Текст книги "Indisputable"
Автор книги: A. M. Wilson
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
CHAPTER TWO
Tatum
The rumbling of the engine quiets down to a gentle purr when Ryan pulls up in front of the all night diner. This town is so small it has one of everything. One church. One bar. One mechanic’s shop-slash-gas station. One restaurant. One coffee shop. One nursing home. And one school that houses k-12. Anything else is a 20 minute drive out of town.
Plenty of residents are entirely comfortable making that commute to have more amenities in their lives. The majority of us stay put, myself included. I embrace the simple life. I’m too busy juggling my life so I don’t get evicted, fired, or expelled to spend time at the theater or the mall. Not to mention I can’t afford it—the time or the money.
My stomach shifts with a sudden bout of nerves as Ryan exits the car. He steps onto the curb but looks back when I don’t follow. I’m stuck stupidly staring after him through the windshield. What am I doing here? I just met this guy, and now I’m going out for a late night snack. I don’t do this. I never do this. So why do I want to go inside? Why do I feel as if I’ll miss something spectacular if I ask him to bring me home instead? I feel crazy and conflicted. Ryan confuses me and intrigues me, angers me and excites me all at once. I like it. The thrill of doing something out of the ordinary is intoxicating.
Slowly, I climb out of Ryan’s car and join him on the sidewalk.
“Hi,” I supply when neither of us move nor speak.
“Is that all you know how to say?” he teases, a dimple creasing his cheek. Somehow I failed to notice that feature during the dark car ride, but it’s kind of sexy.
Under the lamp lighting the entrance, I realize he’s handsome. He definitely does not look like a creepy stalker murder. And he can’t be much older than I am. His hair is dark brown and tousled, falling slightly over his ears and collar. He has rich, chocolate brown eyes, and his gaze is warm, regarding me with curiosity and a whole lot of interest. As my eyes slide down to assess his mouth, I notice he’s grinning at me again.
“Uh-what?”
I forgot he asked me something. I was too busy ogling over the dimple in his cheek. Ryan drops his chin to his chest and shakes his head slowly. He’s laughing at me and trying to hide it. Bastard.
“Nothin’, Sweetheart. Let’s go inside.”
Ever the chivalrous gentlemen, Ryan holds the door open and waits for me to pass through. I’m beginning to feel awkward. I’m not used to this behavior, and I don’t know how to react. My natural inclination is to be a smartass but that would be rude. Rudeness is something I reserve for familiar company, not some stranger who saved me from being stranded on a dark, remote highway.
“Thanks,” I mutter instead, digging deep to locate my manners.
I zip passed him, swerve around the empty hostess station, and slide into the booth in the corner by the kitchen. The diner is outdated and in extreme need of some TLC. Yellowed chandeliers hang throughout the ceiling, one above every third table. Faded green and white wall paper peeks out beneath an array of local sports memorabilia. Jerseys from past all-star players, bats with signatures, hockey sticks, team photos, trophies; all dating back to when my generation’s grandparents were kids. Ancient dark green booth tops stand in a half moon shape around the counter that’s lined with hard metal barstools. Stained and faded dark green carpet covers the floors. Despite the crippling décor, the food is delicious, encompassing all that is warm belly filling home-style comfort food, and the owners are the friendliest couple I’ve ever met.
My assessment takes all of three seconds, and then Ryan is seating himself into the opposite green padded seat of the booth. Grinning at me.
“Are you always so happy?”
The words slip from my dry lips before I have time to assess if I should speak them aloud. Normally, I can pride myself on a decent brain-to-mouth filter; however, it’s been malfunctioning in Ryan’s presence. His grin falls for half a second before he fixes it back into place. I duck my head and suck on my lower lip nervously, hoping he won’t respond.
“Aren’t you ever happy?”
“No,” I answer flatly. That was an easy question.
“No? You’re never happy just because? Happy to be alive? Being able to wake up each morning doesn’t make you happy?”
There’s more he wants to say, but he’s waiting for a response from me. So I give him one. Tipping my head back, I release the bubble of laughter erupting from deep in my belly. Tears trickle down my cheeks as I roar from the hilarity of his question. Happy because I exist? Abso-freakin-lutely not. I don’t have an obsession with death. There isn’t a plan somewhere for how and when I’ll die. I’m not suicidal. But I’m also not even remotely happy for my existence. Not unless that existence was a few hundred miles away from here.
