
Copyright © 2019 by Kate Stewart
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
1st Line Editor: Donna Cooksley Sanderson
2nd Line Editor: Grey Ditto
Cover by Amy Queau of Qdesign
Formatting by Champagne Book Design
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
First Quarter
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Second Quarter
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Third Quarter
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Fourth Quarter
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Epilogue
About the Author
Thank You
For the little people in my life. When you’re old enough to read my books, I hope you see how your big little lives inspire me. And how beautiful I think all of your colors are.
Your loving Aunt Katy
Listen to The Guy on the Left playlist on Spotify
Clarissa
Flipping down my visor mirror, I apply one last coat of gloss and then tousle my hair for a little volume. I spent hours this morning picking out the perfect dress, before bronzing some of the morning sickness out of my complexion. Somewhat satisfied, I smooth my hand over my dress, caressing my bump.
“Here we go, Peanut. Do me a favor, and let me keep that granola parfait down. Okay? Just give me half an hour. But if you can swing it, a full day would be greatly appreciated.”
Nerves firing, I gather my purse and lock my car, darting my eyes around the parking lot before making my way toward the building.
The next twenty minutes will be life-altering. Mustering up my courage, I send up a last-minute prayer as I enter the school with a belly full of butterflies, the culprit responsible for this champagne buzz hard to pinpoint today.
And though some of the details are still fuzzy, I can’t credit the baby for all this nervous excitement. It’s a memory that has some of this anticipation thrumming. Those eyes, those lips, that night. It would’ve been hard to forget, even if I didn’t have a constant and growing daily reminder.
I’m romanticizing and have been for the last few days. While I’m sure it has a lot to do with the hormones, I can’t credit it all to the pregnancy. It’s the memory of him and the hours we spent—eyes locked, skin slick, hearts pounding. It was easily the hottest night of my life. But the truth is, no matter how often I fantasize about it, it was a no strings attached hook up.
Well, it was supposed to be, until the faulty condom listened to that feisty little sperm and staged a coup, which will result in his or her arrival in a little under five months. The first month I’d been oblivious, too caught up in the start of my career as a teacher. The next month, I’d spent in denial, though I’m not the type to avoid any situation. I take pride in the fact that I’m a planner, though my best friend, Parker, would say I’m an organizational freak, which I think is a plus considering my profession. But once I’d dealt with steps one and two—denial and shock—I decided confrontation could wait until I’d successfully completed my first trimester.
Before confrontation was acceptance and that’s when the wooing started, a sure sign that he or she takes after their father. Because I’m already in love.
With the baby, not the father.
No, when it comes to him, the reality is I’m mortified. But today, I decided to let hope reign. And my hope is that maybe we can get some of the spark back from that night, form a connection of some sort, even if it isn’t romantic, for the baby’s sake. At least that’s what I told myself this morning when I’d polished my body and painted my lips. It’s a real possibility that I’ve waited too long. Because here it is over four months into the pregnancy, and I haven’t worked up the courage to tell him yet. But that ends today. I know guys like him don’t often stay single, and if my memory serves me correctly, he was a rarity. The idea this news may ruin something personal for him sinks in as I guilt myself for waiting too long. I bat that worry away, determined to see this through.
“No matter what, we’ll be okay,” I murmur, running my fingers along my belly before gripping the glass door and pushing my way into the reception area.
“I’m here to see Troy Jenner. Can you tell me what classroom he’s in?”
The receptionist looks me over skeptically. “Are you on his emergency contact list?”
“I’m sorry?”
“That kind of information is only for those listed on his emergency contacts. Even so, I’d have to call him to the office.”
“I’m sorry, I’m a little confused. Mr. Jenner is on staff here, correct?”
The woman snorts before taking a bite of her apple, speaking around a mouthful. “Troy Jenner, teaching here? Now that would be something.”
I physically jerk back, and she sees it.
No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. Please God, no!
Swallowing, I unintentionally palm my stomach, and her eyes follow. Suspicions raised, she leans in for closer inspection.
“And who are you again?”
I haven’t said who I am in relation to Tro
y, and we both know it.
Think, Clarissa.
“I’m h-his stepsister.”
She doesn’t believe me. I wouldn’t either. Because it’s a lie. A lie that could cost me everything.
“Ah,” she says skeptically. “Well, I’m really not supposed to, but,” she glances at my baby bump, “if this is an emergency?”
“I’m afraid it is,” I reply gravely. Her eyes fill with pity as my mind races back to that night at the bar.