“That funny, huh?” The clipped tone of his voice brings me back from the edge of a manic episode, and I crack open an eyelid to peek at him. He’s pretty cute. Ryan’s leaning back in his booth, his long masculine fingers fiddling with the roll of silverware while he waits patiently for me to contain myself. He looks slightly exasperated except for the corner of his mouth that’s twitching. He finds me amusing!
“Sorry! I’m sorry. I just-.” What can I possibly say to explain my crazy? “Are you really happy simply based on your existence? I find that hard to believe. Nobody is that happy.”
“Sounded pretty stupid, didn’t it?” Ryan runs his hand through his thick, dark hair making it stick up quite charmingly. He pauses amid a second swipe, freezing as if realizing he’s performing a nervous habit, and he flattens both palms on the hunter green tabletop. “I have a friend who was always trying to get me into a more positive mindset. She suggested I work on being happy because I’m alive. That’s it. Be happy because I’m here. I always thought it was a load of crap.” His smile turns thoughtful and somewhat sad. “I’ve never tried her advice on anyone else before. Judging by your reaction, I’d say you feel the same way as I do.”
I nod carefully. I try to ignore the way my stomach contracts at the mention of ‘she’ and force myself not to ask who ‘she’ is to him. I’m having a friendly meal with a stranger who rescued me from the side of the road in the middle of the night. There’s nothing more to this. Nothing. There can’t be. Even if I had the time to invest in a relationship, I can’t think of one reason why this guy would want to go out with me. So ‘she’ can have him. She can have him. I can’t.
“Is she a psychologist?” Damnit. “I mean, it sounds like a load of shrink mumbo jumbo.”
Ryan opens his mouth to respond when the waitress appears to take our orders.
“Hey there, my name is Heather. What can I start ya off with to drink?” Heather is a few years older than me, a blonde bombshell beauty complete with a soft body and perfect curves. She’s round in all the right places. She’s wearing the standard uniform of black slacks and a white collared shirt with a hunter green apron folded across her waist. She folds her hands and rests them against her cocked hip while she waits for us to order.
“A water for me,” I reply quickly, keeping my gaze away from Ryan’s. Now that my car is junk, I’ll have to repair that first. Which means no food or kindle money for the next week. Why did I agree to this? I can’t expect him to pay for me just because he’s a guy. Sure, he’s been sweet and chivalrous all night, but that doesn’t mean he wants to pay for my food, too. He’s done enough for me already.
“I’ll have a Coke,” Ryan says, but I know his eyes haven’t left me. I can feel the weight of his stare, my body tingling with awareness. The hairs on my arms and neck prickle to attention. God, please look away before my embarrassment is evident. I’m sure my cheeks look like two hot tomatoes.
“You two ready to order or do you need a minute?” Heather’s voice rides the scale, nearing a crescendo in her sweet singsong tone. Girl needs to lay off the caffeine.
“Are you ready, Tatum?”
“Uh-sure. I’ll have a side of fries.”
“A side of fries?” Ryan and Heather repeat simultaneously. If my face wasn’t pink before, it sure is flaming now. Please, someone take me out. Send in a heat seeking missile or a zombie apocalypse. I’m sure either would be able to find me with the way my heart is pumping right now.
“Sorry, can we have a minute?”
My gold nail polish is chipping off. I really should get them painted more often, but it takes so much time and between school, and work, and homework, the last thing I want to do at midnight is paint my nails. They look ridiculous with half the color coming off though, so I start grinding away at the edges using my thumbnail. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
“Tatum.”
Only two more fingers left on my left hand, then I need to move onto my right. Can’t have one hand with polish and one without.
“Tatum, look at me.”
I scrape harder, almost done with my pinky, but my thumb slips off my nail and tears into my cuticle. The skin breaks and a trail of blood wells up from beneath the sliced skin.
“Ouch!”
My skin burns, and I bring my damaged finger to my mouth to suck the blood from my wound. Ryan reaches his hand out to stop me. My head snaps up to find him seated next to me instead of across from me where I left him before retreating inside myself.
“What happened? Are you hurting yourself?” Ryan swiftly wraps my finger in a napkin from the silverware roll.
Oh, the irony. I sigh. “I scratched my finger. You can let go now.”
He doesn’t let go.
Ryan holds slight pressure on my barely injured finger while he looks intently into my eyes. “Why don’t you want to eat anything?”
His proximity is making it hard to breathe, and his question makes me want to punch him in the face. Sucking in a quiet breath, I hush my inner bitch. It’s not his fault I’m dirt poor.
“I’m not hungry,” I try to placate him.
“I call bullshit.” No such luck. “Why come to eat with me if you’re not hungry?”
“Because you look like you tell fascinating stories?”
“Don’t lie to me,” he warns. “Does it have anything to do with your newly acquired car repair and the money you’ll be spending to take care of it? Because, Sweetheart, I wasn’t joking when I said I was offering dinner. Don’t worry about the cost. It’s my treat.”
I shake my head sadly, wondering why this stranger had to drop into my life tonight. Maybe if this was a year or two from now I’d be more willing to relax and eat a comfortable meal with Ryan. “I can’t accept that. You’ve been too generous already.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s my treat.”
“Seriously, Ryan. I can’t let you do that—ˮ
“Sweetheart,” he pauses, and I can’t help but look up at him when he doesn’t continue. His gaze is strong and confident, and it holds me steady. “It’s. My. Treat. Now, pick something decent to eat, or I’ll choose for you.”
Whoa.
My heart drums a rhythm of galloping horses as I pick up my menu. Whatever you say, Mr. Bossy. Whatever you say.
The conversation flows easily in the aftermath of our intense moment. Heather returns with a BBQ chicken sandwich for Ryan and a giant omelet breakfast platter for myself. We stick to lighter topics, discussing movies (most of which I haven’t seen), and music (most of which I haven’t heard). We skim the topic of books, but as soon as I mention my uncontrollable obsession with the young adult and romance genres, Ryan shuts the topic down insisting he’d prefer to keep his balls firmly intact. I think some men in this world could seriously benefit from reading a few romance novels. I’m not sure yet if Ryan is one of those men, but it couldn’t hurt.
We finish our meals and I excuse myself to the restroom when the check comes. I know Ryan insisted he’s happy to pay, but I’m uncomfortable witnessing his generosity.
After using the toilet, I spend a ridiculous amount of time washing my hands and staring at myself in the mirror. My eyes are tired, my hair is flat, and I look pale. I pinch my cheeks to add a little color and tease my hair with my fingertips. After I’m positive enough time has passed, I walk out and find Ryan waiting for me by the hostess stand.
We walk to his car in a slightly uncomfortable silence. What happens now? This is foreign territory for me. Besides a fling or two my freshmen year, and Wyatt, I don’t have any experience outside of teenaged, hormonal, immature guys. Nowhere near the realm of a real man like Ryan. Is he going to kiss me? Does he even like me? I’ve had such a good time that I’ve forgotten I just met him this evening. How embarrassing. Here I am crushing on this stranger, and he probably thinks he’s just being polite.
He might even have a girlfriend.
Shit. Shit!
This is exactly why I don’t do this. Dating is too complicated.
“Tatum?”
I’m still a million miles away in my head, so I fail to notice we’re standing outside the passenger door to his car, but his voice breaks my inner panic. I was probably standing here, still as a statue, staring off into nothing for who knows how long. He probably thinks I’m a head case. Maybe he’ll drop me off at a mental ward. Brilliant, I’m turning into my mother.
“I’m sorry. Did you say something?”
Ryan takes a hesitant step towards me until we’re standing toe to toe. I have to tilt my head back in order to see his face properly. His eyes are shadowed from the streetlight behind him, but I can feel the intensity in his gaze. My eyes are drawn to his tongue darting out from his mouth to run across his bottom lip. My stomach swoops. I slowly rake my stare back to his in perfect timing for his next question.
“Can I kiss you?”
“Do you have a girlfriend?” I blurt. I really need to work on this brain-to-mouth filter thing.
His face registers shock, before he grins and lets out a small laugh.
“You think I’d be asking to kiss you if I have a girlfriend?”
I stare at a button on his black shirt. Well, I ruined that moment. Now I’m too mortified to look him in the eye.
Shrugging my shoulder, I respond, “I don’t know. Just wanted to make sure.”
Ryan laughs again, but I’m not finding this funny.
“Look at me.” I don’t comply. His index finger caresses the smooth skin of my neck before he clasps my chin between his forefinger and thumb. He tilts my face until I meet his eyes. “Tatum,” he pauses. I’m beginning to pant. This is ridiculous, guys don’t affect me like this. “I’m going to kiss you.”
He barely gets the words out, and I gasp as he crushes his mouth to mine. Ryan slides the hand holding my jaw to cup my neck instead, his thumb brushing along the hard ridge of my cheek. His other arm wraps around my back; his strong fingers sliding to tangle in the hair at the nape of my neck.