“I just started teaching high school at Round Tree, first year.”
He grins before taking a sip of his beer. “What a coincidence, I’m in my fourth at Burns.”
From then on, it was all smiles, suggestive looks, followed by moans, grunts, and thrusts, inducing the best orgasm I’ve had in years. All of that bliss gave way to a hellacious morning after, though I had no regrets, until this very moment.
Because the man I’ve been fantasizing about is no man. Troy is a student. A high school student.
All of my hopes, along with any idiotic and romantic notions, disintegrate as I grip the counter to keep my knees from buckling.
I’d taken a half-day to deliver the news knowing this was my only way to get it to him. We didn’t exchange numbers, our clothes the only thing we’d swapped when re-dressing in his back seat. Ironically, this is a detail I could never forget. Throwing caution to the wind for just one night to get some much-needed vitamin D had led to an alcohol-induced pregnancy in the back seat of a vehicle.
And this is the cherry on top? I’d procreated with a fucking high school student?!
Reeling, I swallow back the bile climbing my throat as the receptionist summons Troy to the office.
I could walk out of this school right now, and he would be none the wiser. But the sin he’s committed, his blatant lie, has forever altered three lives, one of which he helped create. That can’t go unaddressed.
It’s too late to turn around. No part of this can be undone, and I’ll forever hate him for putting me and his unborn child in this position.
Anger, like I’ve never felt, fills me as I stand in wait for the man who has betrayed me in a way I can never forgive. Surely, he’s seen enough headlines for these types of scandals to know what consequences I would face if our tryst were ever discovered. And now, I’m walking evidence of said union.
He’d deliberately deceived me, so purposefully, that my imminent need to feel his flesh against my palm and sub his balls for a sparring partner is all-consuming. I could blame it on the hormones, but the truth is, I’m livid, disgusted, mortified, and a thousand other emotions I have no choice but to conceal, so I don’t implode in front of the school secretary. My hopes for some semblance of a relationship with the father of my child has just gone from maybe to never. He looked like a man, fucked like a man, but was, in fact, a teenager.
I will face him today with the intent of never laying eyes on him again. If he has even the smallest amount of conscience, this news will turn his world upside down and instill in him some of the terror racing through me.
Reading my hostile posture, the receptionist, whose nameplate reads Mrs. Garrison, speaks up from where she sits in front of a group of incoming students. “Mr. Brown’s office is empty today, if you’d like some privacy.”
“Thank you.”
She nods, again eyeing me with sympathy as I try to mask my fury. I’m too pissed off to feel any sort of comfort.
Once inside the small office, I sit behind the desk, nerves firing off at random. I only have a few minutes to grapple with what I’m going to say. But what is there to say? My reason for being here has completely changed. Realization hits me fully that I already have my answer without even discussing it with Troy. I’m going to do this alone—as a single mother.
I lift my phone to text Parker so she can give me the go-ahead to slice and dice some accordion-textured flesh to make new earrings, but it’s then I hear his voice call out to the lady at the desk. The timbre only slightly familiar, but it’s the distinct voice of a man. Even so, there should have been other hints. How, how could I have not known?
Vodka. Too much vodka.
“Stepsister?” He asks, clearly confused as he opens the door, his curious eyes meeting mine before widening in recognition. He pauses halfway inside the small office before lowering his gaze to the floor. “Thanks, Mrs. G.” He shuts the door putting his weight against it, head hung, his hands on the knob behind him. I hide the bulk of my belly beneath the desk as I glare at him. Letting out a steady breath, his eyes again lift to mine.
“How old are you?”
He ambles toward me, looking very much the same as he did months ago, though my perception of him has definitely changed.
He’s beauty and deception.
Tall, incredibly built, biceps bulging beneath his T-shirt with corded muscles gathered at his shoulders. Rusty blond hair, glacier blue eyes, slightly-wide prominent nose, square granite jaw, full lips—the features of a man and he’s anything but.
“What I did—”
“You didn’t regret nor feel an ounce of guilt for, until this moment. How old are you?”
He swallows. “Clarissa—”
“Oh, good, you remember my name. Because you were completely clear with yours, Troy Jenner. And, apparently, that’s the only truth you spoke that night.”
He hangs his head. “That night, I was so—”
“Buzzed? Me too. Yet, I still knew my numbers. Especially my age, and I could recite my alphabet and put the letters together to form the truth. How. Old. Are. You?”