At first, I stand shock still, unable to process what’s happening. Screw the brain-to-mouth filter, my entire brain is malfunctioning in general. When Ryan slips his tongue against opening of my lips, I’m sparked back to reality. Throwing my arms around his neck, I grasp his silky strands, anchoring his mouth to mine.
His tongue rolls against my own, twisting and swirling in a slow, sensual kiss. He takes tiny licks and flicks into my mouth, drawing my breath into him. It’s heated and intense, but in a controlled way. Unhurried. I feel as though I’ve come alive for the first time. Ryan holds my body tight against his, and I moan at the feel of his erection pressing against my stomach. This is…this is…
Shit. This is just too much.
Oh no. I’ve let myself be swept away by the errant thought that someone might find me interesting. I can’t allow myself to entertain thoughts of a relationship beyond casual sex, and by the way Ryan kisses me, the way I feel around him, I know this could never be just casual. He’s made me feel more in two hours than I’ve let myself feel in two years. He’s been a breath of fresh air, a cold drink of water, and every other cliché out there for someone like me. I need to get out of here. I can’t let this go any further.
Ryan must sense my panic, because he ends the kiss, pulling back to study my face. His eyes move back and forth, trying to read the words I’m not saying. That I won’t say.
“What is it?” he breathes out, sounding more affected than I assumed he’d be.
“I need to go.” I speak the words, but my body doesn’t budge, and Ryan holds tight to my biceps. “Please let go, I need to leave.”
“I don’t understand.” His dark brown eyes are a mixture of warmth and concern. A concern I don’t deserve. The look in his eyes is enough to shove my body into motion. He shouldn’t waste his concern on someone like me.
“There’s nothing to understand. Now let me go!” I twist my body, wrenching myself away from him. He releases my arms, and I storm across the parking lot. I’m not far from home now, roughly a mile. I can walk.
I’m halfway across the blacktop slab when Ryan catches up to me. He grabs for my arm, but I yank it out of his grasp. At the last second, he snags my fingers and pulls me around to face him. If I thought he looked concerned before, it’s nothing to the emotion darkening his face now.
“Will you just talk to me?” he asks.
I’m losing my control. I need to get away from him before I fling myself in his arms and cry like a fucking baby.
“There’s nothing to talk about. Kissing you was a mistake. Let go!” I pull from his grasp and start jogging across the pavement.
“Tatum—“
Whirling around, I deliver what I hope is enough to get him to back off. “That’s not my name!” I snarl. “I lied.” Without waiting to see his reaction or hear his response, I turn around and run home.
He doesn’t chase me or call my name again, and I don’t stop running until I’m back inside my sanctuary.
CHAPTER THREE
Tatum
A week passed since the night with Ryan. I didn’t run into him again, which is both surprising and welcome. In a town this small, the chance of bumping into him at the gas station or grocery store is pretty significant. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried about it. He was so nice to me, sweet and concerned, and that kiss. My lips still tingle when I think about it. But then I ran like he lit a fire under my ass, and I’m positive he wouldn’t be so kind if I saw him again. Yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling of regret that followed me around all week like my own personal raincloud. He brought out feelings within me I normally keep locked down tight. And that scared me. Terrified me.
I control how I feel. I don’t let some guy turn my insides to mush. I refuse to be one of those giddy, bouncing, gushy girls over some kiss. With a stranger nonetheless. So I spent the week trying to forget.
I picked up extra hours at work to help cover my car repair, which ended up being a problem with fuel injectors or something like that. I don’t understand the first thing about cars so when Wyatt explained it to me, it went right over my head. My knowledge covers how to check the oil and fill the gas tank. Anything other than that, I call Wyatt. My car so much as sneezes, and I have Wyatt take a look.
When I wasn’t at work or at the mechanic’s shop checking in with Wyatt, I was sleeping. And if I wasn’t sleeping, I was cleaning. I sorted through my clothes and made a pile for the garbage and a pile for Goodwill. I scrubbed the kitchen, cleaned the bathroom, swept and mopped the floors…twice. My place is small, and I don’t make much of a mess, so why I needed to do it twice, I don’t know. The crazy in me just keeps peeking out more and more lately.
After I finished I went through my kindle, made a list of all the books in my library I haven’t read yet, and got started on one of those since I don’t have any money this week for the new release I’ve been patiently waiting to go live for months.