He blows out a defeated breath. “Nineteen, in November. I failed sixth grade.”
Pressing my lips together, it’s all I can do to keep from screaming. I’ve never been so angry in my life. I give myself a few seconds to get it together but can still hear the shake in my voice when I’m able to speak.
“I should be relieved.” Furious tears gather in my eyes. “But I’m not. And do you know why?”
He slowly nods, his eyes roaming over my face, neck, and chest, which has me recoiling.
The kicker of it is, that night, I felt an attraction to him I rarely have for other men. A connection, even though our common bond for those few hours was mostly physical need, or in my case, to ease the ache of loneliness after a breakup. I’d felt alive with him in a way I hadn’t in years. I wasn’t about to use the pregnancy as an excuse, but I hoped maybe he’d seek me out. When that didn’t happen, I resigned to use that night in my future fantasies. Problem is that now I have been imagining him for months. Our easy conversation, the way we clicked, the way he kissed me, covered me, consumed me, made an impression that lasted. And now, as water gathers in my mouth, I fight the urge to be sick at the idea of just how often I replayed that night in my head.
It’s all too obvious it was a foolish pipe dream as I sit in the middle of my worst nightmare. Troy runs a hand through his hair as his Adam’s apple bobs, those blue orbs scouring me in inappropriate appreciation.
My stomach rolls as my anger boils over.
“I went to college for five years, Troy. Five. To make a difference. To mentor young minds. To help promote growth, so that one day those young people can become what they dream they can be and you—”
“Clarissa, I’m sorry—,” he says, his hands up. “I’ve thought about you, but I knew—”
“I’m not a bad person,” I bat my tears away, looking up at him with incredulous eyes. “But you know damn well what we did will make me look like a predator.”
“We didn’t do anything wrong, not legally.”
“You’re a teenager, a fucking student.” I stand abruptly while his gaze follows the path of the hand used to accentuate my baby bump. “What did you do?”
His expression goes from remorse to disbelief as I round the desk and confront him face to face.
“Tell me, did you laugh to yourself the whole way home? Did you check some fucking sick fantasy off your list? Carve a T for teach in your bedpost?”
His eyes are still fixed on my stomach. “You’re—”
I reach back and slap him as hard as I can. Palm burning, I barely recognize the indignation in my own voice. “Don’t ever, ever, contact me. Don’t come looking for me, for us, ever. You will have nothing to do with this baby. This,” I emphasize, rubbing my belly, “is solely mine to love and a secret for you. A secret you will take to your grave and live with for the rest of your life.”
He palms his jaw, his face reddening from my slap. “I deserved that, but please—”
“Don’t even think about pleading your case. You don’t have one.”
He reaches out a hand to stop me when I attempt to step around him.
“This is not up for discussion. You’re a fucking child. Don’t touch me,” I jerk away from his grip. Tilting up to meet his watery gaze, I glare at him. “I mean it with every fiber of my being. I never want to see you again.” Opening the door, so he knows the discussion is over, I meet the stare of one Mrs. Garrison. She’ll be one of four that will ever know who the father of my baby is. I say a silent prayer, tears I’m unable to stop streaming from my eyes as she looks on at me with a slow nod. If she knew who I was, if she, for one second, knew the real reason for my outrage, I have zero doubts my life would be over. But she doesn’t, her eyes telling me that woman to woman, my secret is safe.
“Clarissa,” Troy calls to me weakly, standing where I left him in the office behind me. I glance back to see a thousand emotions swimming in his eyes, but my anger outweighs anything he may feel. “Please let me talk to you.”
“Stay away from us,” I hiss before walking out.
Troy
I saw my son for the first time on social media because Clarissa changed her profile pic. Her account was set to private, and I dare not think she would ever accept me as a friend. But I thanked God for mother’s pride when she updated her picture with his birth announcement.
Dante Oliver Arden was born October fifth, eight pounds two ounces, twenty-two inches long. If I had any doubts about her claim that I fathered him, which I didn’t, they would’ve been dismissed the minute I saw him. He had my hair color, my nose and chin, and her last name. But he was mine, and after laying eyes on him, I was his. After a stellar game where I scored three touchdowns, which earned me a visit from a scout, I found out I was a father. Once I’d returned from the out of town game, I’d visited every hospital within a ten-mile radius of the school she worked at and found she’d checked out the day before. At eighteen, I’d become a dad, which was both elating and devastating—because my son entered the world fatherless.