Now it’s Wednesday. The first day of school. The first day of my senior year. It’s not as exciting as I imagined it would be. I know when this semester is over, I’ll still be stuck in this town, doing the same old thing until I can save enough money to ditch this place. And the crappy memories associated with it. My world isn’t bright and vibrant. I live in a realm filled with shades of gray.
The only color left is the deep river of crimson rolling across my skin. Gliding over the edge of my forearm like a waterfall. Silently dripping to the cream tiles of my bathroom floor. Plop. Plop. Plop.
This isn’t about dying. Or trying to die. The dull throb of the blade against my skin is the opposite.
It’s about living.
Feeling alive.
In control.
I’m the master of this sharp edge of metal, controlling how deep it plunges into my fragile skin, how quick it slices, the damage it creates. My skin prickles with electrical currents as I skate the blade across my arm again; a warm heat spreading from the fresh wound to the crown of my head, sizzling down to my toes. Anguish expelled in liquid form, more potent than any pill. My mind begins to quiet.
My body rests against the bathtub, the cool porcelain causing goose bumps to ripple across my skin. I shiver. Not sure if it’s the cold or the overwhelming relief coating my insides. Whichever, it feels good.
My body finally relaxed, I lift myself to the basin where a wet washcloth waits. Draping it across my forearm, I apply pressure to the fissures in my flesh. My eyes lock on the two hollow sockets reflected before me. Hazel, soft, but empty. Dead. Shuttered by the walls I’ve erected around myself. My skin is porcelain white. Not quite ghostly and pale, but in that creamy flawless color. Long locks of chestnut brown hair drape down to my breasts in curly sections. Natural curls that give the girls in my school hair envy. It’s about the only thing about myself that makes me feel beautiful. The rest of me is a toss-up between ordinary and distracting. Concert tees and tight jeans. Secondhand shop Converse or black boots. Stud through my nose and bands on my wrists. Rebel meets poverty.
I toss the wet washcloth into the sink and slip on two black sweat bands—one for each wrist. The soft fabric feels like slipping into my skin. I’m naked without the twin bands. I’m not hiding the marks because I’m ashamed. They give me strength. It’s like a woman slipping on her favorite pair of power heels before a company presentation. Or one who wears sexy lingerie underneath her plain clothes. It’s my secret weapon. Wearing them makes me feel powerful.
Em and I sit side by side on the floor in front of our lockers, comparing schedules with our heads together like we have on every first day of every new semester since seventh grade. Emerson Fitzgerald is the definition of beauty with no brains, with bright sapphire blue eyes and blonde hair to boot. But she’s feisty and loyal, and I couldn’t ask for a better best friend.
“Tell me again what class you have third period?”
“Ummm…” she slides her finger down the paper as she scans it.
“Just give it to me,” I say, snatching the paper out of Em’s hands impatiently. She pouts the little pretty girl pout of hers that has the entire football team eating out the palms of her tiny manicured hands. We tried to pick all the same classes for our senior year, but upon my perusal of her schedule, I can see that didn’t work out in our favor.
“Damn. You have choir third period. Why the hell are you taking choir?”
“Seriously? I didn’t sign up for it!” She exclaims, throwing her hands up in a dramatic fashion. “I can’t even sing.”
I snort, remembering more than one occasion of listening to her belt out the lyrics along with the radio. “I know. You’ll be kicked out by next week.” She smacks me playfully on the shoulder, tearing her schedule back out of my hands.
“Did we end up with any classes together?”
“Looks like we have first and second—nice that’s French and study hall.”
“Ugh, I thought we weren’t taking French again,” Em whines.
“I need it for my college applications,” I reply. “It’s only one more year. I’ll help you study.” I glance down at the paper in my lap again. “We have lunch together, too.”
“Thank God. I don’t think I’d survive if we didn’t have lunch together. Who else would I sneak out with?”
I roll my eyes knowing she’s just being her normal dramatic self. “I’m sure you’d find somebody. I’m not your only friend out of this entire school. Oh, I bet Grant would take you for lunch.” And the rest of the football team, I finish in my head.
“I thought you have a thing for Grant. Why would you want him to take me out?” she asks, her perfect little nose crinkling adorably.
“You can’t count the time I dated him for a month in the ninth grade, Em. I don’t have a thing for Grant. He’s a nice guy, you should give him a chance.” Emerson is one of those girls who lives and breathes by ‘girl-code’. In her opinion, you never date a friend’s ex, no matter how long it’s been since they were together.
“Would it bother you? I mean, I don’t want to like, take your ex or anything if you still have feelings for him.”
“Emerson Lynn, trust me. I do not have feelings for him. Besides, you know how I am. I don’t get tied down.” The grin splitting her face is absolutely telling of her feelings for him. If I hadn’t already known, that would have been a dead giveaway.
“Are you sure? It seems so wrong to date my best friend’s ex.”
“You like him, and he likes you. He and I barely dated. I don’t even classify him as an ex, it was that meaningless. Yes I’m sure. Go get ‘em, girl.”
“Okay,” she drags out the ‘ay’ sound as she flashes me her pearly whites. That was a lot easier than I thought it was going to be. She must really like him.
We sit silently as we study the rest of our classes. These are the last classes I’ll take here for my senior year. At the end of the semester, I’ll be taking post-secondary classes at the nearby community college. My junior year I skipped the elective classes, instead opting for the remainder of the required classes I’d need to graduate. Come December, I’ll have completed all the requirements for my high school diploma. The post-secondary allows me a head start in college at no cost to me, because it’s paid for by the state. I’ll use all the financial help I can get if it gets me away from this place faster. While my peers are taking this year to prep themselves for the real world, I’m already there.
During my junior year, I filed and was granted emancipation from my mother. The judge allowed me to live on my own instead of in a foster home after my mom was found passed out in the home we shared, the needle still sticking out of her arm from the heroin, which subsequently caused her overdose. I don’t know how many times I have thanked destiny, fate, or divine intervention that it was her scumbag boyfriend who found her lying in the bathroom instead of me. No matter how much I despise that woman, it’s not an image I’d want to carry with me for the rest of my life. Fortunately, or unfortunate depending on who you ask, she survived. I don’t know what I would have done if I were placed in foster care. My mother’s addiction and unwillingness to find a stable job had forced me to be self-sufficient from a very young age. This life is nothing I’m not already accustomed to.
“Who is Mr. Ryan?” Em asks, her voice yanking me out of my memories. She’s been leaning over my arm, reading my schedule for who knows how long, while I’ve been off in the Land of Horrific Memories Past.
“Huh?”
“You have a Mr. Ryan for 6th period. Calculus. I’ve never heard of him before.”
I look down at the piece of paper in my hands. “No clue. Must be a newbie.” She makes a face at me, one of disgust.
“Calculus? Really, Tatum? Why are you being so hard on yourself this semester? French, calculus…it’s our senior year! You should be taking it easy.”
I sigh and repeat my reasons again. I feel like I’ve told her this a hundred times. “You know I need a good academic record for college. I don’t have any money put away for school. The only way I’ll make it is on scholarships.”
“You’re smart. I know you’ll find a way to college. If anyone deserves to go, it’s you,” she says seriously.
I wish I believed that. I really do. But people like me don’t go to college. People, with parents like mine, who act like I do just don’t make it that far. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. More like the damn tree didn’t bother spreading its branches out far enough for the apple to have much of a future besides becoming rotted, mushy animal food. If only she’d tried a little harder to put me in a position to see the sun. It’s a hard reality to swallow sometimes, but after the shit went down with my mom, I’ve become accustomed to the taste.
The first day of the semester is boring, filled with syllabuses and expectations and lectures. I was expecting very much the same when I walked into 6th period calculus class. It’s my last class of the day, as I get scheduled for early release from school in order to get to my job as a CNA by three o’clock. Because my grades were near perfect, it was a condition the judge granted so I could keep my job and still be able to make a living.
I saunter in, taking my preferred seat on the far left column near the middle row.
At five past the start of class, students are still chatting amongst themselves relatively oblivious to our missing professor. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I remove it to display a text from Wyatt. Your place tonight?
I work ‘til 11. Ill call when I’m off.
Late night rendezvous with Wyatt are well worth it, and it makes my lonely nights a little less lonely. I can’t say between school and working full time I have a lot of spare time for socializing. I don’t date, but I use sex as a distraction. Wyatt is one of the few people who understands me. That understanding makes our arrangement mutually beneficial.
At ten past with the teacher a no-show, I contemplate ditching out early. Mrs. Marsden has been going downhill lately, and I wouldn’t mind spending a little extra time with her this evening. I pack my notebook and pencils back into my bag, having made up my mind, and go to stand just as the assuming Mr. Ryan breezes into the room. I slump back into my chair dismayed.
